Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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| CONTRASTED SONNETS. |
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
398
CONTRASTED SONNETS.
402
Light.
A glorious vision: as I walk'd at noonThe children of the sun came thronging round me,
In shining robes and diamond-studded shoon;
And they did wing me up with them, and soon
In a bright dome of wondrous width I found me,
Set all with beautiful eyes, whose wizard rays,
Shed on my soul, in strong enchantment bound me;
And so I look'd and look'd with dazzled gaze,
Until my spirit drank in so much light
That I grew like the sons of that glad place,
Transparent, lovely, pure, serene, and bright:
Then did they call me brother; and there grew
Swift from my sides broad pinions gold and white,
And with that happy flock a brilliant thing I flew!
Darkness.
A terrible dream: I lay at dead of nightTortured by some vague fear; it seem'd at first
Like a small ink-spot on the ceiling white,
To a black bubble swelling in my sight,
And then it grew to a balloon and burst;
Then I was drown'd, as with an ebon stream,
And those dark waves quench'd all mine inward light,
That in my saturated mind no gleam
Remain'd of beauty, peace, or love, or right:
I was a spirit of darkness!—yet I knew
I could not thus be left; it was but a dream;
Still felt I full of horror; for a crew
Of shadowy its hemm'd in my harried mind,
And all my dread was waking mad and blind.
404
Ellen Gray.
The Excuse of an Unfortunate.
A starless night, and bitter cold;
The low dun clouds all wildly roll'd,
Scudding before the blast,
And cheerlessly the frozen sleet
Adown the melancholy street
Swept onward thick and fast;
The low dun clouds all wildly roll'd,
Scudding before the blast,
And cheerlessly the frozen sleet
Adown the melancholy street
Swept onward thick and fast;
When crouched at an unfriendly door,
Faint, sick, and miserably poor,
A silent woman sate,
She might be young, and had been fair,
But from her eye look'd out despair,
All dim and desolate.
Faint, sick, and miserably poor,
A silent woman sate,
She might be young, and had been fair,
But from her eye look'd out despair,
All dim and desolate.
Was I to pass her coldly by,
Leaving her there to pine and die,
The live-long freezing night?
The secret answer of my heart
Told me I had not done my part
In flinging her a mite;
Leaving her there to pine and die,
The live-long freezing night?
The secret answer of my heart
Told me I had not done my part
In flinging her a mite;
She look'd her thanks,—then droop'd her head;
“Have you no friend, no home?” I said:
“Get up, poor creature, come,—
You seem unhappy, faint, and weak,
How can I serve or save you,—speak,
Or whither help you home?”
“Have you no friend, no home?” I said:
“Get up, poor creature, come,—
You seem unhappy, faint, and weak,
How can I serve or save you,—speak,
Or whither help you home?”
414
“Alas, kind sir, poor Ellen Gray
Has had no friend this many a day,
And, but that you seem kind,—
She has not found the face of late
That look'd on her in aught but hate,
And still despairs to find:
Has had no friend this many a day,
And, but that you seem kind,—
She has not found the face of late
That look'd on her in aught but hate,
And still despairs to find:
And for a home,—would I had none!
The home I have, a wicked one,
They will not let me in,
Till I can fee my jailor's hands
With the vile tribute she demands,
The wages of my sin:
The home I have, a wicked one,
They will not let me in,
Till I can fee my jailor's hands
With the vile tribute she demands,
The wages of my sin:
I see your goodness on me frown;
Yet hear the veriest wretch on town,
While yet in life she may,
Tell the sad story of her grief,—
Though heaven alone can bring relief
To guilty Ellen Gray.
Yet hear the veriest wretch on town,
While yet in life she may,
Tell the sad story of her grief,—
Though heaven alone can bring relief
To guilty Ellen Gray.
My mother died when I was born:
And I was flung, a babe forlorn,
Upon the workhouse floor;
My father,—would I knew him not!
A squalid thief, a reckless sot,
—I dare not tell you more.
And I was flung, a babe forlorn,
Upon the workhouse floor;
My father,—would I knew him not!
A squalid thief, a reckless sot,
—I dare not tell you more.
And I was bound an infant-slave,
With no one near to love, or save
From cruel sordid men,
A friendless, famish'd, factory child,
Morn, noon, and night I toil'd and toil'd,—
Yet was I happy then.
With no one near to love, or save
From cruel sordid men,
A friendless, famish'd, factory child,
Morn, noon, and night I toil'd and toil'd,—
Yet was I happy then.
