⁠Of Christians. Fain would priests persuade

That now she must approve by deed
⁠The faith she kept. "What dead?" she asked.
"Your old sire leave, nor deem it sin,
⁠And come with us." Still more they tasked
The sad one: "If heaven you'd win—
⁠Far from the burning pit withdraw,
Then must you learn to hate your kin,
⁠Yea, side against them—such the law,
For Moor and Christian are at war"
"Then will I never quit my sire,
But here with him through every trial go,
Nor leave him though in flames below—
God help me in his fire!"
So in the South; vain every plea
'Gainst Nature's strong fidelity;
⁠True to the home and to the heart,
Throngs cast their lot with kith and kin,
⁠Foreboding, cleaved to the natural part—
Was this the unforgivable sin?
These noble spirits are yet yours to win.
Shall the great North go Sylla's way?
Proscribe? prolong the evil day?
Confirm the curse? infix the hate?
In Unions name forever alienate?