Freedom’s Martyrs

Heroes there are whose memories never die
     Their glorious deeds to after times are told,
     In thrilling songs by gray-haired bards of old,
Whose harp strings vibrate to Eternity;
And harmless sweeps the flood of ages by
     Their names, in deep-wrong characters enrolled
     High on the rock of Glory’s mountain hold,
And o’er the track where storm and tempest fly.
Their deeds of fame from History’s glowing pages,
     Stand forth, the watchwords of another clime,
Thrilling the stern souls of succeeding ages
     With fire electric down the chain of time;
And from their record, years that roll along
In their destroying strength, but sweep the stain of wrong.

Round Glory’s temple-walls pre-eminent,
     The martyred spirits, crowned with honor, stand
     Who brought their offerings with a willing hand
To thy pure altar, Freedom! Fame hath lent
The brightest stars that gild her firmament
     To deck the garlands of that glorious band,
     Amid the splendors of the spirit land,
Where their bright hours in living joys are spent.
What though on earth their path seemed dark and lowly,
     With fervent zeal, and hearts forever strong,
And souls which burned with aspirations holy,
     Earnest for truth, they battled with the wrong,
Triumphed o’er fate and earth’s malignant frown,
And won, in warfare stern, the martyr’s thornless crown.

Through scorn, derision, hatred, blood and fire,
     The fearful baptism of the true and tried,
     They pressed, unshaken and unterrified,
To Death and Victory. Every fond desire
Of Earth was laid on Pleasure’s funeral pyre;
     Wealth, with its damning blight; unhallowed pride;
     Quiet and fame, and all of earth beside—
A holy incense to the Spirit-Trier.
Triumphant, through heroic self-denial,
     A conquered world beneath their feet was trod;
Freer and purer over every trial,
     Th’aspiring soul was drawn unto its God;
And while around them howled the tyrant’s wrath,
Heaven’s gorgeous light was shed resplendent on their path.

Freedom, bright-zoned and glorious Goddess, hath
     Her living Martyrs, who may never shrink
     From the stern conflict, even though they drink
The cup of fierce affliction. Strong in faith,
That looks beyond the opening gates of death.
     They gaze, untrembling, from the fearful brink,
     On the dark wave where meaner millions sink,
And shriek their terror in their dying breath.
Sternly they circle round her holy altar,
     When gloomiest rolls Oppression’s gathering storm,
With purpose fearless, hearts that never falter,
     And souls that glow with holiest passions warm,
Breasting the tempest in its wild uproar,
When Scorn and red-armed Wrath their mingling volleys pour.

Their souls in calm, unbroken sunshine swell,
     Though clouds around them gather, fast and black,
     And fling dark shadows o’er their stormy track,
Harmonious songs their guardian angels dwell,
On viewless harps, o’er Hate’s discordant yell;
     And Heaven’s own portals roll, obsequious, back,
     To pour its glory on them, and the rack
Of the fierce storm their sprits cannot quell.
They stand, like mountains, when the deep-toned roaring
     Of warring elements is round their breasts,
While on their summits Heaven’s rich light is pouring,
     And silent Peace in radiant beauty rests;
There the first beams of new-born morning play,
And linger, with soft light, the sun’s last dying ray.