Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/67

Rh —Those temples bear Proud London's mitre, and that lip which oft Warn'd with warm eloquence a tearful throng 'Neath some Cathedral's awe-imposing arch, Now in its deep adversity essays The same blest theme. With brutal haste they check The unfinish'd sentence,—they who used to crouch To his high fortunes,—and perchance to share His flowing charity. Smitten on the mouth, In silent dignity of soul he stands, Unanswering, though reviled. —Lo! at his side, Worn out with long imprisonment, they place The venerable Latimer. Bow'd down With age, he totters, but his soul is firm,— And his fix'd eye, like the first martyr's, seems To scan the opening heavens. The gazing throng, The stake, the faggot, and the jeering priest Are nought to him. Wrapp'd in his prison garb, The scorn of low malignity is he, Whom pomp and wealth had courted,—at whose voice The pious Edward wept that childlike tear Which works the soul's salvation,—and his sire. Boisterous and swoln with passion, stood reproved As a chain'd lion. —Now the narrow space 'Tween life and death, the dial's point hath run,— And quick with sacrilegious hands they bind The dedicated victims. —He who seem'd Bent low with years, now rose erect and firm, To give away his spirit joyously,—