Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 57, No. 352, February 1845. Various

      Yes, still they speak to bosoms that are free

      Within the girdle of captivity;

      Of spirits dauntless, who could spurn the chain

      Of human punishment or mortal pain;

      That e'en amid these precincts of despair,

      Dared free themselves from thraldom's jealous care —

      Bound but by ties of faith and virtue, be

      Heirs of bright hopes and immortality.

      Oh! great mind's proud inscriptions! Who shall tell

      What hand engraved those lines within that cell?

      What heart yet steadfast while around him stood

      Phantoms of death to chill his curdling blood,

      Could battle with despair on reason's throne,

      And conquer where the fiend would reign alone?

      Ah! who can tell what sorrows pierced his breast —

      Ran through each vein, usurp'd his hours of rest?

      What struggle nerved his trembling hand to trace

      With moral courage words he dared to face

      With acts that ask'd new efforts while he wrote

      To man his soul and fix his every thought!

      Tremble, thou tyrant! proud ambition, blush!

      Hearts such as these thy power can never crush.

      Are they forgotten? no, the rugged stone,

      The lap of earth on which they rested lone;

      The very implements of torture there —

      The axe, the rack, the tyrant's jealous care;

      Each mark that meets successive ages' eyes

      Speaks, trumpet-tongued, a fame that never dies;

      And tells the thoughtful stranger, while the tear

      Unbidden starts, that freedom triumph'd here —

      Plumed her immortal wings for nobler flight,

      And bore her martyr'd brave to realms of light.

      Nor false their faith, nor like the fleeting wind,

      Their spirits fled! for theirs the unprison'd mind,

      No tyrant-chains, no bonds of earth and time,

      Could hold from truth and freedom's heights sublime —

      From that bright heaven of science, whence they shed

      Fresh glory o'er man's cause for which they bled.

      Ask what is left? their names forgotten now?

      Their birth, their fortune? not a trace to show

      Where sleeps their dust? Go, seek the blest abode,

      Their mind's pure joy, the bosom of their God!

      Then tell if in the dull cold prison's air,

      And wasted to a living shadow there,

      Earth scarcely knew them! if they were alone

      Where they were cast, to pine away unknown?

      Friends, had they none? nor beam'd a wish to share

      Love, friendship, and to breathe the common air.

      Lost, lost to all! like some lone desert flower,

      Felt they unseen Time's slow consuming power,

      And hail'd each parting day with fond delight,

      As the tired pilgrim greets the waning light?

      No! glad bright spirits, guardians of the mind,

      Were with them; as the demon-powers unbind

      And lash their furies on the conscious breast

      Of earth's fell tyrants who ne'er dream of rest.

      Theirs, too, joy's harbinger, the thoughts aye fed

      With brighter objects than of earth, that shed

      A light within their narrow home, and gave

      A triumph's lustre to the yawning grave.

      And in that hour when the proud heart's o'erthrown,

      And self all-powerless, self is truly known;

      When pride no more could darken the free mind,

      But all to God in firm faith was resign'd —

      Then drank their souls the stream of love divine,

      More richly flowing than the Eastern mine;

      Felt heaven expanding in the heart renew'd,

      And more than friends in desert solitude.

      Peace to thy martyrs! thou art frowning now

      With all the array of bold and martial show;

      The same thy battlements with trophies dress'd,

      Present defiance to the hostile breast;