 | Poems |  |
THE CURFEW.
A WELCOME TO THE AUSTRIAN CONCORDAT.
Yes, still that ancient cry
Our living ears affrights;
The curfew call swells high,
“Put out—put out your lights!”
Yes; even a single spark,
A rushlight now affrights
These friends of darkness; hark!
“Put out—put out your lights!”
Our living ears affrights;
The curfew call swells high,
“Put out—put out your lights!”
Yes; even a single spark,
A rushlight now affrights
These friends of darkness; hark!
“Put out—put out your lights!”
All lights these priests condemn;
To see we have no right;
Even twilight seems to them
Too bright for man's weak sight;
In gloom men dream and curse—
Even that their Pope affrights;
In light their dreams were worse;
“Put out—put out your lights!”
To see we have no right;
Even twilight seems to them
Too bright for man's weak sight;
In gloom men dream and curse—
Even that their Pope affrights;
In light their dreams were worse;
“Put out—put out your lights!”
See; Austria's despot quakes
Before a gleam of thought;
Quick—quick—his sceptre shakes;
Some help must straight be bought;
Ah! Rome to this must see;
For thought Rome, too, affrights;
“Let the Concordat be!
“Put out—put out your lights!”
Before a gleam of thought;
Quick—quick—his sceptre shakes;
Some help must straight be bought;
Ah! Rome to this must see;
For thought Rome, too, affrights;
“Let the Concordat be!
“Put out—put out your lights!”
How France, lit up so long,
Has shock'd, O Rome, your sight!
Her lights are far too strong;
For her, let there be night.
Her despot, even a spark,
A single gleam, affrights;
For him they're crying, hark!
“Put out—put out your lights!”
Has shock'd, O Rome, your sight!
284
For her, let there be night.
Her despot, even a spark,
A single gleam, affrights;
For him they're crying, hark!
“Put out—put out your lights!”
Sardinia, see, has dared
Of late its eyes to use;
Spain, where so well they fared,
Their night would fain refuse;
Even Rome itself they find
Its holy father frights;
French bayonets Rome must blind;
“Put out—put out your lights!”
Of late its eyes to use;
Spain, where so well they fared,
Their night would fain refuse;
Even Rome itself they find
Its holy father frights;
French bayonets Rome must blind;
“Put out—put out your lights!”
These friends of darkness well
May tremble for its reign;
Why Bibles, see, they'd sell
In Tuscany and Spain;
Auto-da-fés must be,
To set all this to rights;
Quick, Holy Office, see
To this! “Put out your lights!”
May tremble for its reign;
Why Bibles, see, they'd sell
In Tuscany and Spain;
Auto-da-fés must be,
To set all this to rights;
Quick, Holy Office, see
To this! “Put out your lights!”
They're sighing for the blaze
Of Smithfield once again;
For Mary Tudor's days,
Dear monks, they'll sigh in vain;
No more the times return
Of all their old delights,
To gag, and rack, and burn;
“Put out—put out your lights!”
Of Smithfield once again;
For Mary Tudor's days,
Dear monks, they'll sigh in vain;
No more the times return
Of all their old delights,
To gag, and rack, and burn;
“Put out—put out your lights!”
Thank God! we here can scoff
At this their priestly cry;
We laugh their Jesuits off,
And all their power defy.
For England Wiseman sighs—
To Rome the worst of sights;
But all in vain he cries,
“Put out—put out your lights!”
At this their priestly cry;
We laugh their Jesuits off,
And all their power defy.
For England Wiseman sighs—
To Rome the worst of sights;
But all in vain he cries,
“Put out—put out your lights!”
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