Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/68

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