The Side Windows: Cyprian

But who is this upon the pictur'd pane
With stole deep-dyed in blood,
No countenance amid that Saintly train
Of sterner fortitude ?
Cyprian, Saint, Bishop, Martyr ! forth he stands
In the rich glow of Afric's burning sky,
To us of other tongues and other lands
In our own native eloquence brought nigh.
To thee, another Carthage, he comes near,
Tyre of the Western wave, in warning brought !
Thence mayst thou learn a sterner faith and fear,
For hues of Heaven Time cannot bring to nought,
Still fresh the Martyr's blood flows in each glowing thought.

The lions prowl around, thy grave to guard,
And Moslem prayers profane
At morn and eve come sounding ; yet, unscar'd,
Thy Holy Shades remain ; —
Cyprian, the chief of watchmen, wise and bold,
Trusting the lore of his own loyal heart,
And Cyprian's Master, as in age high-soul'd,
Yet choosing as in youth, the better part.
There, too, unwearied Austin, thy keen gaze
On Atlas' steep, a thousand years and more,
Dwells, waiting for the first rekindling rays,
When Truth upon the solitary shore
For the fall'n West may light his beacon as of yore.