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Thither they go, and well each brow and eye, 
Gloomy as night, bespeak their sympathy. 
Who is the victim?—what the fearful deed 
Which asks such expiation ? Plead, oh ! plead, 
With angel-tongue, sweet Pity, till thou win 
A milder doom, how dark soe’er the sin! 
Can yonder be the culprit?—he whose brow, 
“ So saintly bright,” no trace of earth doth show 
Beyond what Time’s rude hand itself has wrought ? 
His look, his bearing, both forbid the thought; 
For Virtue never did herself such wrong 
As trace her lineaments thus clear and strong 
On hoary vice ; — nay, nay, it cannot be 
That he hath lent himself to infamy. 
What is the charge alleged ? — In that dark time 
He lived, when Gospel truth was deem’d a crime; 
He knew that truth, and taught it, — gently led 
The guilty unto Him for guilt that bled; 
He won the sinner whilst he chid his deed, 
Himself a “ living Gospel ” all might read. 
Such were the crimes that brought him to a death 
Which flesh most shrinks from ! But, upheld by faith, 
Whilst others weep and tremble as they gaze, 
Calmly the scene of torture he surveys; 
c 2 ' 
