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| THE SUN shone bright upon a kingly throne | |
| Where, clad in state, there sat a mighty one, | |
| Courtiers around him thronged—below, a mighty crowd | |
| Of mingled heads, with voices low and loud, | |
| Swayed, as do tresses in tempest weather-tossed, | 5 |
| By winds conflicting, or ships to safety lost, | |
| Heaving on billowy seas, and rudely driven | |
| Now here and there yet farther from a haven. | |
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| Thus swayed the crowd, gazing with awe-struck mien, | |
| On royalty, clad in its glorious sheen, | 10 |
| While from his throne Antiochus grimly smiled, | |
| Upon that sea of heads, as if beguiled, | |
| To see so many slaves, with flattery meek | |
| Waiting to know what his one will might seek. | |
| “Bring of her seven sons,” he fiercely cried, | 15 |
| And cruel shouts arose from every side. | |
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| She came, tho’ deadly pale, yet calm her face, | |
| And sternly graceful her majestic pace, | |
| Supported by her first born warrior son, | |
| Of all her braves, the bravest, noblest one. | 20 |
| The swaying crowd is hushed to murmurs low, | |
| “Wilt thou worship the King’s God?” “By my forefathers, no!” | |
| Rose on the air; again the shouts rise, | |
| Then low on earth the martyr’d soldier lies, | |
| His blood flows o’er the mother’s feet, she bends in prayer; | 25 |
| Then looks on her heroic band, ah! one is wanting there. | |
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| Again the summons came, two now before the king | |
| In manhood’s earliest glories stand in the fatal ring | |
| Alike in lineaments, with arms entwined | |
| They seem two forms, in but one soul combined. | 30 |
| “Wilt bow, stiff necks? bethink ye well, ’tis death | |
| By one refusal.” “Our God has given us breath, | |
| We may not bow.” “Ah, bind them on the wheel,” | |
| The King cries fiercely, and with hearts of steel | |
| His myrmidons obey—by her sons’ side | 35 |
| The mother stands, hushing the anguish tide | |
| Of woe too deep for tears, to comfort them, | |
| And give to them their last prayers, her soft amen. | |
| “Wilt now receive our God? methinks thou see’st | |
| Thine in thine hour of danger flee.” | 40 |
| But feebly with joined hands the upward sign, | |
| The sufferers put back; and so they died. | |
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| Thus, one by one, three others rendered up | |
| In torture drear, life’s young hope-jeweled cup, | |
| Rather than to profane God’s jealous right | 45 |
| And be apostates in their mother’s sight, | |
| But one was left; a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, | |
| The household idol, and his mother’s joy. | |
| The lad’s high bearing much the King admired, | |
| And of this bloody sport e’en he had tired; | 50 |
| He told the child of death, its awful pangs, | |
| Pictured the terror that around it hangs; | |
| Then spoke of life, its joys, hopes, pleasures new, | |
| Touching on things the brightest to the view, | |
| But the mother’s look pled with him as she wept, | 55 |
| And the brave child his God’s commandment kept. | |
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| The King amazed to see such moral strength | |
| In one so young would go to any length, | |
| To save the boy. But crowds were standing ’round | |
| The raised tribunal, watching without sound | 60 |
| This moral duel ’twixt the King and child | |
| With admiration and excitement wild. | |
| The royal word must not be humbled now | |
| While gaping thousands watch to see him bow; | |
| Some act of homage must the child perform | 65 |
| To blind the crowd, his friends or foes to warn | |
| And show a will subdued. “Boy, I would save thy life | |
| And shield thee from the torturer’s cutting knife. | |
| See! I but drop my ring; kneel, hand it to me | |
| And this small act shall give life back to thee.” | 70 |
| The child—boy paused—this act was but a right, | |
| An homage due from all to royal might; | |
| But looking ’round—his friends were too far now | |
| To hear the King’s last words; but they could see him bow. | |
| Might not the King have given him the reprieve | 75 |
| To blind the many, his friends to deceive? | |
| Might they not think he to the Idol bowed? | |
| The boy turned thoughtful from th’ admiring crowd | |
| Towards the King,—firmly refused to kneel | |
| For fortune or for any weal. | 80 |
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| Where was the mother then? Torn from her boy away | |
| She could but weep, and to the Almighty pray. | |
| Oh! who could tell the fear and agony, | |
| Lest he might kneel, and that she was not nigh | |
| To warn him of the tempter’s subtlety; | 85 |
| But when he turned, refusing to obey, | |
| What pure meek triumph crown’d her queenly brow! | |
| But see the King has from him sternly turned | |
| With bitter hate, which for more bloodshed burned; | |
| Now on they bear him to the fatal place, | 90 |
| While sadness troubled e’en the torturer’s face, | |
| To see him like a flower so rudely torn, | |
| While her white face bent o’er him, thin and worn. | |
| The mother knelt, clasping the little hand, | |
| Kissing the lips that grew so cold and wan; | 95 |
| His curls dampened in death, he murmured low, | |
| “Receive my soul! oh! God, I did not bow!” | |
| Then bound they her upon that cruel place | |
| Where smiling lay her martyred boy’s dead face. | |
| She prayed awhile, her eyes raised high above, | 100 |
| An eight-fold crown would there reward her love: | |
| “I have surpass’d thee, Abraham,” triumphantly she cried, | |
| “Thou gavest One, I seven to God!” And so she died. | |
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