From room to room they went--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.
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