415
My heart was pure, my face was fair;
Ah, would to God a cancer there
Had eaten out its way!
For soon my tasker, dreaded man,
With treacherous wiles and arts began
To mark me for his prey.
Ah, would to God a cancer there
Had eaten out its way!
For soon my tasker, dreaded man,
With treacherous wiles and arts began
To mark me for his prey.
And week by week he vainly strove
To light the flame of lawless love
In my most loathing breast;
Oh, how I fear'd and hated him,
So basely kind, so smoothly grim,
My terror, and my pest!
To light the flame of lawless love
In my most loathing breast;
Oh, how I fear'd and hated him,
So basely kind, so smoothly grim,
My terror, and my pest!
Till one day, at that prison-mill,—
Thenceforward droop'd my stricken head;
I lived,—I died, a life of dread,
Lest they should guess my shame;
But weeks and months would pass away,
And all too soon the bitter day
Of wrath and ruin came;
Thenceforward droop'd my stricken head;
I lived,—I died, a life of dread,
Lest they should guess my shame;
But weeks and months would pass away,
And all too soon the bitter day
Of wrath and ruin came;
I could not hide my alter'd form:
Then on my head the fearful storm
Of jibe and insult burst:
Men only mock'd me for my fate,
But women's scorn and women's hate
Me, their poor sister, curst.
Then on my head the fearful storm
Of jibe and insult burst:
Men only mock'd me for my fate,
But women's scorn and women's hate
Me, their poor sister, curst.
O woman, had thy kindless face
But gentler look'd on my disgrace,
And heal'd the wounds it gave!—
I was a drowning sinking wretch,
Whom no one loved enough to stretch
A finger out to save.
But gentler look'd on my disgrace,
And heal'd the wounds it gave!—
I was a drowning sinking wretch,
Whom no one loved enough to stretch
A finger out to save.
416
They tore my baby from my heart,
And lock'd it in some hole apart
Where I could hear its cry,
Such was the horrid poor-house law;—
Its little throes I never saw,
Although I heard it die!
And lock'd it in some hole apart
Where I could hear its cry,
Such was the horrid poor-house law;—
Its little throes I never saw,
Although I heard it die!
Still the stone hearts that ruled the place
Let me not kiss my darling's face,
My little darling dead;
Oh! I was mad with rage and hate,
And yet all sullenly I sate,
And not a word I said.
Let me not kiss my darling's face,
My little darling dead;
Oh! I was mad with rage and hate,
And yet all sullenly I sate,
And not a word I said.
I would not stay, I could not bear
To breathe the same infected air
That kill'd my precious child;
I watch'd my time, and fled away
The livelong night, the livelong day,
With fear and anguish wild:
To breathe the same infected air
That kill'd my precious child;
I watch'd my time, and fled away
The livelong night, the livelong day,
With fear and anguish wild:
Till down upon a river's bank,
Twenty leagues off, fainting, I sank,
And only long'd to die;
I had no hope, no home, no friend,
No God!—I sought but for an end
To life and misery.
Twenty leagues off, fainting, I sank,
And only long'd to die;
I had no hope, no home, no friend,
No God!—I sought but for an end
To life and misery.
Ah, lightly heed the righteous few,
How little to themselves is due,
But all things given to them;
Yet the unwise, because untaught,
The wandering sheep, because unsought,
They heartlessly condemn:
How little to themselves is due,
But all things given to them;
Yet the unwise, because untaught,
The wandering sheep, because unsought,
They heartlessly condemn:
417
And little can the untempted dream,
While gliding smoothly down life's stream
They keep the letter-laws,
What they would be, if, tost like me
Hopeless upon life's barren sea,
They knew how hunger gnaws.
While gliding smoothly down life's stream
They keep the letter-laws,
What they would be, if, tost like me
Hopeless upon life's barren sea,
They knew how hunger gnaws.
I was half-starved, I tried in vain
To get me work my bread to gain;
Before me flew my shame;
Cold Charity put up her purse,
And none look'd on me but to curse
The daughter of ill-fame.
To get me work my bread to gain;
Before me flew my shame;
Cold Charity put up her purse,
And none look'd on me but to curse
The daughter of ill-fame.
Alas, why need I count by links
The heavy lengthening chain that sinks
My heart, my soul, my all?
I still was fair, though hope was dead,
And so I sold myself for bread,
And lived upon my fall:
The heavy lengthening chain that sinks
My heart, my soul, my all?
