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Yet this, in mercy, may our God forbid!
Nor leave the world a dungeon of despair,
But bid the Church, by gracious heaven revived,
Her apostolic rank in word and deed
Resume, and dignify; and thus uplift
Her mitred forehead, and Her saintly mien
Untarnish'd, unattainted, safe alike
From popish rancour, or schismatic rent.
For in her shrine eternal morals dwell,
And through her sacraments and creeds there flow
Streams of pure life, from fontal Grace derived.
But could the Mammons of our day succeed,
Unchurch the Nation, prayer and praise destroy,
Silence the Pulpit, and all means of grace
Baffle, or blight, soon would Hell on earth
A more than rival in debasement hail!
For soul itself in sin would putrify,
Or wither down to senselessness and shame;
While Manhood, which the eye of faith declares
A true shechinah for indwelling God,
A mere contingency of breath and brain
Becomes,—a paradox in flesh array'd,
A baseless nothing, though baptised a man!

But in thy heart, heroic England! long
May Luther's voice, and Luther's spirit, live
Unsilenced and unshamed. Thou peerless Home
Of liberty and laws, of arts and arms,
Of learning, love, and eloquence divine,
Where Shakspeare dreamt, and sightless Milton soar'd,
Where heroes bled, and martyrs for the truth
Have died the burning death, without a groan,—
Land of the beautiful, the brave, the free!
Never, oh never! round thy yielded soul
May damning popery its rust-worn chain
Of darkness rivet; in the might of heaven
Awake, and back to Rome's vile dungeon hurl
Her shackles base of slavery abhorr'd!
Without the Bible, Britain's life-blood chills
And curdles; in that book, and by that book
Almighty, freedom can alone be kept
From age to age, in unison with heaven.
Without it, life is but a ling'ring death,
A false existence which begets decay,
Or fevers only into restless life
Whose blood is madness, and whose breath despair.
For not Philosophy, with Attic grace
Bedeck'd, and dazzling; nor can Science deep,
Sounding with searchful eye the vast abyss
Of things created; nor politic Weal
Transcending all which earthly patriot dreams
Of pure, and perfect, this vast empire guard:
And though our banners on the four winds waft
Defiance in the face of boundless foes,
Our swords flash vict'ry, and proud Commerce vie
With more than Tyre, upon her throne of waves
Once free and famous, till our country prove
The banking-center of all climes and creeds,—
Reft of her Bible, not a drop remains
Of holy life-blood in the Nation's heart!