 | England |  |
227
GERARD'S MARTYRDOM.
“Prayers and tears may serve a good man's turn; if not to conquer
as a soldier, yet to suffer as a martyr.”—King Charles.
“The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend, your wings! I mount! I fly!
O grave! where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”
—Pope.
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend, your wings! I mount! I fly!
O grave! where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?”
—Pope.
Hark! the loud trumpet from its brazen throat
Echoes, and the deep sounding drum!—The air
Is shook—the church towers ring with joyful note:
Surely, some royal jubilee is there,
Such num'rous hosts in bands are gathering near,
Each face so happy, every eye so bright:
Hunters chase not the wolf and shaggy bear
With greater glee, than rush they to the sight
Of these wild fires, that soon shall fill the heavens with light!
Echoes, and the deep sounding drum!—The air
Is shook—the church towers ring with joyful note:
Surely, some royal jubilee is there,
Such num'rous hosts in bands are gathering near,
Each face so happy, every eye so bright:
Hunters chase not the wolf and shaggy bear
With greater glee, than rush they to the sight
Of these wild fires, that soon shall fill the heavens with light!
The evening sun illumes the window pane,
And every window glows with happy life;
The house-tops are alive, and groan with pain—
The trees with joyful human souls are rife:
Tower, spire, and battlement, ring with the strife
Of clanging noises, that might wake the dead.
A monarch rescued from th' assassin's knife—
A mighty tyrant by his conqueror led—
Could scarce give half the joy, with which the land is spread!
And every window glows with happy life;
The house-tops are alive, and groan with pain—
The trees with joyful human souls are rife:
Tower, spire, and battlement, ring with the strife
Of clanging noises, that might wake the dead.
A monarch rescued from th' assassin's knife—
A mighty tyrant by his conqueror led—
Could scarce give half the joy, with which the land is spread!
228
But, lo! another sight salutes the eye!
Gerard—first star of English martyrdom!
Heavy he walks, and utters frequent sigh,
As if his dreams were of his native home.
It is not terror of his coming doom;
He feels not the rude chains that bind his feet:
His soul is on far waters, and the gloom
Of grief is with his wife and children sweet,
And the rejoicing Rhine, where boyhood sail'd its fleet.
Gerard—first star of English martyrdom!
Heavy he walks, and utters frequent sigh,
As if his dreams were of his native home.
It is not terror of his coming doom;
He feels not the rude chains that bind his feet:
His soul is on far waters, and the gloom
Of grief is with his wife and children sweet,
And the rejoicing Rhine, where boyhood sail'd its fleet.
What careth Gerard for the groan and shout,
The jeering laughter, and the riot loud?
What careth Gerard?—His high soul is out
O'er other lands, and cannot be subdued!
Life's fever soon will o'er.—His heart beats proud,
That heaven hath chosen one so poor as he!
And well he knows that, from the funeral shroud,
His spirit will break forth, all bright and free,
To join the glorious hosts that throng eternity!
The jeering laughter, and the riot loud?
What careth Gerard?—His high soul is out
O'er other lands, and cannot be subdued!
Life's fever soon will o'er.—His heart beats proud,
That heaven hath chosen one so poor as he!
And well he knows that, from the funeral shroud,
His spirit will break forth, all bright and free,
To join the glorious hosts that throng eternity!
The fires all scorch his limbs, and burn his hair,
And make his eyeballs red: yet is he strong,
Calm, and serene—without an earthly fear!
For well the martyr Gerard knows ere long
The fires shall fade; and saints and kings among—
Seraphs and blessed martyrs—he shall dwell;
That his shriv'd soul shall join th' angelic throng,
To hear the lofty harmonies that swell
All o'er the vaulted heavens, and through the caves of hell!
And make his eyeballs red: yet is he strong,
Calm, and serene—without an earthly fear!
For well the martyr Gerard knows ere long
The fires shall fade; and saints and kings among—
Seraphs and blessed martyrs—he shall dwell;
That his shriv'd soul shall join th' angelic throng,
To hear the lofty harmonies that swell
All o'er the vaulted heavens, and through the caves of hell!
229
“I see!—I see!—my Saviour at my side—
“My blessed Lord hath risen from the dead:
“A thousand angels all around me glide,
“With crowns and garlands each around his head!”
Even whilst he spake, the fiery billows spread;
His sainted soul hath left its earthly clay;
The fires of martyrdom his funeral bed:
Oh, not Elijah, borne to heaven away,
Was holier than this martyr's blessed clay!
