Classic Poem

Oh , dark as the creeping of shadows,
At night, o'er the burial hill,
When the pulse in the stony artery
Of the bosom of earth is still —
When the sky, through its frosty curtain,
Shows the glitter of many a lamp,
Burning in brightness and stillness,
Like the fire of a far-off camp —
Must have been the thoughts of the martyr,
Of the jeers and the taunting scorn,
And the cunning trap of the gallows,
That waited his feet at morn,
As, down in his lonesome dungeon
The hours trooped silent and slow,
Like sentinels through the thick darkness,
Hard by the tents of the foe.
Could he hear the voices of music
Which thrilled that deep heart of gloom?
Or see the sorrowful beauty
That meekly leaned by the tomb?
Could he note in the cold and thin shadow
That swept through his prison bars,
The white hand of the pure seraph
That beckoned him to the stars,
As, roused to the stony rattle
Of the hangman's open cart,
He smothered, till only God heard it,
The piercing cry of his heart?
Can Christ's mercy wash back to whiteness
The feet his raiment that trod,
Whose soul, from that dark persecution,
Went up to the bosom of God?
Hath he forgiveness, who shouted,
" Righteously do ye, and well,
To quench in blood, hot and smoking,
This firebrand, which is of hell? "

Over fields moistened thus darkly
Wave harvests of tolerance now —
But the tombstones of the old martyrs
Sharpened the share of the plough!