I.
A pagan King tormented fiercely all
Who would not on his senseless idols call,
Nor worship them:--and him were brought before,
A mother and her child, with many more.
The child, fast bound, was flung into the flame,
Her faith the mother did in fear disclaim:
But when she cried--'O sweetest! live as I,'
He answered--'Mother dear, I do not die;
Come, mother, bliss of heaven is here my gain,
Although I seem to you in fiery pain.
This fire serves only for your eyes to cheat,
Like Jesus' breath of balm 'tis cool and sweet.
Come--learn what riches with our God are stored,
And how he feeds me at the angelic board.
Come, prove this fire -- like water-floods it cools,
While your world's water burns like sulphur pools.
Come -- Abraham's secret, when he found alone
Sweet roses in the furnace, here is known.
Into a world of death thou barest me,
O mother, death, not life, I owed to thee.
Fair world I deemed it once of glorious pride,
Till in this furnace I was deified;
But now I know it for a dungeon-tomb,
Since God has brought me into larger room.
Oh! now at length I live -- from my pure heaven
Each cloud, that stained it once, away is driven:
Come, mother, come, and with thee many bring;
Cry, 'Here is spread the banquet of the King;'
Come, all ye faithful -- come, and dare to prove
The bitter-sweet, the pain and bliss of love.'

So cried the child unto that crowd of men;
All hearts with fiery longings kindled then;
Toward the pile they headlong rushing came,
And soon their souls fed sweetly on the flame.

II.
A dewdrop falling on the wild sea wave,
Exclaimed in fear--'I perish in this grave;'
But in a shell received, that drop of dew
Unto a pearl of marvellous beauty grew;
And, happy now, the grace did magnify
Which thrust it forth--as it had feared, to die;--
Until again, 'I perish quite,' it said,
Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed:
O unbelieving! -- so it came to gleam
Chief jewel in a Monarch's diadem.

III.
The seed must die, before the corn appears
Out of the ground, in blade and fruitful ears.
Low must those ears by sickle's edge be lain,
Ere thou canst treasure up the golden grain.
The grain is crushed, before the bread is made,
And the bread broke, ere life to man conveyed.
Oh! be content to die, to be laid low,
And to be crushed, and to be broken so;
If thou upon God's table may'st be bread,
Life-giving food for souls an-hungerèd.