Thomas Babbington Macaulay
Epitaph On Henry Martyn - Poem by Thomas Babbington Macaulay
Here Martyn lies. In Manhood's early bloom
The Christian Hero finds a Pagan tomb.
Religion, sorrowing o'er her favourite son,
Points to the glorious trophies that he won.
Eternal trophies! not with carnage red,
Not stained with tears by hapless captives shed,
But trophies of the Cross! for that dear name,
Through every form of danger, death, and shame,
Onward he journeyed to a happier shore,
Where danger, death, and shame assault no more.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
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I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You