The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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ENGLAND'S LAMENT
FOR
THE LOSS OF HER CONSTITUTION. |
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
ENGLAND'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF HER CONSTITUTION.
Let verse, in wild, harmonious numbers flow:
My muse descend to pay the debt I owe.
Long hast thou taken far thine airy flight,
And left me wrapp'd in gloomy shades of night;
But when commotions in our nation blaze,
When England's sun is robb'd of half its rays,
Again these drowsy, torpid passions shake—
Rouse every nerve—let all their powers awake.
Bring me the magic shell, the native lyre,
And warm my bosom with a patriot's fire.
For where's the breast that feels not anguish rise?
And where the Protestant, but thinks and sighs?
The bells that once in cheerful peals could turn,
Have changed their notes, and in their changes mourn;
The flags, that once waved glorious on each tower,
Now, drooping, weep, and shrink from Papal power;
Around their staves, now motionless are furl'd,
That waved in victory o'er a conquer'd world.
Learning and art, come hang your heads and weep,
Cambridge be closed—a fast let Oxford keep;
Muses be clad in emblems of despair;
Ye trees we love, no British roses bear;
A foreign serpent's nestling at your roots,
To kill your branches while the shamrock shoots;
And myriads that have long been open foes
To heroes decorated with the rose,
Conspire to make our churches tumble down,
And place that emblem on the triple crown.
My muse descend to pay the debt I owe.
Long hast thou taken far thine airy flight,
And left me wrapp'd in gloomy shades of night;
317
When England's sun is robb'd of half its rays,
Again these drowsy, torpid passions shake—
Rouse every nerve—let all their powers awake.
Bring me the magic shell, the native lyre,
And warm my bosom with a patriot's fire.
For where's the breast that feels not anguish rise?
And where the Protestant, but thinks and sighs?
The bells that once in cheerful peals could turn,
Have changed their notes, and in their changes mourn;
The flags, that once waved glorious on each tower,
Now, drooping, weep, and shrink from Papal power;
Around their staves, now motionless are furl'd,
That waved in victory o'er a conquer'd world.
Learning and art, come hang your heads and weep,
Cambridge be closed—a fast let Oxford keep;
Muses be clad in emblems of despair;
Ye trees we love, no British roses bear;
A foreign serpent's nestling at your roots,
To kill your branches while the shamrock shoots;
And myriads that have long been open foes
To heroes decorated with the rose,
Conspire to make our churches tumble down,
And place that emblem on the triple crown.
Old Ebor's patriot Duke is now no more:
The colours which the noble Frederick bore,
In death, are dusty: every shatter'd shred
Speaks volumes; for the Church's friend is dead.
No more of England's glory let us sing,
Let Nelson rest, nor touch the vocal string;
Let patriots' tears, in torrents flow like rain,
For all is lost our fathers fought to gain.
Old England mourns; our wives—our children mourn,
While patriot hearts with double fury burn
To see the far-famed chief of Waterloo
(Adorned with laurels taken from the foe),
Bring by that arm that oft made tyrants fall,
Creatures of Rome to Stephen's ancient hall.
In ruined abbeys soon will be fresh souls,
Monks in their glory, boasting in their cowls:
Where nightly shouting birds have hatching been,
Soon will the chisel and the square be seen.
Spain will rejoice—in Paris friars dance;
Old England's weakness will enliven France.
Through all the Continent it will be said:
“The ocean's rulers are at last afraid.
“Proceed, proceed, the British lion teaze,
“He seems to sleep supinely at his ease;
“Tug at his ears, and pluck his aged mane,
“Close up his eyes, he cannot war again.
“Ye peers, new-made, bring shamrock for his food,
“Goad him with pikes, and try to rouse his blood:
“Bind him with beads, place thistles on his paws;
“Then make him bow his head to Papal laws;
“And shout on Dover's cliff—let Calais hear—
“Another step is gained—another cheer!”
The colours which the noble Frederick bore,
318
Speaks volumes; for the Church's friend is dead.
No more of England's glory let us sing,
Let Nelson rest, nor touch the vocal string;
Let patriots' tears, in torrents flow like rain,
For all is lost our fathers fought to gain.
Old England mourns; our wives—our children mourn,
While patriot hearts with double fury burn
To see the far-famed chief of Waterloo
(Adorned with laurels taken from the foe),
Bring by that arm that oft made tyrants fall,
Creatures of Rome to Stephen's ancient hall.
