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Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light
Which few can hold committed to a fight
Scattering, like birds escaped the fowler's net, English
Their fortnsare broken staves; their passions, steeds
Elizabeth Hail, Virgin Queen! o'er many an envious bar Triumphant, snatched from many a treacherous wile!
All hail, sage Lady, whom a grateful Isle
Eminent Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, Reformers Light as a buoyant bark from wave to wave, Were mine the trusty staff that Jewel gave To youthful Hooker, in familiar style The gift exalting, and with playful smile: For thus equipped, and bearing on his head The Donor's farewell blessing, can he dread Tempest, or length of way, or weight of toil ?— More sweet than odours caught by him who sails Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, A thousand times more exquisitely sweet, The freight of holy feeling which we meet, In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales From fields where good men walk, or bowers wherein they rest.
Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are, The Same
Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise,
To baffle all that may her strength impair;
That Church, the unperverted Gospel's seat;
In their afflictions a divine retreat;
Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest prayer!
The truth exploring with an equal mind,
In doctrine and communion they have sought
Firmly between the two extremes to steer;
But theirs the wise man's ordinary lot,
To trace right courses for the stubborn blind,
And prophesy to ears that will not hear.
Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy Distractions
Their forefathers; lo! sects are formed, and split
With morbid restlessness;—the ecstatic fit
Spreads wide; though special mysteries multiply,
The Saints must govern is their common cry;
And so they labour, deeming Holy Writ
Disgraced by aught that seems content to sit
Beneath the roof of settled Modesty.
The Romanist exults; fresh hope he draws
From the confusion, craftily incites
The overweening, personates the mad—
To heap disgust upon the worthier Cause:
Totters the Throne; the new-born Church is sad,
For every wave against her peace unites.
Gunpowder Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree
Plot To plague her beating heart; and there is one
The The Virgin-Mountain, wearing like a Queen
Can link with desolation. Smooth and green,
Even such the contrast that, where'er we move, Troubles of
To the mind's eye Religion doth present; Charles
Now with her own deep quietness content; First
Then, like the mountain, thundering from above
Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove
And theLand's humblest comforts. Now her mood
Recalls the transformation of the flood,
Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove,
Earth cannot check. O terrible excess
Of headstrong will! Can this be Piety I
No—some fierce Maniac hath usurped her name;
And scourges England struggling to be free:
Her peace destroyed! her hopes a wilderness!
Her blessings cursed—her glory turned to shame!
Prejudged by foes determined not to spare, Laud
An old weak Man for vengeance thrown aside,
Laud, "in the painful art of dying" tried,
(Like a poor bird entangled in a snare
Whose heart still flutters, though his wings forbear
To stir in useless struggle) hath relied
On hope that conscious innocence supplied,
And in his prison breathes celestial air.
Why tarries then thy chariot? Wherefore stay,
O Death! the ensanguined yet triumphant wheels,
Which thou prepar'st, full often, to convey
(What time a State with madding faction reels)
The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals
All wounds, all perturbations doth allay?