 | Lyrical Poems |  |
A SONG OF CARDINAL BEATON.
—See Knox's History, vol. i. p.173, whom I have closely followed. The deed celebrated in the text took place in the year 1546. That it was not a murder in the criminal sense of the word, but a just retribution for wicked deeds, besides being politically a wise act, no impartial thinker can doubt. Beaton was a man who intruded into the Church of Christ, as his greatest admirers admit, from purely ambitious and worldly motives; and being seated in the seat of the Holiest, this godless and cruel man used his unsanctified power for the purpose of persecuting and annihilating the only men then existing who were faithfully preaching the truth of God in this land. In the eye of Heaven, Beaton was a traitor and a murderer. He murdered Wishart; and if he was murdered himself afterwards, he had no more right to complain than any other mortal who has been made to feel the eternal justice of that text, “Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed”. The talk about Law and Legitimate authority in such cases may amuse the shallow and console the coward; but it has no meaning to the consistent thinker. Those who talk with a pious horror of assassination ought to bear in mind, that when wolves in sheep's clothing exercise open force over the sheep, there is nothing for the faithful shepherd but to use secret force, when opportunity offers. The magistrate has no right to bear the sword in support of injustice; nor do Cardinals enjoy any sacred privilege to dye their stockings purple in the blood of just men. As to the policy of the act there can be no doubt. Beaton was the most talented and the most energetic captain of injustice and advocate of lies in those days; and his death gave the Reformation room to breathe and to grow, which otherwise might have been crushed under the squelch of his ruthless foot.
'Twixt the morning grey, and the midnight hour,
And he dreamt of his leman, a lady fine,
Who mingled sweet phrase with the sparkling wine,
Whispering, whispering, daintily so—
“Cardinal Beaton to Rome shall go,
And wear the tiara, my priestly joe!”
The Cardinal heard her sweet lips' flow,
But he did not hear the chorus wild,
That moaned through the night, with words not mild,
With Cardinal Beaton, the Pope's proud knight,
Who murdered Wishart, the godly wight!
Down—down—down—to hell
With the Pope and Cardinal Beaton!
When the sun rose bright in the morning hour,
But he heard strange sounds through the fumes of his wine.
He heard a clatter, he heard a fall,
He heard a clink, and an angry call,
He heard a shout that rent the air,
And he heard the tramp of a foot on the stair:
But he did not hear the words of Fate,
Deep-muttered from hell's black yawning gate,
With Cardinal Beaton, whose haughty spite
Murdered Wishart, the godly wight!
Down—down—down—to hell
With the Pope and Cardinal Beaton!
Who's there?—They've ta'en thy palace of pride!
He ran to the postern-gate; but, lo!
It was bolted and barred, and watched by the foe!
Behind his chamber-door he made
With chests and benches a barricade;
But with smoking coals and wreathed flame
They stormed the door,—and in they came!
The grim death-chant of the vengeful Fate,
With blood-stained Beaton, whose haughty spite
Murdered Wishart, the godly wight!
Down—down—down—to hell
With the Pope and Cardinal Beaton!
He fell. They held their daggers bare.
O spare me! spare my life! Shall I,
A priest, be butchered?—fie! fie! fie!
Full well we know that thou art a priest,
A murderer foul, and a lecherous beast!
They stabbed him once, and they stabbed him twice,
And his soul went out, when they stabbed him thrice:
And he heard in his ears, as in darkness he fell,
The Chorus of judgment with rending yell,
Thou blood-stained Beaton, whose hand did smite
The gentle Wishart, the godly wight!
Blood cries for blood, in the nethermost hell,
With the Pope and Cardinal Beaton!
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