--their pains were lost;
In all the desolate chambers there was none
That answered them, or came to play the host.

They called aloud, let in the cheerful sun
Through opened windows--in their anxious round
Into the workshop entrance last they won * * *,

Ah, speak not of the horror there they found!

III

They have brought a captive home, and raging told
That he is stained with foulest blasphemy,
Mocks their false prophet with his insults bold.

It is the pilgrim we were used to see
For penance roaming 'neath our palm-trees' shade,
Till at the Holy Grave he might be free.

Will he, when comes the hangman, unafraid
A Christian's courage show in face of wrong?
God strengthen him on whom he cries for aid!

Ah yes--though life is sweet, his will is strong,
His mind made up; he yields him to their hands,
Content to shed his blood in torment long.

Nay, look not yonder, where the savage bands
And merciless prepare a hideous deed--
Perchance a like dread fate before us stands!

He comes, a victim led * * * yet will he bleed?
I see a wondrous radiance in his face,
As though unlooked-for safety were decreed!

Can he have bought it * * *? No! they stride apace
Toward the blood-stained spot--it is to be.
The martyr's palm his confident brow shall grace.

"Weep not! No tears of pity flowed from me
When to the cross the tender youth I bound--
My heart of stone ignored his misery."

So, hounded by remorse, the sinner found
The path of expiation, firmly trod,
Cain's brand upon him, all the dreadful round.

"Thou who didst die for me, all-pitying God,
Wilt Thou vouchsafe my tortures now an end?
I have not asked deliverance from Thy rod,

Nor hoped Thou shouldst to me Thy mercy lend.
'Tis life, not death, that is so hard to bear * * *
Into Thy hands my spirit I commend!"

So when the ruffian captors seized him there
And bound him to the cross, he calmly smiled;
'Twas they that watched whose brows were lined with care.

And as his limbs were torn with anguish wild,
And he was lifted 'mid the throng on high,
White peace came down upon his soul defiled.

In passionate prayer the faithful watched him die
That stood beneath the cross; his lips were still--
His suffering was one long atoning cry.

The day passed, and the night; with dauntless will
He yet found strength his to