178 CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 



"Think not, O Judge! with menaces, 



To shake my faith in God ; 

 If in his righteous cayse I die, 



I gladly kiss the rod." 

 " Blind wretch ! doth not the funeral pile 



Thy vaunting faith appal ?" 

 " No funeral pile my heart alarms, 



If God and duty call !" 

 " Then expiate thy insolence, 



There perish in the fire ; 

 Go, Lictor, drag him instantly 



Forth to the funeral pyre !" 

 The Lictor dragg'd him instantly 



Forth to the pyre : with bands 

 He bound him to the martyr's stake, 



He smote him with his hands. 

 " Abjure thy God," the Praetor said, 



" And thou shalt yet be free." 

 " No," cried the hero, rather let 



Death be my destiny !" 

 The Praetor bow'd : the Lictor laid 



With haste the torches nigh : 

 Forth from the faggots burst the flames, 



And glanced athwart the sky ! 

 The patient champion at the stake 



With flames engirdled, stood ; 

 Calm, patient, look'd he heavenwards 

 And seal'd his faith with blood. 



THE EXILE. 



Not yet, not yet, a few brief hours 



Are mine to linger still, 

 To gaze upon the ivied towers 



That crown my native hill ; 

 To glance o'er each familiar tree 



That shades that lovely spot ; 

 And that must soon forgotten be, 



But shall not be forgot ! 