I still was fair, though hope was dead,
And so I sold myself for bread,
And lived upon my fall:
Now was I reckless, bold and bad,
My love was hate,—I grew half-mad
With thinking on my wrongs;
Disease, and pain, and giant-sin
Rent body and soul, and raged within!
Such meed to guilt belongs.
My love was hate,—I grew half-mad
With thinking on my wrongs;
Disease, and pain, and giant-sin
Rent body and soul, and raged within!
Such meed to guilt belongs.
And what I was,—such still am I;
Afraid to live, unfit to die,—
And yet I hoped I might
Meet my best friend and lover—Death
In the fierce frowns and frozen breath
Of this December night.
Afraid to live, unfit to die,—
And yet I hoped I might
Meet my best friend and lover—Death
In the fierce frowns and frozen breath
Of this December night.
418
My tale is told: my heart grows cold;
I cannot stir,—yet,—kind good sir,
I know that you will stay,—
And God is kinder e'en than you,—
Can He not look with pity too
On wretched Ellen Gray?”
I cannot stir,—yet,—kind good sir,
I know that you will stay,—
And God is kinder e'en than you,—
Can He not look with pity too
On wretched Ellen Gray?”
Her eye was fix'd; she said no more,
But propp'd against the cold street-door
She lean'd her fainting head;
One moment she look'd up and smiled
Full of new hope, as Mercy's child,
—And Ellen Gray was dead.
But propp'd against the cold street-door
She lean'd her fainting head;
One moment she look'd up and smiled
Full of new hope, as Mercy's child,
—And Ellen Gray was dead.
Charity.
Fair Charity, thou rarest, best, and brightest!
Who would not gladly hide thee in his heart,
With all thine angel-guests? for thou delightest
To bring such with thee,—guests that ne'er depart;
Cherub, with what enticement thou invitest,
Perfect in winning beauty as thou art,
World-wearied man to plant thee in his bosom
And graft upon his cares thy balmy blossom.
Who would not gladly hide thee in his heart,
With all thine angel-guests? for thou delightest
To bring such with thee,—guests that ne'er depart;
Cherub, with what enticement thou invitest,
Perfect in winning beauty as thou art,
World-wearied man to plant thee in his bosom
And graft upon his cares thy balmy blossom.
Fain would he be frank-hearted, generous, cheerful,
Forgiving, aiding, loving, trusting all,—
But knowledge of his kind has made him fearful,
All are not friends, whom friends he longs to call;
For prudence makes men cold, and misery tearful,
And interest bids them rise upon his fall,
And while they seek their selfish own to cherish,
They leave the wounded stag alone to perish.
Forgiving, aiding, loving, trusting all,—
But knowledge of his kind has made him fearful,
All are not friends, whom friends he longs to call;
419
And interest bids them rise upon his fall,
And while they seek their selfish own to cherish,
They leave the wounded stag alone to perish.
Man may rejoice that thy sweet influence hallows
His intercourse with all he loves—in heaven:
But canst thou make him love his sordid fellows,
And mix with them untainted by their leaven?
How can he not grow cautious, cold, and callous,
When he forgives to seventy-times seven,
And still-repeated wrongs, unwept for, harden
The heart that's never sued nor sought to pardon?
His intercourse with all he loves—in heaven:
But canst thou make him love his sordid fellows,
And mix with them untainted by their leaven?
How can he not grow cautious, cold, and callous,
When he forgives to seventy-times seven,
And still-repeated wrongs, unwept for, harden
The heart that's never sued nor sought to pardon?
Reserve's cold breath has chill'd each warmer feeling,
Ingratitude has frozen up his blood,
Unjust neglect has pierced him, past all healing,
And scarr'd a heart that panted to do good;
Slowly, but surely, has distrust been steeling
His mind, much wronged, and little understood:
Would charity unseal affection's fountain?
Alas! 'tis crush'd beneath a marble mountain.
Ingratitude has frozen up his blood,
Unjust neglect has pierced him, past all healing,
And scarr'd a heart that panted to do good;
Slowly, but surely, has distrust been steeling
His mind, much wronged, and little understood:
Would charity unseal affection's fountain?
Alas! 'tis crush'd beneath a marble mountain.
Yet the belief that he was loved by other
Could root and hurl that mountain in the sea,
Oblivion's depth the height of ill would smother,
And all forgiven, all forgotten be;
Man then could love his once injurious brother
With such a love as none can give but he;
The sun of love, and that alone has power
To bring to bright perfection love's sweet flower.
