Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

THE MARTYR OF SCIO.

BRIGHT summer reign'd in Scio. Gay she hung Her coronal upon the olive groves, Flushed the rich clusters on the ripening vines, And shook fresh fragrance from the citron boughs, Till every breeze was satiate. But the sons Of that fair isle bore winter in their soul. 'Mid the proud temples of their ancestors, And through the weeping mastic bowers, their step Was like the man who hears the oppressor's voice In Nature's softest echo; for the Turk In sullen domination sternly roamed Where mighty Homer awed the listening world.

Once to the proud divan, with stately step, A youth drew near. Surpassing beauty sate Upon his princely brow, and from his eye A glance like lightning parted as he spake.

"I had a jewel. From my sires it came In long transmission; and upon my soul

There was a bond to keep it for my sons.'Tis gone—and in its place a false one shines,— I ask for justice." Brandishing aloft His naked scimitar, the Cadi cried, "By Allah and his Prophet! guilt like this Shall feel the avenger's stroke. Show me the wretch Who robbed thy casket." Then the appellant tore The turban from his head, and cast it down; "Lo! the false jewel see. And would'st thou know Whose fraud exchanged it for my precious gem? Thou art the man. My birth-right was the faith Of Jesus Christ, which thou hast stolen away With hollow words. Take back thy tinselled bait And let me, sorrowing, seek my Saviour's fold. Tempted I was, and madly have I fallen— Oh, give me back my faith." And there he stood, The stately-born of Scio, in whose veins Stirred the high blood of Greece. There was a pause, A haughty lifting up of Turkish brows, In wonder and in scorn; a hissing tone Of wrath precursive, and a stern reply— "The faith of Moslem, or the sabre-stroke: Choose thee, young Greek!" Then rose his lofty form In all its majesty, and his deep voice

Rang out sonorous as a triumph-song, "Give back my faith!" A pale torch faintly gleamed Throuch niche and window of a lonely church, And thence the wailing of a stifled dirge Rose sad o'er midnight's ear. A corpse was there— And a young beauteous creature, kneeling low In speechless grief. Her wealth of raven locks Swept o'er the dead man's brow, as there she laid The withered bridal crown, while every hope That at its twining woke, and every joy Young love in fond idolatry had nursed, Perished that hour. Feebly she raised her child, And bade him kiss his father. But the boy Shrank back in horror from the clotted blood, And wildly clasped his hands with such a cry Of piercing anguish that each heart recoiled From his impassioned woe. Yet there was one Unmoved,—one whitc-haired, melancholy man, Who stood in utter desolation forth, Silent and solemn, like some lonely tower. Though from his tearless eye there flash'd a flame Of Helle's ancient glory unsubdued:— That Sciote martyr was his only son.