 | Contributions to a Ballad History of England and the States Sprung from Her |  |
57
THE MARTYRDOM OF RIDLEY AND LATIMER.
1555.
O our God, be Thou our succour! O our God, be Thou our rock,
Our sure defence, the staff and stay of Thine afflicted flock,
Thy flock that groan in terror of the evil of their days,
Thy flock that through their sins are doomed to walk through thorny ways!
Who 'gainst the hate and wrath of men, save Thou, canst be our stay?
Weak is the flesh and faint the heart, O be with us this day!
The scorn and ill-repute of men are theirs who Thine would be;
The dungeon and the rending rack would part us, Lord, from Thee;
O Lord, with tears of blood we weep; our trembling cry goes up.
If it please Thee, O, from our lips, remove this bitter cup!
Have pity, Lord, upon Thine own, for all is fear and gloom,
And we who sang in joy Thy praise, faint at our coming doom.
O must Thy saints, so blest of late, live but their woe to weep!
Why, Shepherd, to the rending wolves, hast Thou thus left Thy sheep!
Red are our sins, O Lord, we know. To Thee our hearts are known,
Yet, O afflict us not so sore! have mercy on Thine own!
Or, if it be Thy righteous will, by man our blood be spilt,
O strengthen us, in death, to say, “Lord, be it as Thou wilt!”
O make us strong to bear Thy cross! Thou, Father, only Thou
Canst lead us joyful through the fires of hell that gird us now;
Canst bid us, filled with love of Thee, amid the torturing flame,
Forget all but to show to men the glory of Thy name;
Shuddering we think of what our eyes have looked upon this morn,
Thy saintly ones, Thy holy two, brought forth with curse and scorn,
The stake, the chains, the faggots heaped around the holy twain,
Yet we remember too their faith triumphant over pain;
If theirs our doom, O give us, Lord, like them to play our parts;
Give us, like them, to know but Thee, even with our dying hearts!
With prayers and praise and joyful hymns, even with expiring breath,
Bid us show forth our trust in Thee, Thine, Lord, in life and death;
If it be ours to tread to Thee, with them, their fiery way,
O gird us, Lord, to walk their path even as they walked to-day!
Our sure defence, the staff and stay of Thine afflicted flock,
Thy flock that groan in terror of the evil of their days,
Thy flock that through their sins are doomed to walk through thorny ways!
Who 'gainst the hate and wrath of men, save Thou, canst be our stay?
Weak is the flesh and faint the heart, O be with us this day!
The scorn and ill-repute of men are theirs who Thine would be;
The dungeon and the rending rack would part us, Lord, from Thee;
O Lord, with tears of blood we weep; our trembling cry goes up.
If it please Thee, O, from our lips, remove this bitter cup!
Have pity, Lord, upon Thine own, for all is fear and gloom,
And we who sang in joy Thy praise, faint at our coming doom.
O must Thy saints, so blest of late, live but their woe to weep!
Why, Shepherd, to the rending wolves, hast Thou thus left Thy sheep!
Red are our sins, O Lord, we know. To Thee our hearts are known,
Yet, O afflict us not so sore! have mercy on Thine own!
Or, if it be Thy righteous will, by man our blood be spilt,
O strengthen us, in death, to say, “Lord, be it as Thou wilt!”
O make us strong to bear Thy cross! Thou, Father, only Thou
Canst lead us joyful through the fires of hell that gird us now;
Canst bid us, filled with love of Thee, amid the torturing flame,
Forget all but to show to men the glory of Thy name;
Shuddering we think of what our eyes have looked upon this morn,
Thy saintly ones, Thy holy two, brought forth with curse and scorn,
The stake, the chains, the faggots heaped around the holy twain,
Yet we remember too their faith triumphant over pain;
If theirs our doom, O give us, Lord, like them to play our parts;
Give us, like them, to know but Thee, even with our dying hearts!