Could root and hurl that mountain in the sea,
Oblivion's depth the height of ill would smother,
And all forgiven, all forgotten be;
Man then could love his once injurious brother
With such a love as none can give but he;
The sun of love, and that alone has power
To bring to bright perfection love's sweet flower.
420
Soft rains, and zephyrs, and warm noons can vanquish
The stubborn tyranny of winter's frost;
Once more the smiling valleys cease to languish,
Drest out in fresher beauties than they lost:
So springs with gladness from its bed of anguish
The heart that loved not, when reviled and crost,
But, once beloved,—oh then not once but often
Love's sunny smile the rockiest heart will soften.
The stubborn tyranny of winter's frost;
Once more the smiling valleys cease to languish,
Drest out in fresher beauties than they lost:
So springs with gladness from its bed of anguish
The heart that loved not, when reviled and crost,
But, once beloved,—oh then not once but often
Love's sunny smile the rockiest heart will soften.
To my Book, “Prouerbial Philosophy,”
Before Publication; 1837.
My soul's own son, dear image of my mind,I would not without blessing send thee forth
Into the bleak wide world, whose voice unkind
Perchance will mock at thee as nothing worth;
For the cold critic's jealous eye may find
In all thy purposed good little but ill,
May taunt thy simple garb as quaintly wrought,
And praise thee for no more than the small skill
Of masking as thine own another's thought:
What then?—count envious sneers as less than nought:
Fair is thine aim, and, having done thy best,
Lo, thus I bless thee; yea, thou shalt be blest!
421
To the same,
AFTER PUBLICATION.
That they have praised thee well, and cheer'd thee onWith kinder tones than critics deign to few,
Child of my thoughts, my fancy's favourite son,
Our courteous thanks, our heartfelt thanks are due.
Despise not thou thine equal's honest praise;
Yet feast not of such dainties; thou shalt rue
Their sweetness else; let rather generous pride
Those golden apples straightly spurn aside,
And gird thee all unshackled to the race:
On to the goal of honour, fair beginner,
A thousand ducats thou shalt yet be winner!
To the same,
ON THE PUBLICATION OF THE SECOND EDITION.
Yet once again, not after many daysSince first I dared this voyage in the dark,
Borne on the prosperous gale of good men's praise
To the wide waters I commit mine ark,
And bid God speed thy venture, gallant bark!
For I have launch'd thee on a thousand prayers,
Freighted thee well with all my mind and heart,—
And if some contraband error unawares
Like Achan's wedge, lie hid in any part,
Stand it condemn'd, as it most justly ought:
Yet be the thinker spared, if not his thought;
For he that with a honest purpose errs
Merits more kind excuse than the shrewd world confers.
422
Wedding Gifts.
FOR MUSIC.
Young bride,—a wreath for thee!
Of sweet and gentle flowers;
For wedded love was pure and free
In Eden's happy bowers.
Of sweet and gentle flowers;
For wedded love was pure and free
In Eden's happy bowers.
Young bride,—a song for thee!
A song of joyous measure,
For thy cup of hope shall be
Fill'd with honied pleasure.
A song of joyous measure,
For thy cup of hope shall be
Fill'd with honied pleasure.
Young bride,—a tear for thee!
A tear in all thy gladness;
For thy young heart shall not see
Joy unmix'd with sadness.
A tear in all thy gladness;
For thy young heart shall not see
Joy unmix'd with sadness.
Young bride,—a smile for thee!
To shine away thy sorrow,
For heaven is kind to-day, and we
Will hope as well to-morrow.
To shine away thy sorrow,
For heaven is kind to-day, and we
Will hope as well to-morrow.
Young bride,—a prayer for thee!
That, all thy hopes possessing,
Thy soul may praise her God, and He
May crown thee with His blessing.
That, all thy hopes possessing,
Thy soul may praise her God, and He
May crown thee with His blessing.
Children.
Harmless, happy little treasures,
Full of truth, and trust, and mirth,
Richest wealth, and purest pleasures
In this mean and guilty earth,
Full of truth, and trust, and mirth,
Richest wealth, and purest pleasures
In this mean and guilty earth,
423
How I love you, pretty creatures,
Lamb-like flock of little things,
Where the love that lights your features
From the heart in beauty springs:
Lamb-like flock of little things,
Where the love that lights your features
From the heart in beauty springs:
On these laughing rosy faces
There are no deep lines of sin,
None of passion's dreary traces
That betray the wounds within;
There are no deep lines of sin,
None of passion's dreary traces
That betray the wounds within;
But yours is the sunny dimple
Radiant with untutor'd smiles,
Yours the heart, sincere and simple,
Innocent of selfish wiles;
Radiant with untutor'd smiles,
Yours the heart, sincere and simple,
Innocent of selfish wiles;
Yours the natural curling tresses,
Prattling tongues, and shyness coy,
Tottering steps, and kind caresses,
Pure with health, and warm with joy.
