 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
ARCHBISHOP PLUNKET.
(THE LAST VICTIM OF THE ‘POPISH PLOT.’)
July 11, A.D. 1681.
[_]
‘The Earl of Essex went to the king (Charles II.) to apply for a pardon, and told his Majesty “the witnesses must needs be perjured, as what they swore could not possibly be true.” But his Majesty answered in a passion, “Why did you not declare this, then, at the trial? I dare pardon nobody— his blood be upon your head, and not mine!”’—Haverty's History of Ireland. See also Cardinal Moran's Life of Archbishop Plunket.
115
Why crowd ye windows thus, and doors?
Why climb ye tower and steeple?
What lures you forth, O senators?
What goads you here, O people?
Why climb ye tower and steeple?
What lures you forth, O senators?
What goads you here, O people?
Here there is nothing worth your note—
'Tis but an old man dying:
The noblest stag this season caught
And in the old nets lying!
'Tis but an old man dying:
The noblest stag this season caught
And in the old nets lying!
Sirs, there are marvels, but not here:
Here's but the threadbare fable
Whose sense nor sage discerns, nor seer;
Unwilling is unable!
Here's but the threadbare fable
Whose sense nor sage discerns, nor seer;
Unwilling is unable!
That prince who lurk'd in bush and brake
While bloodhounds bay'd behind him
Now, to his father's throne brought back,
In pleasure's mesh doth wind him.
While bloodhounds bay'd behind him
Now, to his father's throne brought back,
In pleasure's mesh doth wind him.
The primate of that race, whose sword
Stream'd last to save that father,
To-day is reaping such reward
As Irish virtues gather.
Stream'd last to save that father,
To-day is reaping such reward
As Irish virtues gather.
His Faith King Charles partakes—and hides!
Ah, caitiff crowned, and craven!
Not his to breast the rough sea tides;
He rocks in peaceful haven.
Ah, caitiff crowned, and craven!
Not his to breast the rough sea tides;
He rocks in peaceful haven.
Great heart! Pray well in heaven this night
From dungeon loosed, and hovel,
For souls that blacken in God's light,
That know the Truth, yet grovel.
From dungeon loosed, and hovel,
For souls that blacken in God's light,
That know the Truth, yet grovel.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |