Among the Millet

by Archibald Lampman


 

THE MARTYRS


 

Oh ye, who found in menís brief ways no sign
    Of strength or help, so cast them forth, and threw
    Your whole souls up to one ye deemed most true,
Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line,
Seeing before you that divine face shine;                                     5
    Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few,
    Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you,
White souls whose beauty made their world divine:

Yet still across lifeís tangled storms we see,
    Following the cross, your pale procession led,                      10
        One hope, one end, all others sacrificed,
Self-abnegation, love, humility,
    Your faces shining toward the bended head,
        The wounded hands and patient feet of Christ.