Prattling tongues, and shyness coy,
Tottering steps, and kind caresses,
Pure with health, and warm with joy.
The dull slaves of gain, or passion
Cannot love you as they should,
The poor worldly fools of fashion
Would not love you if they could:
Cannot love you as they should,
The poor worldly fools of fashion
Would not love you if they could:
Write them childless, those cold-hearted,
Who can scorn Thy generous boon,
And whose souls with fear have smarted,
Lest—Thy blessings come too soon.
Who can scorn Thy generous boon,
And whose souls with fear have smarted,
Lest—Thy blessings come too soon.
While he hath a child to love him
No man can be poor indeed,
While he trusts a Friend above him,
None can sorrow, fear, or need.
No man can be poor indeed,
While he trusts a Friend above him,
None can sorrow, fear, or need.
424
But for thee, whose hearth is lonely
And unwarm'd by children's mirth,
Spite of riches, thou art only
Desolate and poor on earth:
And unwarm'd by children's mirth,
Spite of riches, thou art only
Desolate and poor on earth:
All unkiss'd by innocent beauty,
All unloved by guileless heart,
All uncheer'd by sweetest duty,
Childless one, how poor thou art!
All unloved by guileless heart,
All uncheer'd by sweetest duty,
Childless one, how poor thou art!
Reserve.
Thou dark and frozen fiend, Love's mortal bane,Lethargic poison of the moral sense,
Killing those high-soul'd children of the brain
Warm enterprise and noble confidence,
Fly from my threshold, traitor, get thee hence!
Without thee, we are open, cheerful, kind,
Mistrusting none but self, injurious self,
Of and to others wishing only good;
With thee, suspicions crowd the gloomy mind,
Suggesting all the world a viperous brood,
That acts a base bad part in hope of pelf:
Virtue stands shamed, Truth mute misunderstood,
Honour unhonour'd, Courage lacking nerve,
Beneath thy dull domestic curse, Reserve!
Home.
FRAGMENTS OF A POSSIBLE EPIC.
Home, happy word, dear England's ancient boast,Thou strongest castle on her sea-girt coast,
Thou full fair name for comfort, love, and rest,
Haven of refuge found and peace possest,
Oasis in the desert, star of light
Spangling the dreary dark of this world's night,
All-hallow'd spot of angel-trodden ground
Where Jacob's ladder plants its lowest round,
Imperial realm amid the slavish world,
Where Freedom's banner ever floats unfurl'd,
429
Her plague-struck body's little all of health,—
Home, gentle name, I woo thee to my song,
To thee my praise, to thee my prayers belong;
Inspire me with thy beauty, bid me teem
With gracious musings worthy of my theme!
Spirit of Love, the soul of Home thou art,
Fan with divinest thoughts my kindling heart;
Spirit of Power, in prayers thine aid I ask,
Uphold me, bless me to my holy task;
Spirit of Truth, guide thou my wayward wing:
Love, Power, and Truth, be with me while I sing.[OMITTED]
The Wife.
Behold, how fair of eye, and mild of mien,Walks forth of marriage yonder gentle queen:
What chaste sobriety whene'er she speaks,
What glad content sits smiling on her cheeks,
What plans of goodness in that bosom glow,
What prudent care is throned upon her brow,
What tender truth in all she does or says,
What pleasantness and peace in all her ways!
For ever blooming on that cheerful face
Home's best affections grow divine in grace;
Her eyes are ray'd with love, serene and bright;
Charity wreathes her lips with smiles of light;
Her kindly voice hath music in its notes;
And Heaven's own atmosphere around her floats![OMITTED]
430
Days gone by.
Though we charge to-day with fleetness,
Though we dread to-morrow's sky,
There's a melancholy sweetness
In the name of days gone by:
Though we dread to-morrow's sky,
There's a melancholy sweetness
In the name of days gone by:
Yes, though Time has laid his finger
On them, still with streaming eye
There are spots where I can linger
Sacred to the days gone by.
On them, still with streaming eye
There are spots where I can linger
Sacred to the days gone by.
