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Upon the murdered infant, for the sword Of pride and cruelty was sent to slay Those who in age would not forego their faith They had grown up in. I was one of these: How could I close the Bible I had read Beside my dying mother, which had given To me and mine such comfort? But the hand Of the oppressor smote us. There were shrieks, And naked swords, and faces dark as guilt, A rush of feet, a bursting forth of flame, Curses, and crashing boards, and infant words Praying for mercy, and then childish screams Of fear and pain. There were these the last night The white walls of my cottage stood; they bound And flung me down beside the oak, to watch How the red fire gathered, like that of hell,