# Poems (Sigourney, 1827)/Latimer and Ridley

LATIMER AND RIDLEY.
Fled was the blaze of summer. Autumn's breath
Had scarcely curl'd the leaf, that o'er the tide
Of silver Isis hung. Up through the mass
Of woven foliage gleam'd the holy spires,
The dim, monastic turrets,—stately towers,
And classic domes, where throned Science points
Back through the incumbent cloud of buried years
To Alfred's boasted name. But a rude throng
Come gathering o'er this scenery, to throw
A blot upon its purity and peace.—
Dark brows are there,—and blood-shot fiery eyes,
And preparations dire, as for some scene
Of ignominious death; while all around
The sparkling waters, and serener skies,
And shadow of umbrageous elms, allured
The soul to mercy, and to musing thought.
—But man heeds not, though pitying nature smile,
And in her holiness and beauty seem
As if she knelt, and breathed upon his heart,
To win him from his purpose.
 —Through the crowd
Triumphant led, moves on a noble form,
Majestic of demeanor, and array'd
In sacerdotal robe.
—Those temples bear
Proud London's mitre, and that lip which oft
Warn'd with warm eloquence a tearful throng
'Neath some Cathedral's awe-imposing arch,
Now in its deep adversity essays
The same blest theme. With brutal haste they check
The unfinish'd sentence,—they who used to crouch
To his high fortunes,—and perchance to share
His flowing charity. Smitten on the mouth,
In silent dignity of soul he stands,
Unanswering, though reviled.
 —Lo! at his side,
Worn out with long imprisonment, they place
The venerable Latimer. Bow'd down
With age, he totters, but his soul is firm,—
And his fix'd eye, like the first martyr's, seems
To scan the opening heavens. The gazing throng,
The stake, the faggot, and the jeering priest
Are nought to him. Wrapp'd in his prison garb,
The scorn of low malignity is he,
Whom pomp and wealth had courted,—at whose voice
The pious Edward wept that childlike tear
Which works the soul's salvation,—and his sire.
Boisterous and swoln with passion, stood reproved
As a chain'd lion.
 —Now the narrow space
'Tween life and death, the dial's point hath run,—
And quick with sacrilegious hands they bind
The dedicated victims.
 —He who seem'd
Bent low with years, now rose erect and firm,
To give away his spirit joyously,—
And throwing off his prison garments, stood
In fair, white robes, as on his spousal day.
And Ridley,—in whose veins the pulse beat strong
With younger life,—girded himself to bear
The burning of his flesh,—while holy hope
Drew in blest vision o'er his swimming sight
The noble army of those martyr'd souls,
Which round heaven's altar wait.
 —With wreathing spire
Up went the crackling flame,—and that old man
Forgetful of his anguish, boldly cried
—"Courage, my brother!—we this day will light
Such fire in christendom, as ne'er shall die."
—Then on that wither'd lip an angel's smile
Settled,—and life went out as pleasantly
As on a bed of down.
 —But Ridley felt
A longer sorrow. Oft with sighs and prayers,
He gave his soul to God, ere the dire flame
Would solve the gordian knot which bound it fast
To tortured clay. Then fell the blacken'd corse
Prone at the feet of Latimer, who raised
Still to the heavens his brow, as if he said,
—"My children!—fear not them who crush the frame,
But cannot harm the soul."
 —Almost it seem'd
As if in death, the younger christian strove.
By that deep posture of humility
To pay him homage, who had been his guide
And father in the gospel.
 —'Twas a sight
To curb demoniac rage. Yet some there were
Who deem'd such heretics might ne'er atone
To holy mother church their sinful doubts,
By fires on earth, and quenchless fires beneath.
Still o'er some brows a shade like pity stole,
Gardiner seem'd satiate,—while the hollow eye
Of persecuting Bonner flashed delight
Too great for words.
 —But stifled tones were heard
From murmuring groups,—and bitterly they mourn'd
For good king Edward to his grave gone down
In sanctity,—and then the mutter'd curse
Fell deep upon that popish Queen, who fed
The fires of Smithfield with the blood of saints,
And dared to light in Oxford's* hallow'd vales
Her bigot flame. There was a little band
Who sad and silent sought their homes and wept
O'er their loved prelates,—yet no railing word
Or vengeful purpose breath'd,—but waiting stood
For their own test of conscience and of faith,
Inflexible,—and strong in heart to join
The martyr'd host. This was the flock of Christ.