A Poetry of Exiles By Douglas B. W. Sladen: An Australian colonist: Second edition, revised |
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PROTESTANT DAY, 1885.
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 | A Poetry of Exiles |  |
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PROTESTANT DAY, 1885.
(The Anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot, of William III.'s landing in Torbay, and the Battle of Inkerman.)
Protestant Day—and England's Church in danger!
Tory and Liberal beside her stand!
Are infidels to plunder Her and change Her—
The mother of Church-freedom for our land?
Tory and Liberal beside her stand!
Are infidels to plunder Her and change Her—
The mother of Church-freedom for our land?
Outside Canossa's gate the German shivered,
Humbled and impotent amid the snow;
And France's mightiest King before It quivered—
The Power unbroken till our Church's blow.
Humbled and impotent amid the snow;
And France's mightiest King before It quivered—
The Power unbroken till our Church's blow.
The mother of Church-freedom, our great charter
Of English freedom from the realm of Rome,
Sealed with the blood of patriot and martyr,
Bound up, from birth to death, with life of Home.
Of English freedom from the realm of Rome,
Sealed with the blood of patriot and martyr,
Bound up, from birth to death, with life of Home.
Guy Fawkes! Torbay! This fifth day of November
Who can forget the Papists' famous plot?
Who but our Revolution must remember?
Who hath the Seven Bishops' tale forgot?
Who can forget the Papists' famous plot?
Who but our Revolution must remember?
Who hath the Seven Bishops' tale forgot?
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The Church of England! aye—and England's glory!
If Inkerman's shall come to us again,
'Twill be through those who love our Church and Story,
And not through godless, unremembering men.
If Inkerman's shall come to us again,
'Twill be through those who love our Church and Story,
And not through godless, unremembering men.
From royal Westminster whose Abbey gathers
The bones of those who built up England's fame,
To little country-churches, where our fathers,
For centuries, to font and altar came,
The bones of those who built up England's fame,
To little country-churches, where our fathers,
For centuries, to font and altar came,
From where at Canterbury, yet unminished,
Stands that same church, in which Augustine preached,
To mission-room, in mining-town just finished—
A mark how far Truth's last high springtide reached,
Stands that same church, in which Augustine preached,
To mission-room, in mining-town just finished—
A mark how far Truth's last high springtide reached,
Ring out wild peals of peril, then the voices
Of strong men stern to guard their hearths and homes,
With fierce thoughts for the foeman who rejoices
That ruin runs behind where'er he roams.
Of strong men stern to guard their hearths and homes,
With fierce thoughts for the foeman who rejoices
That ruin runs behind where'er he roams.
Up Peer! Up Peasant! Children of the City,
From whose stout hands our English commerce rose,
Show them, that if they show your Church no pity,
You can be pitiless against Her foes!
From whose stout hands our English commerce rose,
Show them, that if they show your Church no pity,
You can be pitiless against Her foes!
| A Poetry of Exiles | |