In ruined abbeys soon will be fresh souls,
Monks in their glory, boasting in their cowls:
Where nightly shouting birds have hatching been,
Soon will the chisel and the square be seen.
Spain will rejoice—in Paris friars dance;
Old England's weakness will enliven France.
Through all the Continent it will be said:
“The ocean's rulers are at last afraid.
“Proceed, proceed, the British lion teaze,
“He seems to sleep supinely at his ease;
“Tug at his ears, and pluck his aged mane,
“Close up his eyes, he cannot war again.
“Ye peers, new-made, bring shamrock for his food,
“Goad him with pikes, and try to rouse his blood:
“Bind him with beads, place thistles on his paws;
“Then make him bow his head to Papal laws;
319
“Another step is gained—another cheer!”
Watch him, ye Churchmen! see him move to rise,
His nostrils smoke, there's lightning in his eyes;
Long has he heard the restless beings moan,
In silence watch'd them till they shook his throne.
With awful voice he asks, “What wish you more?”
And three broad kingdoms tremble at his roar.
They answer—“Half the jewels of your crown,
“And all the abbeys that are tumbled down;
“That abbots, monks, and friars all may be
“True English subjects, and as Britons free.
“We wish the trident from Britannia's hand,
“We wish to place her on some rocky strand;
“Take sixteen hundred, eighty years and eight,
“With blood of martyrs make her blot the date;
“And as with mournful steps she wanders slow,
“Drown her deep wailings with ‘Erin go Bragh!’
“And when in deepest anguish she appears,
“Throw her a nun's rich veil to wipe her tears.”
His nostrils smoke, there's lightning in his eyes;
Long has he heard the restless beings moan,
In silence watch'd them till they shook his throne.
With awful voice he asks, “What wish you more?”
And three broad kingdoms tremble at his roar.
They answer—“Half the jewels of your crown,
“And all the abbeys that are tumbled down;
“That abbots, monks, and friars all may be
“True English subjects, and as Britons free.
“We wish the trident from Britannia's hand,
“We wish to place her on some rocky strand;
“Take sixteen hundred, eighty years and eight,
“With blood of martyrs make her blot the date;
“And as with mournful steps she wanders slow,
“Drown her deep wailings with ‘Erin go Bragh!’
“And when in deepest anguish she appears,
“Throw her a nun's rich veil to wipe her tears.”
The lion shook his mane—a rocket flew;
Each hill and dale the flaming signal knew.
Woolwich awoke, its latent voice to try;
Thames trembled with the dread artillery.
The five large cannons in the centre placed,
With Oriental hieroglyphics graced,
Spoke all at once—the deep and sullen roar
Awoke the heaviest metal at the Nore:
The ships on Medway, and old muddy Thames,
Turned into rage, and bellowed forth in flames.
The guns on every batt'ry of the land,
Enwrapp'd in smoke, vowed England's Church should stand:
From hill to hill the thundering echoes ran,
Till Ebor heard, and every Highland clan,
The Tower's old guns spoke last—the massive walls
Felt the fierce shock—though destitute of balls.
Then old John Bull, awaking, rises slow:
“Why all this thunder? I could wish to know.”
A British patriot answer'd with a sigh,
“Rome o'er our nation's gained the victory;
“The Pope and all the Cardinals can boast,
“Their feet again have touch'd Britannia's coast.”
Each hill and dale the flaming signal knew.
Woolwich awoke, its latent voice to try;
Thames trembled with the dread artillery.
The five large cannons in the centre placed,
With Oriental hieroglyphics graced,
320
Awoke the heaviest metal at the Nore:
The ships on Medway, and old muddy Thames,
Turned into rage, and bellowed forth in flames.
The guns on every batt'ry of the land,
Enwrapp'd in smoke, vowed England's Church should stand:
From hill to hill the thundering echoes ran,
Till Ebor heard, and every Highland clan,
The Tower's old guns spoke last—the massive walls
Felt the fierce shock—though destitute of balls.
Then old John Bull, awaking, rises slow:
“Why all this thunder? I could wish to know.”
A British patriot answer'd with a sigh,
“Rome o'er our nation's gained the victory;
“The Pope and all the Cardinals can boast,
“Their feet again have touch'd Britannia's coast.”
“Never,” said John, “while this strong arm of mine
“Can carve a sirloin, or my lips taste wine.”
