THE MARTYR

The sun hangs high in Heaven, darting down The glory of a springtime on the town, The splendid beauty of the opening rose, The promised wealth of music in some close Full throated warblers pour unto the sky A very incense-cloud of harmony. The games will be anon and eager feet Hasten from every way and every street Pours down its tide with never ceasing flow— Where stands the Coliseum vast below. Lo! Lo! today, even today, glad hands Will loose the fretful tiger from his bands, And fling unto the lions with a cry, The few who worship Christ, and hence must die. A voice is heard: “To us Pancratius yield!” Then the gates fall, and on the sandy field Stands forth the very flower of Youth, as fair As when at night unto the raptured air Some lily breathes its ardent soul and dies, At joy of death wrapt in high ecstacies. “Ah! Emperor, master, Christ is mine and I Am Christ’s. Your sovereign mandate bids me die Your gods are Rome’s, Christ mine, and therefor falls Thy wrath upon me. Lo! ’tis joy. All palls When matched with it, and seems but tears, But tears and a legion of broad, phantom fears.” “The panther”—wakes a voice—“he comes, he springs!” Then with the mounting shriek that fiercely rings They watch the panther move across the space, They watch the smile upon the boyish face— Then in a brilliant glare of light they see Him, and his Christ triumph eternally.