A martyr's garland she hath won indeed; true Love's young Martyr
there she lies.
_Elliston_. Yet was that love but the wreathed and glittering weapon of
a higher doom. In that holy cause, whose martyrs strew a thousand
fields, truth's, freedom's, God's, darkly, by _Power Invisible_ hath
this young life been offered here.
A thousand graves like this, over all this lovely land, in lanes and
fields, on the lonely hill-side, by the laughing stream, and in the
depths of many a silent wood, to distant days shall speak--of
blood-sealed destinies; with voices that no tyrant's power can smother,
they shall speak.--
_Leslie_. The light of that chamber window, through the soft summer
evening will shine here; no mournful memory of all the lovely past will
it waken. The autumn blaze will flicker within those distant walls, and
gather its pleasant circle again; but _she_ will lie calmly here. For
ever at her feet the river of her childhood shall murmur on, and many a
lovely spring-time, like the spring-times of her childhood, shall come
and go, but no yearning hope shall it waken here; the winter shall sing
through the desolate boughs, and rear its fairy temples around her, but
nought shall break her dreamless rest.
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