Classic Poem

Fixing on the stars of heaven
Stedfastly his tearful eyes,
Holy Martin for his country—
His celestial country, sighs.

“Why,” saith he, “O death, so slowly
Comest thou to break my chain?
Whom the love of Christ hath wounded,
Unto him to die is gain.

Vain are all thy fiery hissings;
Vain thy fury, serpent foul;
Back to shades of night return thee;
Heav'n is calling for my soul.

Children of my love, I pray you,
All your care for me dismiss;
Cease, by your fond supplications,
To retard your father's bliss.

Yet if earth my labour needeth,
Though my crown so near I view,
See me ready, O my Jesu,
To resume the fight anew.”

Thus the Saint, in perfect patience,
Bows submissive to his lot,
And for death supremely yearning,
Still to live refuses not.