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A
Hymn of Empire and Other Poems
by
Frederick George Scott
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THE
MARTYR
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THE
dark square glimmers ’neath the morning skies,
And issuing slowly through
the sombre gate
Come priest and monk, soldier
and magistrate,
While, midst them, walks the prisoner, with his
eyes
Bent on the ground, going to his sacrifice.
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5 |
He
limps, from tortures wrought by powerless hate,
He fronts wild wolves who
for his life-blood wait,
Yet now he thrills with God’s own harmonies.
Fearless, he stands above the great, hushed crowd:
He hears the monks drone
out his burial song,
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10 |
He
feels the hot flames round the faggots creep;
And, as the thick smoke wraps him in a cloud,
Which rolls to Heaven, his
voice rings clear and strong—
“Thy
Kingdom come”: and so he falls asleep.
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