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Bid us show forth our trust in Thee, Thine, Lord, in life and death;
If it be ours to tread to Thee, with them, their fiery way,
O gird us, Lord, to walk their path even as they walked to-day!
Now woe unto thee, Bonner; to thee, fell Gardiner, woe,
Through whom our Zion's temples in ashes are laid low;
God judge thee, Pole, thou Devil's scourge! God judge thee, bloody Queen,
Whose tiger heart hath lighted up the torments we have seen;
O bitter change! O fall from bliss! alas, one little year,
These twain were preaching to God's Church in honour, void of fear;
Then ruled our young Josiah, our Edward undefiled,
Then wide the Gospel's light streamed forth from round our sainted child,
Then shone the one pure perfect faith undimmed throughout the land,
That faith which now is hunted down, its teachers gagged and banned;
That truth that only can be heard from saints' expiring breath,
Not preached in life, but witnessed to in tortures and in death.
Weep, England, tears of blood! sad land, weep for the bitter hour
That here set Anti-Christ on high to raven and devour,
To heap damnation upon souls too weak to win through strife,
Not strong to soar through pain and death to palms and endless life;
Yet, O ye powers of hell, let loose through all our ways, alas!
To tempt and kill, ye devil's spawn of Jesuit, monk and mass,
Lo, look on these who died to-day! see how God's saints defy
Your snares and, in your toils beset, triumphant, joy to die!
Through whom our Zion's temples in ashes are laid low;
God judge thee, Pole, thou Devil's scourge! God judge thee, bloody Queen,
Whose tiger heart hath lighted up the torments we have seen;
O bitter change! O fall from bliss! alas, one little year,
These twain were preaching to God's Church in honour, void of fear;
Then ruled our young Josiah, our Edward undefiled,
Then wide the Gospel's light streamed forth from round our sainted child,
Then shone the one pure perfect faith undimmed throughout the land,
That faith which now is hunted down, its teachers gagged and banned;
That truth that only can be heard from saints' expiring breath,
Not preached in life, but witnessed to in tortures and in death.
Weep, England, tears of blood! sad land, weep for the bitter hour
That here set Anti-Christ on high to raven and devour,
To heap damnation upon souls too weak to win through strife,
Not strong to soar through pain and death to palms and endless life;
Yet, O ye powers of hell, let loose through all our ways, alas!
To tempt and kill, ye devil's spawn of Jesuit, monk and mass,
Lo, look on these who died to-day! see how God's saints defy
Your snares and, in your toils beset, triumphant, joy to die!
As lambs unto the slaughter, from the Tower, where they had lain,
They brought them to false judges here in Oxford to be slain,
To Weston and to Tresham, hot to earn the devil's wage,
To Smith, filled 'gainst the faithful with the renegade's fell rage,
To Cambridge's sleek Gallios whose bellies are their god,
To Oxford knaves with souls for sale to earn curst Bonner's nod;
Red-robed, as though their thirst for blood their Doctors' frocks had dyed,
Before St. Mary's altar, fierce they sat, in evil pride;
There, like our blessèd Lord, before these Pilates' judgment-seat,
Meek in the midst our saints were set, their evil rage to meet;
Then might the faithful bless the Lord, to witness Ridley's cheer,
To hear him welcome death for Christ, with joy that cast out fear,
And, sight, too blest for weeping, though pitiful to tears,
We saw old father Latimer, bowed down with fourscore years,
We heard his agèd words cut through the Papists' wily toil,
We saw him, strong with strength from God, their wrath and cunning foil,
And, when they doomed him to the fire, “I joy,” he cried, “to die;
“I thank my God who's spared me thus His name to glorify.”
