Silence! though the flame-drifts wave and flutter;
Silence! though the crowd their curses mutter;
Silence! through this fiery purgatory
God is leading up a soul to glory.
See, the white lips with no moans are trembling,
Hate of foes, or plaint of friends' dissembling;
If sighs come--most patient prayers outlive them:
_'Lord, these know not what they do. Forgive them!'_
Thirstier still the roaring flames are glowing,
Fainter in his ear the laughters growing;
Brief endures the fierce and fiery trial--
Angel-welcomes drown the earth-denial.
Now the amorous death-fires, gleaming ruddy,
Clasp him close. Down sinks the quivering body,
While through harmless flames immortal flying
Shoots the beauteous soul. This--this is _dying_!
Lo! the opening heavens with splendours rifted;
Lo! the palms that wait those hands uplifted;
And the fiery chariot cloud-descending,
And the legioned angels close attending!
Let his poor dust mingle with the embers,
While the crowd sweeps on, and none remembers;
Saints and angels through the Infinite glory,
Praising God, recount the martyr's story.
Thou, who through the trial-fires bewildering
Of this cruel world, dost lead Thy children,
With the purifying give the balm;
Grant to martyr-pangs the martyr's palm!
* * * * *
[Footnote 6: Suggested partly by a sketch in David Scott's
illustrations of the _Pilgrim's Progress_.]