Of wondering crowds who could not guess whence came the martyr’s strength,
Her heart with joy nigh breaking that it should rest at length
On His whose love had bought it with a price exceeding far
The spoils of all the nations gracing Cæsar’s triumph-car.
One little grain of incense still might save the martyr’s life,
But one little breath for Cæsar still win release from strife—
Unto Cæsar what is Cæsar’s, to God the life he gave;
Less duty could she offer Him who died that life to save?
And then the vision faded, and once more I stood alone
Where thought of sainted martyrs seemed to consecrate each stone,