Oft as memory's glance is ranging
Over scenes that cannot die,
Then I feel that all is changing,
Then I weep the days gone by:
Over scenes that cannot die,
Then I feel that all is changing,
Then I weep the days gone by:
Sorrowful should I be, and lonely,
Were not all the same as I,
'Tis for all, not my lot only,
To lament the days gone by.
Were not all the same as I,
'Tis for all, not my lot only,
To lament the days gone by.
Cease, fond heart,—to thee are given
Hopes of better things on high,
There is still a coming heaven
Better than the days gone by;
Hopes of better things on high,
There is still a coming heaven
Better than the days gone by;
434
Faith lifts off the sable curtain
Hiding huge eternity,
Hope accounts her prize as certain,
And forgets the days gone by;
Hiding huge eternity,
Hope accounts her prize as certain,
And forgets the days gone by;
Love, in grateful adoration
Bids distrust and sorrow fly,
And with glad anticipation
Calms regret for days gone by.
Bids distrust and sorrow fly,
And with glad anticipation
Calms regret for days gone by.
1830.
The Crisis.
Hush—O heaven! a moment more,
A breath, a step, and all is o'er;
Hark—beneath the waters wild,
Save, O mercy, save my child.
A breath, a step, and all is o'er;
Hark—beneath the waters wild,
Save, O mercy, save my child.
Swiftly from her heaving breast
The mother tore the snowy vest,—
Her little truant saw and smiled,
Turn'd,—and mercy saved the child.
The mother tore the snowy vest,—
Her little truant saw and smiled,
Turn'd,—and mercy saved the child.
Thus, the face of love can win
Where fear is weak to scare from sin;
Thus, when faith and conscience slept,
Jesus look'd,—and Peter wept.
Where fear is weak to scare from sin;
Thus, when faith and conscience slept,
Jesus look'd,—and Peter wept.
1829.
435
Lament.—1837.
Alas! poor Muse, thy songs are out of time;Thy lot hath fallen on an iron age,
When unrelenting war the sordid wage
Against thee,—counting it no venial crime
To fling down in thy cause the champion's gage,
And utterly scorning him, who dares to rhyme:
O that thy thoughts had fill'd an earlier page,
And won the favouring ears of holier men!
Whose spirits might with thee have soar'd sublime
Far above selfish Mammon's crowded den:
Thou hadst been more at home, and happier then:
Yet be thou of good courage; there are still
Those “left sev'n thousand,” whose affections will
Yearn on thy little good, and pardon thy much ill.
Down with Foreign Priestcraft.—1851.
Christian England! where so long
Freedom's trumpet, clear and strong,
Still has stirr'd the patriot song—
Down with foreign priestcraft!
England! Truth's own island-nest,
Pure Religion's happy rest,
Ever shall thy sons protest
Down with foreign priestcraft!
Freedom's trumpet, clear and strong,
Still has stirr'd the patriot song—
Down with foreign priestcraft!
England! Truth's own island-nest,
Pure Religion's happy rest,
Ever shall thy sons protest
Down with foreign priestcraft!
436
What! shall these Italian knaves
Dream again to make us slaves
From our cradles to our graves
With their foreign priestcraft?
Out on every false pretence!
Common right and common sense
Shout against such insolence
Down with foreign priestcraft!
Dream again to make us slaves
From our cradles to our graves
With their foreign priestcraft?
Out on every false pretence!
Common right and common sense
Shout against such insolence
Down with foreign priestcraft!
Aye,—insidious fawning foe,
Little as you thought it so,
England's wrath is all aglow,
Scorning foreign priestcraft—
Take our Jesuits, if you will,
England's heart rejects their ill,
And her mouth is thundering still,
Down with foreign priestcraft!
Little as you thought it so,
England's wrath is all aglow,
Scorning foreign priestcraft—
Take our Jesuits, if you will,
England's heart rejects their ill,
And her mouth is thundering still,
Down with foreign priestcraft!
Hark! in ancient warmth and worth,
East and west and south and north,
Flies the loyal spirit forth,
Loathing foreign priestcraft;
Evermore with Rome to cope,
We will bate nor heart nor hope,
But our shout shall stun the Pope,
Down with foreign priestcraft!
East and west and south and north,
Flies the loyal spirit forth,
Loathing foreign priestcraft;
Evermore with Rome to cope,
We will bate nor heart nor hope,
But our shout shall stun the Pope,
Down with foreign priestcraft!
| Ballads for the Times | |