University of Virginia Library

But, sheathed for ever is th' avenging Sword
Of Godhead? Will it ne'er on Roman crimes
And cruelty with flashing ire descend,
Cleaving her bulwarks to their very base?
Oh, dare we think, that all the mangled host
On Alpine mountains hunted, spiked, or slain
By thousands, or by Marian hell-hounds torn
To bleeding fragments, have in vain their voice
Heroic peal'd along the heaven of heavens,
Startling the angels on their golden thrones
When the last anguish of their dying lips
Came up before them? Fruitless have they lived,
Or preach'd, or felt, or suffer'd, who of old
Gave to the world the glory of their death
By wheel, or gibbet, rack, or fiery stake
In vaulted cells of subterranean gloom
By death-lamps lighted, where the lurid beam
Faintly along some victim's quiv'ring flesh
Glimmer'd, and lit his harrow'd features up?
Far otherwise may thoughtful bosoms feel,
When grateful Hist'ry to their shrines of Death
Resorts, where deathless Inspirations glow.
The living dead ones are they! and their words
Ring round the heart like tones which never die.
Beyond their sermons, preach their sorrows, still!
Their anguish is our glory; for we feel,
Who died for principle, for God yet lives
To perish never! Where they bled, or burn'd,
Corded, or chain'd, or rent by racking fires,
Devils were taught how Man's enduring strength
Can suffer, when by prompting grace inspired.
And therefore, Martyrs! of Britannia's church,
That ancient plant of apostolic growth,
We laud, and love ye with no cold delight,
Who bled for conscience, and to Britain left
A creed untouch'd, like Cranmer's heart, entire!
E'en from your tombs an eloquence proceeds
Which champions Ages to repeat your worth:
And never from our venerating hearts
The deeds ye dared, the majesty ye show'd
In the dread anguish of a godlike hour,
Shall die! All time your holy debtor is:
And long as in our Church's veins endures
The precious life-blood of protesting truth,
Never can England from her mindful soul
Cancel the debt, her glories owe to you!
Your pangs have her inheritance become,
A wealth bestowing more than gold creates.
Ye gave the Bible! which your tortures won;
And shame terrific on our head alight,
If what the blood of martyrdom bequeath'd
In black ingratitude we basely yield.
Ye gave the Bible! and that priceless Book
Our blessings all in germ at once bestow'd.
For, what is Science in her purest flights,
With all those blending harmonies which rise
From social nature, but the man evolved?
But, both the moral and the mental roots
Of human nature, with transmuting sway
The scriptures reach; and thus with latent force
And vigour these the heart of Britain cleansed,
Making her land the paradise of isles.

Then, not in vain, though Rome be blushless still,
And round her creed a Trentine darkness casts
Cruel as ever, have the martyr'd hosts
And hecatombs of peerless saints, who bled
For truth, to God against their murd'ress cried.
Beneath the Altar rise their mystic wails
And enter, not unfelt, the ear of Heaven:
Since ev'ry drop their costly veins effused,
With every pang their burning limbs endured,
Have bright memorial in the Lamb'sown Book,
And shall be answer'd, when avenging Time
Brings the dread hour by Prophecy decreed.
Then shall The Lord in robe of fire descend,
And with the breathing of His mouth shall smite,
And with the brightness of His coming blast,
And into cinders by His curse consume
Earth's second Babel, antichristian Rome!

Meanwhile, presuming man would fain achieve
What scripture to The dread Eternal gives
In plan and purpose, for His crowning work.
Thus, all are prophets to themselves, at least,
And preach perfection possible below.
But can corruption to itself be cure?
If man be ruin, and rebuilt he rise,
'Tis not by rubbish from himself produced,
But by a means transcendant, as divine.
The creed within forms character without,
And God alone can educate the will;
But, will makes man, in all essential powers,
And therefore must he, by regen'rate grace
Beyond himself through heavenly love ascend,
Or still be changeless, in his moral core.
Thus, to the last, a leper will remain:
The skin may whiten, but the blood is black,
And burns in secret like a plague-spot, still.