“My blessed Lord hath risen from the dead:
“A thousand angels all around me glide,
“With crowns and garlands each around his head!”
Even whilst he spake, the fiery billows spread;
His sainted soul hath left its earthly clay;
The fires of martyrdom his funeral bed:
Oh, not Elijah, borne to heaven away,
Was holier than this martyr's blessed clay!
And, like fierce demons, stood the rabble round—
The blood-stain'd fires lighting each savage face:
They shout, with fiendish glee, the horrid sound
Of triumph. On that desecrated place
The grass and flowers have never left their trace.
Thus, Gerard, first of English martyrs died;
And time and rude decay do now deface,
In retribution, arch and cloisters wide—
Tombs, altars, carvings—all, of Rome, and Popish pride!
The blood-stain'd fires lighting each savage face:
They shout, with fiendish glee, the horrid sound
Of triumph. On that desecrated place
The grass and flowers have never left their trace.
Thus, Gerard, first of English martyrs died;
And time and rude decay do now deface,
In retribution, arch and cloisters wide—
Tombs, altars, carvings—all, of Rome, and Popish pride!
The long grass moans, where Nuns and Monks have pray'd;
The ivy lingers on each abbey wall—
The lofty pillars in the mire are laid,
That echo'd once to pious footsteps' fall—
The winter tempest through those arches call,
Once quaintly carv'd in lines of finest art:
Grey time hath fixed his throne: his banners roll
Aloft on tower and pinnacle, in sport;
And desolation's grasp is fix'd on every part!
The ivy lingers on each abbey wall—
The lofty pillars in the mire are laid,
That echo'd once to pious footsteps' fall—
The winter tempest through those arches call,
Once quaintly carv'd in lines of finest art:
Grey time hath fixed his throne: his banners roll
Aloft on tower and pinnacle, in sport;
And desolation's grasp is fix'd on every part!
230
Great God! how have thy laws been trampled down!
How have men scorn'd, despis'd, thine only Son!
He, meekly, purely liv'd, and all did own
His truth and virtues! They have trampled on
His precepts, and his deeds of love undone.
Yea, Mammon came, where meekness did abide,
And stately abbeys mock'd the morning sun;
And Christ, who, on the cross, for sinners died,
Had servants hunting gold, who liv'd in pomp and pride!
How have men scorn'd, despis'd, thine only Son!
He, meekly, purely liv'd, and all did own
His truth and virtues! They have trampled on
His precepts, and his deeds of love undone.
Yea, Mammon came, where meekness did abide,
And stately abbeys mock'd the morning sun;
And Christ, who, on the cross, for sinners died,
Had servants hunting gold, who liv'd in pomp and pride!
Who made the God of heaven a savage king,
Tyrannic—one, who loves the scent of blood;
Servants, who worshipp'd Cain, nor fear'd to ring
Once more the heart of Abel, meek and good!
How long shall fear, and black intolerance brood
Around religion's altars?—Say, how long
Shall truth, God-sanctified, in lustful mood
Of slaves and despots, bear this weight of wrong,
That, in its own pure beams, is so serene and strong?
Tyrannic—one, who loves the scent of blood;
Servants, who worshipp'd Cain, nor fear'd to ring
Once more the heart of Abel, meek and good!
How long shall fear, and black intolerance brood
Around religion's altars?—Say, how long
Shall truth, God-sanctified, in lustful mood
Of slaves and despots, bear this weight of wrong,
That, in its own pure beams, is so serene and strong?
They rear'd high palaces, and dwelt in state—
Sceptred and ermin'd, with meek slaves around:
They, tiger-like, in dens, for gold laid wait:
They spread their nets the whole great world around,
And kings and emperors were captives bound:
Jesus forgot—truth trampled—tyranny,
With fire and sword upheld; they did surround
The earth, with chains of wrong and cruelty,
And with fall'n angels leagued, once more heaven's wars to try!
Sceptred and ermin'd, with meek slaves around:
They, tiger-like, in dens, for gold laid wait:
They spread their nets the whole great world around,
And kings and emperors were captives bound:
Jesus forgot—truth trampled—tyranny,
With fire and sword upheld; they did surround
The earth, with chains of wrong and cruelty,
And with fall'n angels leagued, once more heaven's wars to try!
231
The slaves of lust and gold, they did uprear
Unhallow'd standards erst by devils borne!
They laid the seeds of ignorance and fear,
And horrid superstition then was born!
Fair truth they strangled in its brightest morn;
They turn'd God's blessed language into lies.
