Two guard the frowning gateway: one
Is of a solemn countenance;
To him a rapid backward glance
Reveals a massacre begun.
The other, forward gazing, sees
The glory of the age to come,
The fruitfulness of martyrdom,
Of deaths that are nativities.
O weeping mothers, dry your tears!
The Mother whom this canvass shows
Nor fears, nor weeps, although she knows
An anguish deeper than your fears.