The casket breaks;—men say, "A martyr dies!"
The death—the martyrdom—has past before:
The soul, transfigured, finds its native skies.
The good—the ill—we vainly strive to weigh
With Reason's scales, hung in the mists of Time:
Yet child-like Faith the balance doth survey,
Held high in ether, by a hand sublime.
May, 1850. HERMA.