When the noble mother of Lovejoy heard of her son’s death, she said, “It is well! I had rather he should die so than desert his principles.”
The murmurs of a distant strife
Fell on a mother’s ear;
Her son had yielded up his life,
Mid scenes of wrath and fear.
They told her how he’d spent his breath
In pleading for the dumb,
And how the glorious martyr wreath
Her child had nobly won.
They told her of his courage high,
Mid brutal force and might;
How he had nerved himself to die
In battling for the right.
It seemed as if a fearful storm
Swept wildly round her soul;
A moment, and her fragile form
Bent ’neath its fierce control.
From lip and brow the color fled—
But light flashed to her eye:
“ ’Tis well! ’tis well!” the mother said,
“That thus my child should die.
“ ’Tis well that, to his latest breath,
He plead for liberty;
Truth nerved him for the hour of death,
And taught him how to die.
“It taught him how to cast aside
Earth’s honors and renown;
To trample on her fame and pride,
And win a martyr’s crown.”