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WOE to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey* !
Dissension, checking arms that would restrain
The incessant Rovers of the northern main,
Helps to restore and spread a Pagan sway:
But Gospel-truth is potent to allay
and soon the cruel Dane Feels, through the influence of her gentle reign, His native superstitions melt away. Thus, often, when thick gloom the east o'ershrouds, The full-orbed Moon, slow-climbing, doth appear Silently to consume the heavy clouds; How no one can resolve; but every eye Around her sees, while air is hushed, a clear And widening circuit of ethereal sky.
A PLEASANT music floats along the Mere,
From Monks in Ely chanting service high,
While-as Canùte the King is rowing by:
“My Oarsmen," quoth the mighty King, “ draw near,
“That we the sweet song of the Monks may hear!"
He listens (all past conquests, and all schemes
Of future, vanishing like empty dreams)
Heart-touched, and haply not without a tear.
The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still,
While his free Barge skims the smooth flood along,
Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme*
O suffering Earth! be thankful: sternest clime
And rudest age are subject to the thrill
Of heaven-descended Piety and Song.
THE woman-hearted Confessor
prepares The evanescence of the Saxon line. Hark! 'tis the tolling Curfew !—the stars shine; But of the lights that cherish household cares And festive gladness, burns not one that dares To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine, Emblem and instrument, from Thames to Tyne, Of force that daunts, and cunning that ensnares ! Yet as the terrors of the lordly bell, That quench, from but to palace, lamps and fires, Touch not the tapers of the sacred quires ; Even so a thraldom, studious to expel Old laws, and ancient customs to derange, To Creed or Ritual brings no fatal change.
COLDLY We spake. The Saxons, overpowered
By wrong triumphant through its own excess,
From fields laid waste, from house and home devoured
By flames, look up to heaven and crave redress
From God's eternal justice. Pitiless
Though men be, there are angels that can feel
For wounds that death alone has power to heal,
For penitent guilt, and innocent distress.
And has a Champion risen in arms to try
His Country's virtue, fought, and breathes no more;
Him in their hearts the people canonize;
And far above the mine's most precious ore
The least small pittance of bare mould they prize
Scooped from the sacred earth where his dear relics lie.
“And shall,” the Pontiff asks, “profaneness flow “From Nazareth-source of Christian piety, "From Bethlehem, from the Mounts of Agony “And glorified Ascension ? Warriors, go, “With prayers and blessings we your path will sow; “ Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye “Have chased far off by righteous victory “ These sons of Amalek, or laid them low!"
“ GOD WILLETH IT," the whole assembly cry;
Shout which the enraptured multitude astounds!
The Council-roof and Clermont's towers reply ;-
“ God willeth it," from hill to hill rebounds,
And, in awe-stricken Countries far and nigh,
Through Nature's hollow arch' that voice resounds*.
The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms
Along the west; though driven from Aquitaine,
The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain;
And soft Italia feels renewed alarms;
The scimitar, that yields not to the charms
Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain;
Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain
Their tents, and check the current of their arms.
Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever
Known to the moral world, Imagination,
Upheave, so seems it, from her natural station
All Christendom:—they sweep along (was never
So huge a host!)—to tear from the Unbeliever
The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation.
REDOUBTED King, of courage leonine,
I mark thee, Richard ! urgent to equip
Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip;
I watch thee sailing o'er the midland brine;
In conquered Cyprus see thy Bride decline
Her blushing cheek, love-vows upon her lip,
And see love-emblems streaming from thy ship,
As thence she holds her way to Palestine.
My Song, a fearless homager, would attend
Thy thundering battle-axe as it cleaves the press
but duty summons her away
To tell-how, finding in the rash distress
Of those Enthusiasts a subservient friend,
To giddier heights hath clomb the Papal sway.
REALMS quake by turns : proud Arbitress of grace,
The Church, by mandate shadowing forth the power
She arrogates o'er heaven's eternal door,
Closes the gates of every sacred place.
Straight from the sun and tainted air's embrace
All sacred things are covered: cheerful morn
Grows sad as night—no seemly garb is worn,
Nor is a face allowed to meet a face