Win from the Church a serpent-like embrace, And part insulted with her tardy grace!

In walks of state, in palaces of pride, She reigns the Omnipotent, the Glorified! And yet she will not rest her pinions here, Nor bound her empire to this lower sphere. Oh no! in sterner guise she speaks to men; Her dread dominion mocks at mortal ken; With victor tread she cleaves the dark unknown, And sways and triumphs on a viewless throne; Her quencless torch is lit 'mid funeral gloom; Her iron sceptre rests upon the tomb; Sepulchral Night withdraws its veil for her, And Death attends, obsequious Minister, Waits but her word to strike the destined prey, His breath her life, his gain her victory! Ask the secret of her mystic sway you

?

Go read it graven on her sainted clay!

The pomp that blazes round her living head,

But speaks the glory of her mighty Dead.

Say, lacks she strength? the Dead who cannot die, The men who gave their brief mortality

To toil and sin, that she might bear the rod,

And vex the nations in the name of God,

Still love and watch, and labour in the grave,
And bare their shrunken arms to strike and save!
She calls her summons rends the hovering cloud,
Warms the dull ashes, stirs the crumbling shroud!
Earth yields her captives, Death foregoes his boast!
They start to life a grim, resistless host!

Their chainless spirits walk the trembling world,
March with the sign of war and woe unfurled,
Breathe in each frailer child of dust and death
Impatient zeal and blind, adoring faith,

Hurl their collected terrors on the foes

Who spurn the yoke the Church would fain impose, With arms that flee the hand and mock the eye, Spoil the vain show of earthly potency,

From Court and Camp reluctant homage wring,

Disarm the Warrior and uncrown the King!

Is this Poetic Truth? Does Fancy fly
Presumptuous o'er the realms of History
No! let her solemn voice pursue the strain,
Recal the murdered priest, the crimsoned fane, (18)
The spot where oft he prayed, where last he stood,
The altar hallowed by his costly blood,

The form that rots, the fame that ripens there,
The immortal dust, the imperial sepulchre !
Behold! a crownless monarch bows his head,(1)
And bends his knee before the mighty dead;
Oh! could the gazing multitudes forget
That trembling wretch was once Plantagenet!

The Lord of many realms! the Man of might!
Fortune's spoiled child! Love's foremost favourite!
The subtle Statesman! the heroic Chief!
How tamed by fear, how stupified by grief!
No struggling hope, no stern resolve is there,
Nor majesty in woe, nor grandeur in despair!
Fast by the tomb he waits the sable throng,
Charged to exact due vengeance for the wrong;

In stern impatience to fulfil their trust,
They give the word; he grovels in the dust!
A dreadful pause.-and lo! the lash descends!
No single stroke that lordly body rends;

The bloody scourge is passed from hand to hand!
The glorious vengeance circles round the band!
Strange chance! the Saxon strikes, the Norman bleeds,
The wrong is well avenged, the righteous penance
speeds!

And see him now, the meet submission made,
Beg peace and pardon of the awful shade,

Adore the dust of him he loathed and feared,
And kiss the tomb his quenchless hate had reared,
Pass the lone night on solemn watch intent,
And bless the hands that dealt his chastisement!

Tremendous Shade! O say, did Heaven allow,

No prophet-fire within thy soul to glow?
No raptured trance thy lofty lot unfold?
The needy fugitive enshrined in gold!

F

The outcast welcomed to his glorious rest!

The traitor sanctified among the blest!

Thy name a fiery bolt, a vengeful rod!

Thy sepulchre the temple of a God,

Where Faith has kindled, trembling Guilt adored,
And fondly deemed its forfeit heaven restored!

Where Pain has wept, and sought celestial balm,
And kneeling Grief enjoyed a fancied calm!
Where royal gifts have veiled each dark offence,
Ensured the pardon, sealed the penitence,
And humbler Woe preferred a meek complaint
In fond reliance on the pitying saint.

The throned Oppressor worships at thy grave,
Reveres thee stern to whelm, and strong to save,
Falls o'er thy tomb a wretch whom worlds abhor,
And lifts his head, a king! a conqueror!*

* At this time Henry was at war with his son, his barons, and the king of France, abhorred by his subjects, forsaken by his friends. At the news of his humiliation all England rose in his favour, and gave him a complete victory over his enemies. It was reported that on the day of penance, William king of Scotland was taken prisoner by his lieutenant in Northumberland.