From out religion's breast the heart was torn;
And, in their drunken sloth and luxuries,
Forgot their murder'd Lord—his woes and agonies!
Unhallow'd standards erst by devils borne!
They laid the seeds of ignorance and fear,
And horrid superstition then was born!
Fair truth they strangled in its brightest morn;
They turn'd God's blessed language into lies.
From out religion's breast the heart was torn;
And, in their drunken sloth and luxuries,
Forgot their murder'd Lord—his woes and agonies!
That, with the wealth of all the earth, they spread
Brute ignorance—that o'er our monarch's throne,
And Europe's thrones, proud Rome uprear'd its head—
That each of their huge abbeys, stone by stone,
Was wrench'd tyrannic, amid tear and groan—
That they held back fair Freedom on her way,
And bound in caves its brave defenders down—
Is nought. They Cranmer, Latimer, did slay;
And round their blood-fed fires, like fiends of hell did pray.
Brute ignorance—that o'er our monarch's throne,
And Europe's thrones, proud Rome uprear'd its head—
That each of their huge abbeys, stone by stone,
Was wrench'd tyrannic, amid tear and groan—
That they held back fair Freedom on her way,
And bound in caves its brave defenders down—
Is nought. They Cranmer, Latimer, did slay;
And round their blood-fed fires, like fiends of hell did pray.
That they were cruel, false, imperious,
Tyrannic, murderous, presumptuous, proud;
That all wild passions flourish'd in God's house
Is nought: speak out, ye, who, as martyrs, bow'd
To die!—Speak loudly each from out your shroud—
Ye, who in horrid fires, were burnt to death,
And murder'd on your knees—O, speak aloud!
Or in the valleys slain, or on the heath
Hunted—still seeking God, even with your dying breath!
Tyrannic, murderous, presumptuous, proud;
That all wild passions flourish'd in God's house
Is nought: speak out, ye, who, as martyrs, bow'd
To die!—Speak loudly each from out your shroud—
Ye, who in horrid fires, were burnt to death,
And murder'd on your knees—O, speak aloud!
Or in the valleys slain, or on the heath
Hunted—still seeking God, even with your dying breath!
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Speak, Valais, where the groans of dying men
Join'd with the eagle's scream—where human gore
Fatten'd the moss and flowers of hill and glen!
Speak, blood-stain'd France; speak, let us hear thy roar!—
Myriads of murder'd ghosts do haunt thy shore,
Who all shall curse thee at the judgment day!
Speak, Spain, and let us view each dungeon-floor,
Where Torture's hell-hounds kept their fiendish play,
And priests, from blood and groans, went forth to sing and pray!
Join'd with the eagle's scream—where human gore
Fatten'd the moss and flowers of hill and glen!
Speak, blood-stain'd France; speak, let us hear thy roar!—
Myriads of murder'd ghosts do haunt thy shore,
Who all shall curse thee at the judgment day!
Speak, Spain, and let us view each dungeon-floor,
Where Torture's hell-hounds kept their fiendish play,
And priests, from blood and groans, went forth to sing and pray!
'Tis o'er!—'tis o'er!—those horrid things are gone—
And England gladdens in a purer light:
Sweetly at eve, o'er spire and minster, run
The western hues, and o'er their bowers bright;
And sweetly do the chiming bells delight:
There sleep our kindred in their solemn shade;
We heard, from babes, the organ roll in might—
Heard the same voice that o'er our dead hath pray'd,
To speak, perchance, the same, when we in dust are laid.
And England gladdens in a purer light:
Sweetly at eve, o'er spire and minster, run
The western hues, and o'er their bowers bright;
And sweetly do the chiming bells delight:
There sleep our kindred in their solemn shade;
We heard, from babes, the organ roll in might—
Heard the same voice that o'er our dead hath pray'd,
To speak, perchance, the same, when we in dust are laid.
O, beautiful, do our cathedrals stand,
Time's solemn hues upon their sacred head!
They seem the pillars of a falling land,
The links that bind the living with the dead.
We look upon the past; what thoughts are spread
O'er the fair page; what lofty hearts been here!
Beneath our feet what glorious names are laid!
How fills the breast with deep religious fear,
As by the illustrious dead our footsteps wander near!
Time's solemn hues upon their sacred head!
They seem the pillars of a falling land,
The links that bind the living with the dead.
We look upon the past; what thoughts are spread
O'er the fair page; what lofty hearts been here!
Beneath our feet what glorious names are laid!
How fills the breast with deep religious fear,
As by the illustrious dead our footsteps wander near!
