Sonnet on the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria

CHRIST, dost thou live indeed? or are thy bones

Still straightened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?

And was thy Rising only dreamed by Her

Whose love of thee for all her sin atones?

For here the air is horrid with men’s groans

The priests who call upon thy name are slain

Dost thou not hear the bitter wail of pain

From those whose children lie upon the stones?