The blood of martyrs, living still,

Makes the ground pregnant where it flows,

And for their temporary ill

Thereon eternal triumph grows.

J. A. Heraud.

Thy children, even as martyrs perished:

Those first-loved fruits that sprang from thee,

From which thy heart was doomed to sever,

In praise of God, shall bloom for ever,

Unhurt, untouched, by tyranny.