University of Virginia Library

Three hundred years of beatific life
Unbodied, Luther's living soul hath breathed,
Since the last thunder-bolt of truth he hurl'd
With hand, how fearless! at the heart of Rome.
There, in that world where ransom'd minds repose,
Where priests, and prophets, and the kings of faith
Are gather'd into glory, and await
A pealing life-blast which shall rouse the dead,
The monk of Wittemberg his Master sees
And worships, waiting for his destined crown.
But, hath the world from sacerdotal chains
Itself unfetter'd? Is our faith the free
And pure, and prompted by the Spirit's love
And guidance, soul and spring of saving truth,
Light of all churches, and the Bible's Lord?
Alas! we slumber; and a carnal rest
Calmly around us lets the chain of Rome
Wind its dark coil, with most consummate ease
And falsehood. Bloated with our self-esteem,
And panoplied with intellectual might,
At ease in Zion are we; while a Foe
Remorseless, dragon-eyed, and unappeased,
Wakeful as ever, watches for the prey
Apostate weakness for Her fang prepares.

We want a Luther, with a dreadless voice
To front our modern antichrist, and face
The Vatican, with all its veil'd array
Of marshall'd doctrines or of muster'd lies.
So might we bare the heart of blushless Rome,
And rouse brave England's execrating voice
Till back the priesthood to her dens recoil'd;
While pope, and pop'ry, with a palsy smit,
And scared by scripture, would for ever shrink
In coward gloom to convents, and to cells,
Hooted by nature, and by freemen hurl'd
At once from virtue's and from reason's throne.

Oh! that our protest were as brave and pure,
As saints and martyrs sent, in olden time,
From their deep hearts against the Man of Sin.
Oh, that in light from flames where Ridley died,
Or Cranmer suffer'd his immortal death,
The Church of England would her hist'ry read,
And ponder as she read, with eye of prayer;
Till in that light her lethargy awoke
And rising, like a giant from his sleep
Enchanted, back the Romish chain would fall
Dissever'd, from her limbs of glory dash'd
In horror! Then, again that trumpet-cry,
That battle-voice magnanimously bold,
The tocsin of a nation's truthful mind
By heaven excited, would once more be heard
Like moral thunder round the seven-hill'd Seat
Of Antichrist, in peals of dauntless power,—
No peace with Rome, till Rome make peace with God!

But that bold spirit, which in martyrs burn'd
For truth and freedom, and our British name
Laurell'd with ever-blooming praises, sleeps
In dormancy most fatal. Thus the Beast
Apocalyptic, once again his head
Of treason, and his horn of vengeance lifts,
To smite the Nations, and our Church eclipse
With papal midnight. Yet, his outward mien
Is stern no longer; smooth'd by modern hands
To gentleness, his ruffled hairs relax;
No savag'ry his watching eye reveals,
And all his claws of cruelty are cut;
But still, the Beast is changeless! for his heart
Unsoften'd, throbs with blackest hate within
Deadly, and dire as in the days of blood.
Full well the Mother of deception suits
Her face, her features, and exterior form
Chameleon, as the atmosphere requires.
And now, when learning, science and the Mind
From dismal orthodoxy's Bulls of death,
And blasts of excommunicating ire
Shrink with disgust, sly Rome the hint receives!
Till, like the echo of all wants and wills,
Behold her! with the freeman talking free;
With tyrants, she at once can tyrant act;
And for idolaters gives idol-forms
In saint, or Virgin! Whatsoe'er the creed
Political, she finds appropriate tones
And flatters each with some obliging key.
Thus for opinion, passion, low desires,
All tempers, dreams, imaginations, thoughts,
All moods, and morals,—whatsoe'er the man
In learning, commerce, or in life be found,
For each and all can Romanistic craft
A seeming counterpart affect, or frame;
But, deep at centre, antichristian still!
So works the Myst'ry, and the world is won,
And aspect changed for principle reform'd
Is now mistaken. Hence, for time prepared,
Rome meets all pressure from without enforced,
By powers elastically prompt within;
Responsive always to each varied call
From creeds perverse, or crisis which demands
Her weapon'd skill, her wisdom and her guile.

“And, why hath God, the merciful and great,
Rome's vile burlesque of christian truth allow'd?”
Perchance that Contrast may the earth instruct:
And hence, when man and world have both been taught
Their impotence; when Art, and Lore, and Skill
Their powers have tried, all moral engines used
To lift our nature from the gulf of sin,
And tried in vain; when Reason thus hath learn'd
No remedy from mortal wisdom comes
The plaguing leprosy of sin to heal,
And hearts apostate all their vileness know,
Descending Thunders from the Lord Himself
On Rome will burst, and ruin bury all!

Hence from the first, eternal war prevails
Against “The Woman,” and her seed elect;
And each high plan supernal Wisdom chose
Satan hath mimick'd with his aping guile,
Or art stupendous. But the master-piece,
The dread hyperbolé of daring skill,
That great conception where his glory shines
With blasting lustre, is the Roman mock!
There, falschood in the garb of truth is found;
There, darkness in a dress of light appears;
And all the many-chamber'd mind can hold
Of lies which lull, or sophistries that please,
Is met, and answer'd by some prompt reply.
No! not a tone which Character can sound,
Without an echo from some chord of lies
Play'd by the master-hand of popish Art!
Till, that which blood and havoc could not do,
When heathen Rome, or Arian butchers tried
The Church to mangle and her creed to mar,
This arch defection in canonic guise
By Him erected, hath for cent'ries done!
No partial error, out of reason framed,
Nor falsehood, from licentious will begot,
Hath Satan, in the Man of Sin, achieved;
But one great bondage for essential Mind!—
A ritual net-work, where the soul is caught,
And co-extensive with its ev'ry power.
Thus, all of tendencies, or truths which rise
By man or time develop'd into sway,
These, by a process of absorbing guile,
Rome with herself in soft alliance blends;
Can with her cause incorporate, and mix,
And thus transmute them out of social forms
To fine activities, whose friendly sway
Is won, and wielded for her own at last.