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With more than nature’s strength then mounts the pyr 
And suffers all the agonies of fire ! 
A martyr’s pangs, a martyr’s faith, were his, 
And soon — oh, glorious thought! — a martyr’s bliss ! 
Hail, holy Church! Say, is it wrong to feel 
A glow of pride athwart my bosom steal, 
As, one by one, thy glorious martvr-train, — 
Who bled, thy rights, thy doctrine to maintain,— 
In vision pass before me? — No ! even pride, 
At such a sight, almost is sanctified. 
Hail, holy Church! What though thy leagued foes 
The war-cry raise, and round thee fiercely close, 
Viewing thy stately towers with jealous eye, 
Marking thy bulwarks only to destroy ; 
What though they long to see thee fall’n — discrown’d 
“ Thy pleasant things laid waste,” and strewn around; 
If treachery lurk not in thy hallow’d fold, — 
If in thy sons, as in their sires of old, 
The martyr-spirit live, — if each, if all, 
Who bear thy name, do love thy gentle thrall, 
Who at thy font, Christ’s soldiers sworn and seal’d, 
Have never wish’d that sacred vow repeal’d, 
But, ever and anon, renew’d the same, 
When at thine altar met in His dear name, — 
