The Silent Martyr

The saintly martyr whom I glorify
     Sings not through flames where trampled cross-roads meet,
     And cries of pity fill the crowded street,
While red fire-tongues accuse the pitiless sky!
But bears at home her speechless agony;—
     Masking her torture with a smile as sweet
     As Love’s own when the eyes of lovers meet,—
Till Pity’s self smiles back a fond reply.
Her soul, burned white from every mortal stain,
     Shines through its vesture to like whiteness grown;
She hides her pain to shield the Loved from pain,
     More moved at our distress than by her own;
     With hushed compassion to her shrine we come,
Heedful to add no pang to her mute martyrdom!