Classic Poem

The stake is mouldering in the market place,
The rack grows rusty in the ruined tower,
No need to tremble at the tyrant's power,
Or quail before the Judge's ruthless face!
Your fathers' blood has left its crimson trace
Upon the stones whereon your courtly feet
Step proudly on towards the judgment-seat;
O just and righteous, full of faith and grace,
Crown of the perfect age! — But yet, but still,
The old Enchantress, mocking, smiles on you,
Well pleased to see how well they work her will,
A subtler fire than stake or faggot knew,
A spell more potent than the torturer's —
Well may she smile — the victory is hers.