Those ringing names, that, as a trumpet, play
Uplifting music o’er a sordid way,
And sound high courage to our earth-dulled ear;
But, underneath those strains, I seem to hear
The silence of the saints that have no day.
Martyrs blood-red, and trodden souls, care-gray,
In hierarchal pride no place they boast;
No candles born for them where pilgrims pray,
No haloes crown their dim and countless host;
And yet—the leaven of their humble sway,