A Metrical History of England Or, Recollections, in Rhyme, Of some of the most prominent Features in our National Chronology, from the Landing of Julius Caesar to the Commencement of the Regency, in 1812. In Two Volumes ... By Thomas Dibdin |
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 | A Metrical History of England |  |
72
“But she, I ween, was not that virgin mild
“The Poet wooes along sequestered grove.”
Leigh Hunt.
“The Poet wooes along sequestered grove.”
Leigh Hunt.
“For, tho' sometimes each dreary pause between,
“Dejected pity by her side,
“Her soul-subduing voice applied,
“Yet still she kept her wild unaltered mien.”
Collins.
“Dejected pity by her side,
“Her soul-subduing voice applied,
“Yet still she kept her wild unaltered mien.”
Collins.
“Sum Marie, male grata patri, male grata marito,
“Cælo invisa, meæ pestis atrox patriæ;
“Nulla aberat labes, nisi quod fuit addita custos
“Fida pudicitiæ, forma maligna meæ.”
Buchanan.
“Cælo invisa, meæ pestis atrox patriæ;
“Nulla aberat labes, nisi quod fuit addita custos
“Fida pudicitiæ, forma maligna meæ.”
Buchanan.
MARY THE FIRST.
As the Mimosa from ungentle hand,
Recoiling, closes quick its trembling leaves:
So shrinks the muse to sing her native land
Sway'd by remorseless bigotry.—It grieves
My inmost heart to read a mind so fell,
Found room in any British form to dwell;
And more it irks me still to think,
A sex which forms the intermediate link
'Twixt men and angels, e'er shou'd own
The blood-stain'd animal, whose throne,
For six disgraceful and polluted years,
Saw Superstition's fires, unquench'd by Virtue's tears.
Black shades of Bonner, Gardiner, arise!
Lo! where above your narrow, murd'rous pride,
Spirits ætherial soar, whose worth you dared despise;
See white-rob'd Latimer, by Cranmer's side,
Hooper and Ridley, leading martyrs blest,
Who feel, (could angels ever feel distrest,)
Sorrow that this our much-lov'd parent earth,
To souls so very mean as your's gave birth.
Recoiling, closes quick its trembling leaves:
So shrinks the muse to sing her native land
Sway'd by remorseless bigotry.—It grieves
My inmost heart to read a mind so fell,
Found room in any British form to dwell;
And more it irks me still to think,
A sex which forms the intermediate link
'Twixt men and angels, e'er shou'd own
The blood-stain'd animal, whose throne,
For six disgraceful and polluted years,
Saw Superstition's fires, unquench'd by Virtue's tears.
73
Lo! where above your narrow, murd'rous pride,
Spirits ætherial soar, whose worth you dared despise;
See white-rob'd Latimer, by Cranmer's side,
Hooper and Ridley, leading martyrs blest,
Who feel, (could angels ever feel distrest,)
Sorrow that this our much-lov'd parent earth,
To souls so very mean as your's gave birth.
How sensitive are we of latter times!
How senseless they in such an age of crimes?
We start to tumult at a patriot word,
And draw, and dare, for liberty, the sword.
They, for their God, saw dearest friends expire,
And trembling crouch'd around the impious fire;
Had modern souls illum'd their coward clay,
And turn'd their firelight into reason's day,
Goodness the flame of guilt had never fed,
But injured innocence, by justice led,
Had hurl'd each brand on the oppressor's head.
The wolf, sheep clad, by vengeance brought to quake,
Had found a gibbet where he placed a stake.
Reader, mistake not what my warmth express'd,
Tumult I hate, licentiousness detest;
Yet sure that nation which so much delights
In Magna Charta, and the Bill of Rights;
Who taught by sad experience Charles and James,
That Law and Freedom are no empty names;
Ought to have risen with the purest zeal,
And made unfeeling Superstition feel;
Driven Bigotry to native holes and caves,
Prevented Martyrs from untimely graves;
And thundered in the crosier'd butcher's ear,
That Mary and her Philip both might hear,
Britons are free, and never will be slaves!
How senseless they in such an age of crimes?
We start to tumult at a patriot word,
And draw, and dare, for liberty, the sword.
They, for their God, saw dearest friends expire,
And trembling crouch'd around the impious fire;
Had modern souls illum'd their coward clay,
And turn'd their firelight into reason's day,
Goodness the flame of guilt had never fed,
But injured innocence, by justice led,
Had hurl'd each brand on the oppressor's head.
The wolf, sheep clad, by vengeance brought to quake,
Had found a gibbet where he placed a stake.
74
Tumult I hate, licentiousness detest;
Yet sure that nation which so much delights
In Magna Charta, and the Bill of Rights;
Who taught by sad experience Charles and James,
That Law and Freedom are no empty names;
Ought to have risen with the purest zeal,
And made unfeeling Superstition feel;
Driven Bigotry to native holes and caves,
Prevented Martyrs from untimely graves;
And thundered in the crosier'd butcher's ear,
That Mary and her Philip both might hear,
Britons are free, and never will be slaves!
When Edward's death left Mary England's Queen,
Jane Grey, unfortunate, (and less to blame
Than they who, tempted by Ambition's shene,
O'erruled her to assume the regal name);
For their default who taught her to aspire,
Fell victim with her husband and his sire.
Spanish Prince Philip wrote our Queen a letter,
Saying he wish'd for such a wife,
Swearing he lov'd her more than life:
Not mentioning he loved—the English crown much better.
