Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 69, No. 424, February 1851

'Tis done. Fair England! bow thy head,
And mourn thy grievous sin!
What though the Universal Church
Will gladly let thee in?
The stain is still upon thy brow,
The guilt is on thy hand;
For thou hast dared to worship God,
Against the Pope's command.
And thou hast scoffed at saint and shrine,
Denied the Queen of heaven,
And opened up with impious hands
The Holy Book unshriven.

VII

For this, and for thy stubborn will
In daring to be free,
A fearful penance must be done
Ere guilt shall pass from thee.
The prophets of the new-born faith,
The leaders of the blind —
Arise, and take them in the midst —
Leave not a man behind!
In London's streets and Oxford's courts
A solemn fast proclaim,
And let the sins of England's Church
Be purged away by flame!

VIII

In order long, the monkish throng
Wind through the Oxford street,
With up-drawn cowls, and folded hands,
And slow and noiseless feet.
Before their train the Crucifix
Is borne in state on high,
And banners with the Agnus wave,
And crosiers glitter by:
With spangled image, star-becrowned,
And gilded pyx they come,
To lay once more on English necks
The hateful yoke of Rome.

IX

The mail-clad vassels of the Church
With men-at-arms are there,
And England's banner overhead
Floats proudly in the air.
And England's bishops walk beneath —
Ah me! that sight of woe!
An old, old man, with tottering limbs
And hair as white as snow.
Another, yet in manhood's prime,
The blameless and the brave —
And must they pass, O cruel Rome,
To yonder hideous grave?

X

"Ay – for the Church reclaims her own;
To her all power is given —
The faggot and the sword on earth —
The keys of hell and heaven.
To sweep the heretics away,
'Tis thus the Church commands —
What means that wailing in the crowd?
Why wring they so their hands?
Why do the idle women shriek —
The men, why frown they so?
Lift up the Host, and let them kneel,
As onwards still we go."

XI

The Host was raised – they knelt not yet —
Nor English knee was bowed,
Till Latimer and Ridley came,
Each in his penance shroud.
Then bent the throng on either side,
Then knelt both sire and dame,
And thousand voices, choked with sobs,
Invoked the martyr's name.
No chaunted hymn could drown the cry,
No tramp, nor clash of steel —
O England! in that piteous hour,
Was this thy sole appeal?

XII

What more? That cry arose on high;
'Twas heard, where all is calm,
By Him who, for the martyr's pang,
Vouchsafes the martyr's palm;
By Him who needs no human arm
To work his righteous will: —
"The Lord is in his holy place,
Let all the earth be still."
They said it – they who gave the doom,
In that most awful name —