The Poetical Works of the Rev: H. H. Milman In three volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of the Rev: H. H. Milman |  |
The Prison.
MARGARITA.
I'm safe at last: the wild and furious cries
That drove me on are dying into silence.
These cold and damp and gloomy prison walls
Are my protection. And few hours ago
My presence would have made an holiday
In Antioch. As I've moved along the streets,
I've heard the mother chide her sportive child
For breaking the admiring stillness round me.
There was no work so precious or so dear
But they deserted it to gaze on me.
And now they bay'd at me, like angry dogs:
And every brow was wrinkled, every hand
Clench'd in fierce menace: from their robes they shook
The dust upon me, even more loathsome scorn
Was cast upon my path. And can it be,
Oh Christ! that I, whose tainted hands so late
Served at the idol's altar; on whose lips
And lyre still ring the idol's votive hymns,
Am chosen to bear thy cross, and wear on high
The martyr's robes enwoven of golden light?
MARGARITA.
I'm safe at last: the wild and furious cries
That drove me on are dying into silence.
174
Are my protection. And few hours ago
My presence would have made an holiday
In Antioch. As I've moved along the streets,
I've heard the mother chide her sportive child
For breaking the admiring stillness round me.
There was no work so precious or so dear
But they deserted it to gaze on me.
And now they bay'd at me, like angry dogs:
And every brow was wrinkled, every hand
Clench'd in fierce menace: from their robes they shook
The dust upon me, even more loathsome scorn
Was cast upon my path. And can it be,
Oh Christ! that I, whose tainted hands so late
Served at the idol's altar; on whose lips
And lyre still ring the idol's votive hymns,
Am chosen to bear thy cross, and wear on high
The martyr's robes enwoven of golden light?
| The Poetical Works of the Rev: H. H. Milman | |