Thomas Skinner

Heroes have shrunk before the torture’s wheel, And ev’n in martyrdom have stooped to feel. Yet here, each day, in agonising fires, For sinful man some gentle dame expires.

Thinks, like a phoenix, ’tis her fate to rise Pure from her ashes, to adorn the skies.

It is some jubilee;—it cannot be, That death is hailed with such a savage glee.

Why rush the thousands? Why this grand display Of pomp and pride? A widow burns today!

Death had gone over like a wild simoom, And marked her youthful husband for the tomb. And must he only suffer? Still the pride Of youth and beauty lives, the lovely bride. She, too, must die: some savage god, unknown To Christian climes, …

What joy is breaking from her large dark eye— The vivid lightnings of a tropic sky! The rosy veil is archly drawn aside To show the glances she affects to hide. ’Tis all a modest maiden dare betray— The sudden sparkle of a meteor’s play.

The pipe, the viol, and unceasing drum, Proclaim to all, the blooming bride is come!