Classic Poem

A CHURCH BALLAD .

The eve of martyrdom — he knows it well,
For those gaunt messengers their errand tell:
The fiery baptism is his birthright now:
And shall he crouch in fear, or tamely bow
In servile awe, because a despot's rod
Becomes the rugged mean to speed his flight to God?

Grant him one hour for prayer — one little hour,
And heaven's sweet influence shall his soul empower;
And visions of his rest, his destined home,
Shall to his withered heart like sun-beams come;
Then will he rise to quit him like a man,
And follow, strong in Faith, where Stephen leads the van.

That hour of prayer — that calm, that hallowed pause,
Around his soul Devotion's curtain draws,
And John's disciple, like his Teacher blest,
Pillows his griefs upon a Saviour's breast:
In high communings loses sight of time,
And owns no power but God's, and feels that power sublime.

Then the Tribunal comes — how cunning Art
Would wrench the breast-plate from the hero's heart;
" Reproach the Christ! " — no, sophistry of Hell!
Thou hast for Polycarp no wizard spell;
For six and eighty years he keeps the vow,
And could he — dare he thus blaspheme that Maker now?

Bring out the victim — prayer has made him strong,
Your fagots kindle — he will wake the Song;
The Cup of Christ! — to him the draught is sweet,
Who hears the echoes of seraphic feet;
What though by man a fiery chariot's given,
If those sweet angel bands convoy him safe to Heaven?

'Tis o'er — a life of service and of care,
And Smyrna's Bishop, with the snow-white hair,
Is on the list of Martyrs — heaven is won,
And John's disciple is as blest as John;
A Saviour's smile o'erpays a despot's frown:
Forgot the scathing flame, when gain'd the radiant crown.