 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
THE MARTYR-KING.
“Blessed Lord, we magnify thy name for thine
abundant grace, bestowed upon our martyred
Sovereign.”—Service for King Charles the Martyr.
Oh, burning plague-spot on the brow of Time,
The withering curse of regicidal crime!—
Mock'd and betray'd by treason-bands
And massacred by murd'rous hands,
On this day soar'd to endless fame
Ascending in Emmanuel's name
True to his creed, above man's impious charter,
Charles the revered,—the Church's royal martyr!
The withering curse of regicidal crime!—
Mock'd and betray'd by treason-bands
And massacred by murd'rous hands,
On this day soar'd to endless fame
Ascending in Emmanuel's name
True to his creed, above man's impious charter,
Charles the revered,—the Church's royal martyr!
Who has not read, till heart and brain were fired
With holy wrath against Self-will inspired,
When Loyalty, inert and cold,
Parley'd before the bad and bold;
When faction, treason, falsehood, all
In one combined on heaven to call,
Baptised religion into Murder's cause,
And sanction'd regicide with sacred laws!
With holy wrath against Self-will inspired,
When Loyalty, inert and cold,
Parley'd before the bad and bold;
When faction, treason, falsehood, all
In one combined on heaven to call,
Baptised religion into Murder's cause,
And sanction'd regicide with sacred laws!
Alas! for country, church, and crown, and creed,
When martyr'd Principle must burn and bleed;
Or else, a regal Conscience die
Into a mean and miscreant lie,
Forswearing all the truths that shine
With radiance drawn from truths Divine,
Because Democracy would dare to sing
Her psalm of blood o'er England's sainted king!
When martyr'd Principle must burn and bleed;
Or else, a regal Conscience die
Into a mean and miscreant lie,
Forswearing all the truths that shine
With radiance drawn from truths Divine,
Because Democracy would dare to sing
Her psalm of blood o'er England's sainted king!
Oh! Thou, from Whom both king and kingdom draw
Their source, their wisdom, and undying law,
Now let our Church's sighs and tears
Soften the Empire into hallow'd fears;
For on her rests the curse of crime,
A sacrilege which burden'd time
And tinged our soil with that horrific stain,—
The blood of Monarchs, when by God they reign!
Their source, their wisdom, and undying law,
Now let our Church's sighs and tears
Soften the Empire into hallow'd fears;
For on her rests the curse of crime,
A sacrilege which burden'd time
And tinged our soil with that horrific stain,—
The blood of Monarchs, when by God they reign!
Who sign'd his warrant with an impious glee
Proved how satanic blinded souls can be:
As christian, monarch, husband, friend,
Can time to us a nobler send?
His failings rose from junctures bad
Which might have turn'd an angel mad:
Passion ran high; and lust for lawless power
Raged like a fiend in that chaotic hour.
Proved how satanic blinded souls can be:
As christian, monarch, husband, friend,
Can time to us a nobler send?
His failings rose from junctures bad
Which might have turn'd an angel mad:
Passion ran high; and lust for lawless power
Raged like a fiend in that chaotic hour.
Ruler Divine! Whom heaven-born souls obey,
At least Thy Church on this remorseful day
That murder'd Prince may well recall,
Who prized her glories more than all;
For whom his royal spirit strove
With anguish of exceeding love:
True to her martyr-king, this day be kept,
And weep for him, who oft for Her had wept.
At least Thy Church on this remorseful day
That murder'd Prince may well recall,
Who prized her glories more than all;
For whom his royal spirit strove
With anguish of exceeding love:
True to her martyr-king, this day be kept,
And weep for him, who oft for Her had wept.
Nor be forgot, that Crimes historic teach
Warnings profound which may the wisest reach.
Dead Sins are living preachers now;
And weeping hearts of prayer avow
That, God! except Thy grace prevent,
Men still are on some madness bent:
Wisdom they want, and meekness more, to own
The sceptred lordship of Thy boundless Throne.
Warnings profound which may the wisest reach.
Dead Sins are living preachers now;
And weeping hearts of prayer avow
That, God! except Thy grace prevent,
Men still are on some madness bent:
Wisdom they want, and meekness more, to own
The sceptred lordship of Thy boundless Throne.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |