Rang out sonorous as a triumph-song,
"Give back my faith!"
A pale torch faintly gleamed
Through niche and window of a lonely church,
And thence the wailing of a stifled dirge
Rose sad o'er midnight's ear. A corpse was there—
And a young beauteous creature, kneeling low
In speechless grief. Her wealth of raven locks
Swept o'er the dead man's brow, as there she laid
The withered bridal crown, while every hope
That at its twining woke, and every joy
Young love in fond idolatry had nursed,
Perished that hour.
Feebly she raised her child,
And bade him kiss his father. But the boy
Shrank back in horror from the clotted blood,
And wildly clasped his hands with such a cry
Of piercing anguish that each heart recoiled
Prom his impassioned woe. Yet there was one
Unmoved,—one white-haired, melancholy man,
Who stood in utter desolation forth,
Silent and solemn, like some lonely tower.
Still in his tearless eye there seemed a spark
Of ancient glory 'mid despair to burn—
That Sciote martyr was his only son.
