The gathering crowd in fury wild
Rush on the 'raptured Saint,
And seize their victim, mute and mild,
Who, like his master, though reviled,
Still uttered no complaint.
With angry shouts they rend the air;
They drag him to the city gate;
They bind his hands and feet and there,
While whispered he for them a prayer,
The martyr meets his fate.
First fearless witness to his belief
In Jesus Crucified,
The red-robed martyrs' noble chief,
Thus for his Master died.
And to the end of time his name
Our Holy Church shall e'er proclaim,
And with a mother's pride shall tell
How her great proto-martyr fell.
A Flower's Song
Star! Star, why dost thou shine
Each night upon my brow?
Why dost thou make me dream the dreams
That I am dreaming now?
Star! Star, thy home is high —
I am of humble birth;
Thy feet walk shining o'er the sky,
Mine, only on the earth.
Star! Star, why make me dream?
My dreams are all untrue;
And why is sorrow dark for me
And heaven bright for you?
Star! Star, oh, hide thy ray,
And take it off my face;
Within my lowly home I stay,
Thou, in thy lofty place.
Star! Star, and still I dream,
Along thy light afar
I seem to soar until I seem
To be, like you, a star.
The Star's Song