The Martyr of Scio

Bright summer breathed in Scio. Gay she hungHer 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 sonsOf that fair isle bore winter in their soul.'Mid the proud temples of their ancestors,And through the weeping mastic bowers, their stepWas like the man who hears the oppressor's voiceIn Nature's softest echo; for the TurkIn sullen domination sternly roamedWhere mighty Homer awed the listening world.

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

"I had a jewel. From my sires it cameIn long transmission; and upon my soulThere was a bond to keep it for my sons.

'Tis gone—and in its place a false one shines,—I ask for justice."Brandishing aloftHis naked scimitar, the cadi cried,"By Allah and his Prophet! guilt like thisShall feel the avenger's stroke. Show me the wretchWho robbed thy casket."Then the appellant toreThe turban from his head, and cast it down;"Lo! the false jewel see. And would'st thou knowWhose fraud exchanged it for my precious gem?Thou art the man. My birth-right was the faithOf Jesus Christ, which thou hast stolen awayWith hollow words. Take back thy tinselled baitAnd 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 veinsStirred the high blood of Greece. There was a pause,A haughty lifting up of Turkish brows,In wonder and in scorn; a hissing toneOf wrath precursive, and a stern reply"The faith of Moslem, or the sabre-stroke:Choose thee, young Greek!"Then rose his lofty formIn all its majesty, and his deep voice

Rang out sonorous as a triumph-song,"Give back my faith!"A pale torch faintly gleamedThrough niche and window of a lonely church,And thence the wailing of a stifled dirgeRose sad o'er midnight's ear. A corpse was there—And a young beauteous creature, kneeling lowIn speechless grief. Her wealth of raven locksSwept o'er the dead man's brow, as there she laidThe withered bridal crown, while every hopeThat at its twining woke, and every joyYoung love in fond idolatry had nursed,Perished that hour.Feebly she raised her child,And bade him kiss his father. But the boyShrank back in horror from the clotted blood,And wildly clasped his hands with such a cryOf piercing anguish that each heart recoiledProm his impassioned woe. Yet there was oneUnmoved,—one white-haired, melancholy man,Who stood in utter desolation forth,Silent and solemn, like some lonely tower.Still in his tearless eye there seemed a sparkOf ancient glory 'mid despair to burn—That Sciote martyr was his only son.