Then from his eyes burst forth the manly tear,
Sprung from the heart, which showed that grief was there.
“Can carve a sirloin, or my lips taste wine.”
Then from his eyes burst forth the manly tear,
Sprung from the heart, which showed that grief was there.
He oft had heard, at distance, of the storm,
But now he views it in its darkest form,
Borne on the winds, and in religion wrapp'd;
Design its lightnings; every mountain capp'd
With clouds of darkness, such as once o'erspread
The hearts of cardinals, when martyrs bled.
He saw unchanging Eldon leave his place;
The people mourned; and grief on every face
Of noblest subjects, plainly could be seen;
And sorrow reigned where loyalty had been.
But now he views it in its darkest form,
Borne on the winds, and in religion wrapp'd;
Design its lightnings; every mountain capp'd
321
The hearts of cardinals, when martyrs bled.
He saw unchanging Eldon leave his place;
The people mourned; and grief on every face
Of noblest subjects, plainly could be seen;
And sorrow reigned where loyalty had been.
Let eloquence, supporter of each cause,
Lose all its powers, and make a solemn pause;
Forget all figures of three thousand years,
And every Churchman's heart dissolve to tears,
Yet unto Eldon silent honour give,
Whose honesty and truth shall ever live.
Let monuments of praise to Eldon rise,
Whose truth on earth shall glitter in the skies.
In every true, unchanging, loyal breast,
His bright, unshaken virtue long shall rest.
Like the strong watch-tower, when the tempests rage,
He firmly stood—the beacon of the age!
When seas of eloquence to storms are wrought,
Raging in all the sophistry of thought;
When princes, dukes, and heroes, changed as wind,
Firm as a rock was Eldon's patriot mind:
The Liturgy—the Church—the Word of God—
The sure foundation where Lord Eldon stood.
Lose all its powers, and make a solemn pause;
Forget all figures of three thousand years,
And every Churchman's heart dissolve to tears,
Yet unto Eldon silent honour give,
Whose honesty and truth shall ever live.
Let monuments of praise to Eldon rise,
Whose truth on earth shall glitter in the skies.
In every true, unchanging, loyal breast,
His bright, unshaken virtue long shall rest.
Like the strong watch-tower, when the tempests rage,
He firmly stood—the beacon of the age!
When seas of eloquence to storms are wrought,
Raging in all the sophistry of thought;
When princes, dukes, and heroes, changed as wind,
Firm as a rock was Eldon's patriot mind:
The Liturgy—the Church—the Word of God—
The sure foundation where Lord Eldon stood.
Nor does he stand alone—for millions yet
Retain what memory cannot well forget.
Firm is their hope; though clouds may now obscure
Old England's glory—yet she rests secure,
While patriots like Sadler brave the storm,
With fury tossed in every varied form.
He scorns the varying scribblers of his day,
Unmindful what the editors can say.
Secure in rising merit, all their scorn
Fades like the mist that hides the light of morn;
The more their envy, higher he ascends,
His mind unmoved, the glory of his friends.
Oh for a thousand more in Stephen's hall,
Like him to listen when the people call:
Old England would not long in dust be laid,
Press'd to the earth, and perishing for trade.
No! all would join with mind, with heart, with hand,
To send prosperity through all the land.
Then would the glory of old England be
Again restored to its own dignity,
And sixteen hundred, eighty years and eight
Would burst again with its own glorious light.
With patriot spirit, Churchmen never fear,
Unmoved, unchanged, let bishops persevere.
Secure for ages have their churches stood,
Their doctrines pure, and ratified with blood.
There sleep our fathers, there the heroes sleep,
And shall we not the Church in safety keep?
Ye deists, or ye atheists, tell me where
Does honesty or sterling worth appear,
If not in those who at the church attend,
Whose prayers all other prayers on earth transcend.
Take every volume, every book away,
The flow'ry verses lasting scarce a day,
Or bring all books creation could contain,
With all the records of the martyrs slain—
Mahomet's Alkoran—or creeds of popes—
Can these support the fearful Christian's hopes?
All fail—ye know it—Latin prayers when read,
Not understood, nor reach the heart, nor head.
Take every ship that ever fought in war—
Take England's honours—garter—crown—and star—
Take the broad pennants—let them all be furl'd,
And to some dark abyss be quickly hurl'd—
Take all—then ask what made old Albion stand
When war and blood stained every popish land?
Why, nothing ever made us rest secure
But true religion and the Church kept pure.