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Bred in the noblest schools of all the earth,
Our clergy are refined, high-soul'd, and pure;
Virtuous and learned, full of truth and worth,
Of all that makes the soul immortal sure:
With such a clergy, shall the church endure:
Endure, when stately mausoleums fall,
Pillar and marble, pyramid and tower—
The rock of ages its foundation wall,
Through martyrs' sacred blood, strong and majestical.
Our clergy are refined, high-soul'd, and pure;
Virtuous and learned, full of truth and worth,
Of all that makes the soul immortal sure:
With such a clergy, shall the church endure:
Endure, when stately mausoleums fall,
Pillar and marble, pyramid and tower—
The rock of ages its foundation wall,
Through martyrs' sacred blood, strong and majestical.
Back, then, ye cowards—who upon the grave
Of all your kings would tramp, and at the side
Of God's own shrines would slay the good and brave,
Though your dead kindred frown!—back, hungry tide,
Defilers of the altars, to divide
The gold and silver dedicate to God!
Fear, lest heaven's thunders slay you in your pride—
The mountains fall at high Jehovah's nod—
The graves give up the dead where sacrilege hath trod!
Of all your kings would tramp, and at the side
Of God's own shrines would slay the good and brave,
Though your dead kindred frown!—back, hungry tide,
Defilers of the altars, to divide
The gold and silver dedicate to God!
Fear, lest heaven's thunders slay you in your pride—
The mountains fall at high Jehovah's nod—
The graves give up the dead where sacrilege hath trod!
Woful the day, when Oxford tumbles low
Beneath the Atheist's foot: a horrid morn
Will follow when the church hath veil'd her brow:
When of her gorgeous apparel shorn—
The bay from off her stately forehead torn,
The school where Cranmer, Taylor, Barrow, fed,
The house of God, 'neath savage feet is borne—
From that sad day, shall never rear its head
Proud England, lost, accurs'd, to slaves and cowards wed!
Beneath the Atheist's foot: a horrid morn
Will follow when the church hath veil'd her brow:
When of her gorgeous apparel shorn—
The bay from off her stately forehead torn,
The school where Cranmer, Taylor, Barrow, fed,
The house of God, 'neath savage feet is borne—
From that sad day, shall never rear its head
Proud England, lost, accurs'd, to slaves and cowards wed!
234
Woful that day, when the foul Atheist band
Shall tread our marble aisles, and on the height
Of God's own church, with foul and impious hand
Erect the sway of Antichrist and night,
Burn down our altars, and for murder fight;
Pour desecration on their fathers' tomb,
And, with red fingers, stain the sculptures white.
Farewell to piety—come, hellish gloom—
The time will not be far, of England's final doom!
Shall tread our marble aisles, and on the height
Of God's own church, with foul and impious hand
Erect the sway of Antichrist and night,
Burn down our altars, and for murder fight;
Pour desecration on their fathers' tomb,
And, with red fingers, stain the sculptures white.
Farewell to piety—come, hellish gloom—
The time will not be far, of England's final doom!
O, visions, swell my soul, of what thy name
Has been, proud English Church, and still shalt be!
Where Oxford's solemn groves accept the flame
Of evening, where Cam still wanders free:
As on a rock of marble, in the sea,
I view thee, where the storms and tempests roar,
And on thy brow is writ, Eternity:—
In highest heaven thy snow-white banners soar,
Where, when the earth is lost, thou'lt live for evermore!
Has been, proud English Church, and still shalt be!
Where Oxford's solemn groves accept the flame
Of evening, where Cam still wanders free:
As on a rock of marble, in the sea,
I view thee, where the storms and tempests roar,
And on thy brow is writ, Eternity:—
In highest heaven thy snow-white banners soar,
Where, when the earth is lost, thou'lt live for evermore!
The fires of martyrdom have purg'd thee quite,
Through groans, and blood, and suffering purified;
There is no stain upon thy garments white,
And truth and wisdom flourish at thy side:
Oh, white-hair'd priests—that for religion died—
Priests and philosophers—the sons of God,
Defend us—be your tongues heard far and wide:
The Atheist's foot is on your sacred sod—
The Atheist walks, where none but holiest feet have trod!
Through groans, and blood, and suffering purified;
There is no stain upon thy garments white,
And truth and wisdom flourish at thy side:
Oh, white-hair'd priests—that for religion died—
Priests and philosophers—the sons of God,
Defend us—be your tongues heard far and wide:
The Atheist's foot is on your sacred sod—
The Atheist walks, where none but holiest feet have trod!
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