When landed on our coast, we're told,
He drew his sword with action bold;
Nor sheath'd it, even when Southampton's Mayor
At meeting knelt, and made an humble prayer,
That Philip wou'd assume the township's keys,
Who, without speaking, stood at ease;
Like a tired soldier after a review,
As if our condescension was his due.
Ah! little did the great Eliza think,
(Who then was peeping thro' some cloister'd chink),
How, at a future time, she'd give a banging
To that same Philip, who so proud,
Stood sword in hand among the crowd,
And heard with nonchalance the Mayor's haranging.
Ah! little thought Iberia's nation,
How Britain's wou'd, in days now come,
Oppose of Spain's worst foe the usurpation,
And list their patriots with an English drum.
Jane Grey, unfortunate, (and less to blame
Than they who, tempted by Ambition's shene,
O'erruled her to assume the regal name);
For their default who taught her to aspire,
Fell victim with her husband and his sire.
75
Saying he wish'd for such a wife,
Swearing he lov'd her more than life:
Not mentioning he loved—the English crown much better.
When landed on our coast, we're told,
He drew his sword with action bold;
Nor sheath'd it, even when Southampton's Mayor
At meeting knelt, and made an humble prayer,
That Philip wou'd assume the township's keys,
Who, without speaking, stood at ease;
Like a tired soldier after a review,
As if our condescension was his due.
Ah! little did the great Eliza think,
(Who then was peeping thro' some cloister'd chink),
How, at a future time, she'd give a banging
To that same Philip, who so proud,
Stood sword in hand among the crowd,
And heard with nonchalance the Mayor's haranging.
76
How Britain's wou'd, in days now come,
Oppose of Spain's worst foe the usurpation,
And list their patriots with an English drum.
What British feelings were at Philip's coming,
By way of respite from my own humdrumming,
I'll give in couplets written at the time;
By which you'll know,
That years ago,
Politic reasons were express'd in rhyme.
By way of respite from my own humdrumming,
I'll give in couplets written at the time;
By which you'll know,
That years ago,
Politic reasons were express'd in rhyme.
The Duke of Northumberland was beheaded on Tower-hill, with Palmer and Gates, his associates. “The executioner,” writes a French Priest, “wore a white apron, and little children gathered up the blood which fell through the slits of the scaffold.” Voyages de Perlin.—Vide Andrews.
SAMPLES OF CLERICAL POETRY IN QUEEN MARY's REIGN.
Verses on the Marriage of Philip and Mary . BY WHITE, BISHOP OF LINCOLN.
The devil, that old enemy to mankind,Strives to prevent, tho' to it God's inclined,
That Mary, England's Queen, should join her hands,
To Spanish Philip, in hymeneal bands.
Against the match, with the dark prince of night,
The helpless Scots and timrous French unite,
77
Eight married fathers, void of heavenly grace,
John Dudley, Wyatt, and rebellious Kent,
With Gray conspired the marriage to prevent.
But that the nuptials should performed be,
Cæsar and Flanders vow'd, and Italy,
Catholic bishops, and with these comply
Five holy fathers, for their sanctity
In fetters bound; the senate of the nation,
And all true Catholics in ev'ry station;
Lords, Commons, learned, ignorant, and we,
'Cause God himself doth thereunto agree.
When Philip and Queen Mary shall be joined,
Their blood its wonted course shall run refined.
PARODY ON THE ABOVE, BY WAY OF ANSWER.
BY THE BISHOP OF NORWICH.
That Mary should to Spanish Philip wed,
And England's glory be extirpated;
The devil wills, jointly with him agree
All Flanders, Italy, and Germany.
78
Of popish bishops,—five for impiety
In prison cast.—But God's extended arm
Kindly supports us, and averts the harm,
He nills the match, gives England liberty.
With him the warlike Scots and French agree,
Eight married in the Lord; and Dudley, you
Foreboding dismal things, the marriage view,
The sanate nills.—Brave Wyatt doth espoue,
With pious zeal, his country's injured cause;
With him Grey and the Kentish folks comply,
Either to gain their liberty or die!
Then say, what profits will the Spanish King,
Having wedded Mary, to the English bring?
[Altho' I am not tired of my task]
Altho' I am not tired of my task,
Yet you may be of reading, then take breath;
And suffer me with due respect to ask,
Wou'd'nt you rather quit this reign,
Of credit lost and tyrant gain,
To read the golden days of great Elizabeth.
Yet you may be of reading, then take breath;
And suffer me with due respect to ask,
Wou'd'nt you rather quit this reign,
Of credit lost and tyrant gain,
To read the golden days of great Elizabeth.
It may be first as well to say,
That Mary chanced to die one day;
If any grieved, it was an undertaker,
Who at her funeral did sigh and sob,
Not for the Queen whose breath did then forsake her,
But, for a brother tradesman got the job.
That Mary chanced to die one day;
79
Who at her funeral did sigh and sob,
Not for the Queen whose breath did then forsake her,
But, for a brother tradesman got the job.
Sweet Shakespeare tells us that a rose
“By any other name” would charm the nose:
But Bonner's memory, I fear,
By no means e'er will charm the ear;
His name avails not tho' he turn it
To more appropriate Bishop Burnet;
Or should the badness of the pun amaze,
To make it worse let's call him Bishop Blaze.
“By any other name” would charm the nose:
But Bonner's memory, I fear,
By no means e'er will charm the ear;
His name avails not tho' he turn it
To more appropriate Bishop Burnet;
Or should the badness of the pun amaze,
To make it worse let's call him Bishop Blaze.
| A Metrical History of England | |