University of Virginia Library

There was in Christendom, of yore,
—And would to heaven it were no more!—
There was an Inquisition-Court,
Where priestcraft made the demons sport:
Priestcraft,—in form a giant monk,
With wine of Rome's pollutions drunk,
Like captive Samson, bound and blind,
In chains and darkness of the mind,—
There show'd such feats of strength and skill
As made it charity to kill,
And well the blow of death might pass
For what he call'd it—coup de grace;
While, in his little hell on earth,
The foul fiends quaked amidst their mirth:
But not like him, who to the skies
Turn'd the dark embers of his eyes,
(Where lately burn'd a fire divine,
Where still it burn'd, but could not shine,)
And won by violence of prayer
(Hope's dying accents in despair),
Power to demolish, from its base,
Dagon's proud fane, on Dagon's race;
Not thus like Samson;—false of heart,
The tonsured juggler play'd his part,
God's law in God's own name made void,
Men for their Saviour's sake destroy'd,
Made pure religion his pretence
To rid the earth of innocence;
While spirits from the' infernal flood
Cool'd their parch'd tongues in martyrs' blood,
And half forgot their stings and flames
In conning, at those hideous games,
Lessons,—which he who taught should know
How well they had been learn'd below.

Among the engines of his power
Most dreaded in the trying hour,
When impotent were fire and steel,
All but almighty was the Wheel,
Whose harrowing revolution wrung
Confession from the slowest tongue;
From joints unlock'd made secrets start,
Twined with the cordage of the heart;
From muscles in convulsion drew
Knowledge the sufferer never knew;
From failing flesh, in Nature's spite,
Brought deeds that ne'er were done to light;
From snapping sinews wrench'd the lie,
That gain'd the victim leave to die;
When self-accused,—condemn'd at length,
His only crime was want of strength;
From holy hands with joy he turn'd,
And kiss'd the stake at which he burn'd.
But from the man, of soul sublime,
Who lived above the world of time,
Fervent in faith, in conscience clear,
Who knew to love,—but not to fear;
When every artifice of pain
Was wasted on his limbs in vain,
And baffled cruelty could find
No hidden passage to his mind,
The Wheel extorted nought in death,
Except—forgiveness, and his breath.

Such a victorious death to die
Were prompt translation to the sky:
—Yet, with the weakest, I would meet
Racks, scourges, flames, and count them sweet;
Nay, might I choose, I would not 'scape
“The question,” put in any shape,
Rather than sit in judgment there,
Where the stern bigot fills the chair:
—Rather than turn his torturing Wheel.
Give me its utmost stretch to feel.