Smile, hypocrite, smile! it is no such hard labour,
While each with red hand tears the heart of his neighbour
All slyly.--We're strange folk in Vanity Fair!

'Hist!--each for himself, or _herself_, which sounds smoother,
Though man's no upholder, and woman no soother,
Both struggle alike here.--What, weeping?--what, raving?
Pah!--fight out the battle all! No time for saving!
Ha! ha! 'tis a wondrous place, Vanity Fair!'

The mad crowd divides, and then closes swift after;
Afar, towers the pyre, lit with shouting and laughter;
'What new sport is this?' lisps a reveller, half turning;--
'One Faithful, poor wretch! who is led to the burning:
He cumbered us sorely in Vanity Fair!

'A dreamer--who held every man for a brother;
A coward--who, emit on one cheek, gave the other:
A fool--whose blind truth aye believed all knaves' lying;
Too simple to live, so most fitted for dying.
Ha! such are best swept out of Vanity Fair.'

II.

Silence! though the flame-drifts wave and flutter;
Silence! though the crowd their curses mutter;
Silence! through this fiery purgatory
God is leading up a soul to glory.

See, the white lips with no moans are trembling,
Hate of foes, or plaint of friends' dissembling;
If sighs come--most patient prayers outlive them:
_'Lord, these know not what they do. Forgive them!'_

Thirstier still the roaring flames are glowing,
Fainter in his ear the laughters growing;
Brief endures the fierce and fiery trial--
Angel-welcomes drown the earth-denial.

Now the amorous death-fires, gleaming ruddy,
Clasp him close. Down sinks the quivering body,
While through harmless flames immortal flying
Shoots the beauteous soul. This--this is _dying_!

Lo! the opening heavens with splendours rifted;
Lo! the palms that wait those hands uplifted;
And the fiery chariot cloud-descending,
And the legioned angels close attending!

Let his poor dust mingle with the embers,
While the crowd sweeps on, and none remembers;
Saints and angels through the Infinite glory,
Praising God, recount the martyr's story.

Thou, who through the trial-fires bewildering
Of this cruel world, dost lead Thy children,
With the purifying give the balm;
Grant to martyr-pangs the martyr's palm!

* * * * *

[Footnote 6: Suggested partly by a sketch in David Scott's
ill