The Book Of Martyrs. By Emily Dickinson

    Read, sweet, how others strove,
    Till we are stouter;
    What they renounced,
    Till we are less afraid;
    How many times they bore
    The faithful witness,
    Till we are helped,
    As if a kingdom cared!

    Read then of faith
    That shone above the fagot;
    Clear strains of hymn
    The river could not drown;
    Brave names of men
    And celestial women,
    Passed out of record
    Into renown!