Take from our favoured land the vital part,
She falls, like Nelson, wounded in the heart.
Retain what memory cannot well forget.
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Old England's glory—yet she rests secure,
While patriots like Sadler brave the storm,
With fury tossed in every varied form.
He scorns the varying scribblers of his day,
Unmindful what the editors can say.
Secure in rising merit, all their scorn
Fades like the mist that hides the light of morn;
The more their envy, higher he ascends,
His mind unmoved, the glory of his friends.
Oh for a thousand more in Stephen's hall,
Like him to listen when the people call:
Old England would not long in dust be laid,
Press'd to the earth, and perishing for trade.
No! all would join with mind, with heart, with hand,
To send prosperity through all the land.
Then would the glory of old England be
Again restored to its own dignity,
And sixteen hundred, eighty years and eight
Would burst again with its own glorious light.
With patriot spirit, Churchmen never fear,
Unmoved, unchanged, let bishops persevere.
Secure for ages have their churches stood,
Their doctrines pure, and ratified with blood.
There sleep our fathers, there the heroes sleep,
And shall we not the Church in safety keep?
Ye deists, or ye atheists, tell me where
Does honesty or sterling worth appear,
323
Whose prayers all other prayers on earth transcend.
Take every volume, every book away,
The flow'ry verses lasting scarce a day,
Or bring all books creation could contain,
With all the records of the martyrs slain—
Mahomet's Alkoran—or creeds of popes—
Can these support the fearful Christian's hopes?
All fail—ye know it—Latin prayers when read,
Not understood, nor reach the heart, nor head.
Take every ship that ever fought in war—
Take England's honours—garter—crown—and star—
Take the broad pennants—let them all be furl'd,
And to some dark abyss be quickly hurl'd—
Take all—then ask what made old Albion stand
When war and blood stained every popish land?
Why, nothing ever made us rest secure
But true religion and the Church kept pure.
Take from our favoured land the vital part,
She falls, like Nelson, wounded in the heart.
Oft have we heard the hills, the valleys ring
With England's anthem of “God save the King;”
But now the children have forgot the song,
Or weakly sounds the chorus from each tongue.
Oh! what a change:—and this the total cause,
For England cannot bend to popish laws.
The hated deed we know was quickly done,
That darkly clouded England's glorious sun,
The clouds shall yet disperse, the shadows flee,
The Constitution gain the victory!
Shall every lord, shall every earl turn fool?
These noble Britons of the ancient school:
Shall sterling worth, the glory of our land,
Plant a false banner on the sea-beat strand?
No, never! woman with her richest smiles,
Who sometimes kings, and often lords, beguiles,
Shall fail to bring the Vatican's rich crown
To glitter on our great archbishop's throne.
Popes never more, while eagles rise with wings,
Shall have their stirrups held by British kings.
With England's anthem of “God save the King;”
But now the children have forgot the song,
Or weakly sounds the chorus from each tongue.
Oh! what a change:—and this the total cause,
For England cannot bend to popish laws.
324
That darkly clouded England's glorious sun,
The clouds shall yet disperse, the shadows flee,
The Constitution gain the victory!
Shall every lord, shall every earl turn fool?
These noble Britons of the ancient school:
Shall sterling worth, the glory of our land,
Plant a false banner on the sea-beat strand?
No, never! woman with her richest smiles,
Who sometimes kings, and often lords, beguiles,
Shall fail to bring the Vatican's rich crown
To glitter on our great archbishop's throne.
Popes never more, while eagles rise with wings,
Shall have their stirrups held by British kings.
O Ireland! every blessing has been given
That England e'er could grant on this side heaven,
And now thou wouldst with England's goodness play,
Cut the strong cable, and then launch away.
Thy bonds and ties to England thou wouldst break,
Tow thyself off, and leave the nation weak:
That must not be:—thou canst not have thy will;
In every storm our chiefs are Britons still.
Long have they borne thy insults till they tire,
Patience has quenched their thunders and their fire.
When these no more can bear, ye all will fly;
An arch of flame will quiver on the sky.
When vengeance rouses from the British shore,
Liffey shall tremble with the dismal roar:
To mountains, rocks, and caves, ye all shall flee,
Wrapp'd in the gloom of your own infamy.
That England e'er could grant on this side heaven,
And now thou wouldst with England's goodness play,
Cut the strong cable, and then launch away.
