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!
- Title
- The Silent Martyr
Part of Silent Martyr, The