VII.
The Martyrdom of S. Edmund.
A.D. 870.
Wouldst thou be one of this world's far renown'd?
Not many great, are call'd, not many wise;
Yet some be found,
Whose humble footsteps may ascend the skies,
And God hath martyrs even amidst earth's crown'd.
As from their golden throne the Pleiades
Beam peace, and joy, and hope o'er them that sail
On midnight seas,
So that great Heptarchy of saints we hail,
That shine amidst a heaven more fair than these.
Monarchs, that left the purple and the throne,
When to the Martyr's nobler diadem
God called His Own:
Each life-drop of their agony a gem
Brighter than e'er in earthly sceptre shone:
Each fought a different fight, but all fought well;
Each ran a different race, but all were crown'd:
One heavenly spell
The champion-chiefs of different ages bound:
And, Holy Mother Church! for thee all fell!
Rest in thy glory! midst thy brethren rest,
O holy prince, of all that martyr-train
Brightest and best:
And change the scorn and torments of the Dane
For the deep peace and hymnings of the blest;
Though evil hands thy gorgeous shrine have rent,
Though evil hearts have wrought thy abbey's fall,
Not vainly spent
Was the brave life that would not be in thrall,
But reared the Faith so firm a monument;
And even as yet, in these our evil days,
The village church in carved oak embalms
Thy name and praise:
Filling thy right hand with the victor's palms,
Circling thy head with Saints' triumphant rays!