Thy bonds and ties to England thou wouldst break,
Tow thyself off, and leave the nation weak:
That must not be:—thou canst not have thy will;
In every storm our chiefs are Britons still.
Long have they borne thy insults till they tire,
Patience has quenched their thunders and their fire.
When these no more can bear, ye all will fly;
An arch of flame will quiver on the sky.
325
Liffey shall tremble with the dismal roar:
To mountains, rocks, and caves, ye all shall flee,
Wrapp'd in the gloom of your own infamy.
If ever Britons loved the Brunswick line,
If Eldon's honesty did ever shine,
If ever war brought terrors on our shore,
If on the coasts the waves did ever roar,
Now is the time for faithful priests to stand,
The strength—the bulwark—of a sinking land.
If Eldon's honesty did ever shine,
If ever war brought terrors on our shore,
If on the coasts the waves did ever roar,
Now is the time for faithful priests to stand,
The strength—the bulwark—of a sinking land.
O'er that loved monarch let your sighs be heard,
And bless the memory of King George the Third,
Who loved not monarchy, but who could part
With throne and crown, ere he could yield his heart
To break the oath, the seal, that placed the crown
Upon that head, which care and grief bore down.
And bless the memory of King George the Third,
Who loved not monarchy, but who could part
With throne and crown, ere he could yield his heart
To break the oath, the seal, that placed the crown
Upon that head, which care and grief bore down.
See old John Bull with all his sons around,
His honest brow with silv'ry honours crowned.
Upon the ceiling is the church portrayed,
Where his dear partner low in dust is laid:
The portrait of the priest he loved, hung there,
His hand contains the Book of Common Prayer;
And on the ceiling all exposed to view,
The scene from Milton's paradise perdu;
Where monks' and friars' robes are toss'd on high
“Through the wild limbo of light vanity.”
He thinks of all the struggles that have been;
In various wars, what changes he has seen.
He sighs at the condition of the realm,
Without a chief with pow'r to guide the helm.
His honest brow with silv'ry honours crowned.
Upon the ceiling is the church portrayed,
Where his dear partner low in dust is laid:
The portrait of the priest he loved, hung there,
His hand contains the Book of Common Prayer;
And on the ceiling all exposed to view,
The scene from Milton's paradise perdu;
326
“Through the wild limbo of light vanity.”
He thinks of all the struggles that have been;
In various wars, what changes he has seen.
He sighs at the condition of the realm,
Without a chief with pow'r to guide the helm.
Let all the papers, journals of the day,
Use all their eloquence to lead astray
The reading multitude: 'tis all but wind,
And cannot move the honest patriot's mind.
The various sects that wish to have the pow'r,
Whose plans have sprung and perish'd in an hour,
And never take old Oxford's glory down:
The Church has friends in every British town:
The poor—the rich—will join the Church to save,
And guard the relics of a father's grave.
No inquisition ever shall be here;
Nor heretics in prisons drop a tear;
Nor popish darkness ever quench the light
That tells the British subject what is right.
Then cease to murmur—Britons rest secure,
For ages yet shall England's Church endure;
Infallibility she does not boast,
Believing not in relics—saints—nor host,
What these have gained is but the weakest part,
For “Church and State” fill every loyal heart.
But is all settled?—do they wish no more?
And is the great, the mighty struggle o'er?
No!—what they've gained, with patience must be tried;
Till then, beware ye grant them aught beside;
For if your boon will not their envy kill,
There is no peace—nor ever! ever will!!
Use all their eloquence to lead astray
The reading multitude: 'tis all but wind,
And cannot move the honest patriot's mind.
The various sects that wish to have the pow'r,
Whose plans have sprung and perish'd in an hour,
And never take old Oxford's glory down:
The Church has friends in every British town:
The poor—the rich—will join the Church to save,
And guard the relics of a father's grave.
No inquisition ever shall be here;
Nor heretics in prisons drop a tear;
Nor popish darkness ever quench the light
That tells the British subject what is right.
Then cease to murmur—Britons rest secure,
For ages yet shall England's Church endure;
Infallibility she does not boast,
Believing not in relics—saints—nor host,
What these have gained is but the weakest part,
For “Church and State” fill every loyal heart.
327
And is the great, the mighty struggle o'er?
No!—what they've gained, with patience must be tried;
Till then, beware ye grant them aught beside;
For if your boon will not their envy kill,
There is no peace—nor ever! ever will!!
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |