To make all earthly splendours cold and tame,
—That generous burst of soul, with its electric flame!
LVIII.
They weep—those champions of the Cross—they weep,
Yet vow themselves to death! Ay, midst that train,
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep
Their lofty sacrifice! The pang is vain,
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain
A warrior’s sword. Those men are strangers here:[215]
The homes they never may behold again,