 | The Anniversaries |  |
57
April 25.
CROMWELL.
England! count the monarchs over
Whom thou mayst delight to sing;
Grateful greet each crownëd lover,
Triumph in each glorious king!
On thine Alfred without measure
Lavish thy melodious breath;
Take no trembling, stinted pleasure
In thy great Elizabeth!
Yet another strain thou owest
To the glory of thy throne;
Yet another king thou knowest—
Is not Oliver thine own?
Lo! a lover strong and tender
Wielded well his England's sword;
On her seat of sovereign splendour
Knelt a Seeker of the Lord.
How the little isle dilated
To the measure of his might!
How upon his England waited
Reverent fear and glory bright!
Yet for more than England's honour
Gleamed her sword and towered her shield;
Of the Cause she bore the banner;
For the Truth she took the field.
Heavenward looked her valiant seamen,
Solemn marched her saintly host:
Christ's own crowned, anointed freemen,
Warriors of the Holy Ghost!
Glowed this northern isle all golden
Like that holy Orient clime:
Not more bright those ages olden
Than these latter days sublime!
From the splendour sudden streaming
Dazzled Antichrist drew back;
'Neath her sword divinely gleaming
Smitten Spain grew faint and slack.
Whom thou mayst delight to sing;
Grateful greet each crownëd lover,
Triumph in each glorious king!
On thine Alfred without measure
Lavish thy melodious breath;
Take no trembling, stinted pleasure
In thy great Elizabeth!
Yet another strain thou owest
To the glory of thy throne;
Yet another king thou knowest—
Is not Oliver thine own?
58
Wielded well his England's sword;
On her seat of sovereign splendour
Knelt a Seeker of the Lord.
How the little isle dilated
To the measure of his might!
How upon his England waited
Reverent fear and glory bright!
Yet for more than England's honour
Gleamed her sword and towered her shield;
Of the Cause she bore the banner;
For the Truth she took the field.
Heavenward looked her valiant seamen,
Solemn marched her saintly host:
Christ's own crowned, anointed freemen,
Warriors of the Holy Ghost!
Glowed this northern isle all golden
Like that holy Orient clime:
Not more bright those ages olden
Than these latter days sublime!
59
Dazzled Antichrist drew back;
'Neath her sword divinely gleaming
Smitten Spain grew faint and slack.
Princedoms, thrones, and dominations
Bowed before the imperial Isle;
Stricken souls and mourning nations
Blessed the Lord-Protector's smile.
Wide the impression of her glory
On her fainting foes he smote,
And the sweetness of her story
In far-shining letters wrote.
Mark those noble tears that streamëd,
When the Alpine shepherds died!
How his voice like thunder seemëd,
When his stricken brethren cried!
Soon those eyes were nobly tearless;
Like a host went forth his word:
In their vales, at peace and fearless
Dwelt the people of the Lord.
Thankless England! wast thou sorry
For the height he made thee climb?
Wouldst thou cast away the glory
Of those solemn days sublime?
From Thy mighty-hearted lover,
Ingrate, wouldst Thou vainly turn?
All his trophies wouldst thou cover,
All his mighty deeds unlearn?
Will thy marble halls refuse him?
Doth thy Statute-Book reject?
From thy heart thou canst not lose him,
There his throne still stands erect.
When thy shrunken plight thou mournest,
When thy glory burneth dim,
For thine Oliver thou yearnest,
Then thy heart returns to him.
In thy startled ear there ringeth
Trumpet-voiced his awful name;
Back his mighty memory bringeth
To thy soul the undying flame.
With his solemn voice thou speakest,
With his strength thine arm doth stir—
Yes, where'er thou nobly seekest,
Leadeth still thine Oliver!
Bowed before the imperial Isle;
Stricken souls and mourning nations
Blessed the Lord-Protector's smile.
Wide the impression of her glory
On her fainting foes he smote,
And the sweetness of her story
In far-shining letters wrote.
Mark those noble tears that streamëd,
When the Alpine shepherds died!
How his voice like thunder seemëd,
When his stricken brethren cried!
Soon those eyes were nobly tearless;
Like a host went forth his word:
In their vales, at peace and fearless
Dwelt the people of the Lord.
60
For the height he made thee climb?
Wouldst thou cast away the glory
Of those solemn days sublime?
From Thy mighty-hearted lover,
Ingrate, wouldst Thou vainly turn?
All his trophies wouldst thou cover,
All his mighty deeds unlearn?
Will thy marble halls refuse him?
Doth thy Statute-Book reject?
From thy heart thou canst not lose him,
There his throne still stands erect.
When thy shrunken plight thou mournest,
When thy glory burneth dim,
For thine Oliver thou yearnest,
Then thy heart returns to him.
In thy startled ear there ringeth
Trumpet-voiced his awful name;
Back his mighty memory bringeth
To thy soul the undying flame.
61
With his strength thine arm doth stir—
Yes, where'er thou nobly seekest,
Leadeth still thine Oliver!
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