They brought them to false judges here in Oxford to be slain,
To Weston and to Tresham, hot to earn the devil's wage,
To Smith, filled 'gainst the faithful with the renegade's fell rage,
To Cambridge's sleek Gallios whose bellies are their god,
To Oxford knaves with souls for sale to earn curst Bonner's nod;
Red-robed, as though their thirst for blood their Doctors' frocks had dyed,
Before St. Mary's altar, fierce they sat, in evil pride;
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Meek in the midst our saints were set, their evil rage to meet;
Then might the faithful bless the Lord, to witness Ridley's cheer,
To hear him welcome death for Christ, with joy that cast out fear,
And, sight, too blest for weeping, though pitiful to tears,
We saw old father Latimer, bowed down with fourscore years,
We heard his agèd words cut through the Papists' wily toil,
We saw him, strong with strength from God, their wrath and cunning foil,
And, when they doomed him to the fire, “I joy,” he cried, “to die;
“I thank my God who's spared me thus His name to glorify.”
O misty autumn morning! O bright October day,
Whose fame exulting saints shall show till earth shall pass away,
O with what hearts within us, we oped our heavy eyes
To look upon the day that brought our brethren's sacrifice!
With leaden feet, all clogged with woe, that might not heavier be,
We trod the city's ways, thick-thronged the evil sight to see;
Nor long we waited for our saints; to where, upon the north,
The ditch is, against Baliol's gates, they brought the dear ones forth;
They came, begirt with armèd men, with bailiff, monk and mayor,
And, over all commanding, rode the fierce Lord Williams there;
In furred black gown, paced Ridley first, so garbed, you might have guessed,
From velvet cape and cap, he deemed this day well worth his best;
Firm came he on with calm sweet cheer, as if from care released,
Or rather, with the face one wears who seeks his marriage-feast;
Behind him, toiling on with staff, in frieze frock worn and old,
With kerchiefed head and buttoned cap, to fend his age from cold,
On tottered grandsire Latimer, and well the mournful crowd
Marked how, unto his feeble feet, fell straight and white his shroud;
Beholding them, even fellest foes with sorrow sure were sad
To see the woeful plight of these who late such honour had.
Up to Boccardo's prison-bars, one look they looked to see
If there, to wave farewell to them, Cranmer agaze might be;
Then back unto his aged mate, sweet words did Ridley say,
And he, with merry cheer, quoth, “Fast I'll follow as I may.”
And now is every eye fixed fast and every murmur dumb,
As, through the guarded open space, on to their doom they come.
Yet whiter are the gazers round than they their way who take
To where the heaped-up faggots lie, to where is reared the stake.
Whose fame exulting saints shall show till earth shall pass away,
O with what hearts within us, we oped our heavy eyes
To look upon the day that brought our brethren's sacrifice!
With leaden feet, all clogged with woe, that might not heavier be,
We trod the city's ways, thick-thronged the evil sight to see;
Nor long we waited for our saints; to where, upon the north,
The ditch is, against Baliol's gates, they brought the dear ones forth;
They came, begirt with armèd men, with bailiff, monk and mayor,
And, over all commanding, rode the fierce Lord Williams there;
In furred black gown, paced Ridley first, so garbed, you might have guessed,
From velvet cape and cap, he deemed this day well worth his best;
Firm came he on with calm sweet cheer, as if from care released,
Or rather, with the face one wears who seeks his marriage-feast;
Behind him, toiling on with staff, in frieze frock worn and old,
With kerchiefed head and buttoned cap, to fend his age from cold,
On tottered grandsire Latimer, and well the mournful crowd
Marked how, unto his feeble feet, fell straight and white his shroud;
Beholding them, even fellest foes with sorrow sure were sad
To see the woeful plight of these who late such honour had.
Up to Boccardo's prison-bars, one look they looked to see
If there, to wave farewell to them, Cranmer agaze might be;
60
And he, with merry cheer, quoth, “Fast I'll follow as I may.”
And now is every eye fixed fast and every murmur dumb,
As, through the guarded open space, on to their doom they come.
Yet whiter are the gazers round than they their way who take
To where the heaped-up faggots lie, to where is reared the stake.
| Contributions to a Ballad History of England and the States Sprung from Her | |