Lament! for Diocletian’s fiery sword
Works busy as the lightning; but instinct
With malice ne’er to deadliest weapon linked
Which God’s ethereal store-houses afford:
Against the Followers of the incarnate Lord
It rages; some are smitten in the field
Some pierced to the heart through the ineffectual shield
Of sacred home; with pomp are others gored
And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban tried,
England’s first Martyr, whom no threats could shake;
Self-offered victim, for his friend he died,
And for the faith; nor shall his name forsake
That Hill, whose flowery platform seems to rise
By Nature decked for holiest sacrifice.
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