Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/68

And throwing off his prison garments, stood
In fair, white robes, as on his spousal day.
And Ridley,—in whose veins the pulse beat strong
With younger life,—girded himself to bear
The burning of his flesh,—while holy hope
Drew in blest vision o'er his swimming sight
The noble army of those martyr'd souls,
Which round heaven's altar wait.
                                     —With wreathing spire
Up went the crackling flame,—and that old man
Forgetful of his anguish, boldly cried
—"Courage, my brother!—we this day will light
Such fire in christendom, as ne'er shall die."
—Then on that wither'd lip an angel's smile
Settled,—and life went out as pleasantly
As on a bed of down.
                                     —But Ridley felt
A longer sorrow. Oft with sighs and prayers,
He gave his soul to God, ere the dire flame
Would solve the gordian knot which bound it fast
To tortured clay. Then fell the blacken'd corse
Prone at the feet of Latimer, who raised
Still to the heavens his brow, as if he said,
—"My children!—fear not them who crush the frame,
But cannot harm the soul."
                                   —Almost it seem'd
As if in death, the younger christian strove.
By that deep posture of humility
To pay him homage, who had been his guide
And father in the gospel.
                                      —'Twas a sight
To curb demoniac rage. Yet some there were