MY child, whose soul is like a flame Within a crystal altar-lamp, Bends o'er an ancient book, its name Obscured by mildew damp; And, tracing down the yellow leaves, Where quaint and crooked letters stand, Her breath comes quick, her bosom heaves, Hard shuts the eager hand. "Mamma,"—I meet the lifted eyes That, softened, shine through gathering tears— "God surely gives them in the skies, For all those dreadful years, "Some sweeter thing than others have, To comfort after so much pain; But, tell me, could we be as brave Through fire and rack and chain? "I 'm glad there are no martyrs now." Blithe rings the voice and positive. "Ah, Love," my own heart answers low, "The martyrs ever live. "A royal line in silk and lace, Or robed in serge and hodden gray, With fearless step and steadfast face They tread the common way. "Than dungeon bolt, or folding blaze, Their cross unseen may heavier press, And none suspect, through smiling days, Their utmost bitterness." "Some sweet thing surely God must keep To comfort," said my little one; "They thank Him now if tender sleep Comes when the day is done." God's angel, Sleep, with manifold Soft touches, smoothing brows of care, Dwells not beyond the gates of gold, Because no night is there. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TRANSPOSITIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE RETIRED CAT by WILLIAM COWPER NEUTRALITY LOATHSOME by ROBERT HERRICK A NICE CORRESPONDENT by FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON THE SWING by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON IDYLLS OF THE KING: THE LAST TOURNAMENT by ALFRED TENNYSON THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 2. THE GASTRIC MUSE by JOHN ARMSTRONG |