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Persecution Lament! for Diocletian's fiery sword

Works busy as the lightning; but instinct
With malice ne'er to deadliest weapon linked,
Which God's ethereal store-houses afford:
Against the Followers of the incarnate Lord
It rages ;—some are smitten in the field—
Some pierced to the heart through the ineffectual
shield

Of sacred home;—with pomp are others gored
And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban tried,
England's first Martyr, whom no threats could
shake;

Self-offered victim, for his friend he died,
And for the faith; nor shall his name forsake
That Hill, whose flowery platform seems to rise
By Nature decked for holiest sacrifice.

—«wv>

Recovery As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain
Their cheerfulness, and busily retrim
Their nests, or chant a gratulating hymn
To the blue ether and bespangled plain;
Even so, in many a re-constructed fane,
Have the survivors of this Storm renewed
Their holy rites with vocal gratitude:
And solemn ceremonials they ordain
To celebrate their great deliverance;
Most feelingly instructed 'mid their fear—
That persecution, blind with rage extreme,
May not the less, through Heaven's mild coun-
tenance,

Even in her own despite, both feed and cheer;
For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
"watch, and be firm! for soul-subduing vice, Temptations
Heart-killing luxury, on your steps await. fr0m Roman

Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate, Kennements
And temples flashing, bright as polar ice,
Their radiance through the woods—may yet suffice
To sap your hardy virtue, and abate
Your love of Him upon whose forehead sate
The crown of thorns; whose life-blood flowed,
the price

Of your redemption. Shun the insidious arts
That Rome provides, less dreading from her frown
Than from her wily praise, her peaceful gown,
Language,and letters; these, though fondly viewed
As humanising graces, are but parts
And instruments of deadliest servitude!

—WW—

That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned Dissensions

Presumptuously) their roots both wide and deep,

Is natural as dreams to feverish sleep.

Lo! Discord at the altar dares to stand

Uplifting toward high Heaven her fiery brand,

A cherished Priestess of the new-baptized!

But chastisement shall follow peace despised.

The Pictish cloud darkens the enervate land

By Rome abandoned; vain are suppliant cries,

And prayers that would undo her forced farewell;

For she returns not.—Awed by her own knell,

She casts the Britons upon strange Allies,

Soon to become more dreaded enemies

Than heartless misery called them to repel.

Struggle of Rise !—they have risen: of brave Aneurin ask the Britons Howtheyhavescourgedoldfoes,perfidiousfriends: against the The Spirit of Caractacus descends

Upon the Patriots, animates their task ;—
Amazement runs before the towering casque
Of Arthur, bearing through the stormy field
The virgin sculptured on his Christian shield:—
Stretched in the sunny light of victory bask
The Host that followed Urien as he strode
O'er heaps of slain ;—from Cambrian wood and
moss

Druids descend, auxiliars of the Cross;
Bards, nursed on blue Plinlimmon's still abode,
Rush on the fight, to harps preferring swords,
And everlasting deeds to burning words!

Saxon Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid
Conquest Of hallelujahs tost from hill to hill—

For instant victory. But Heaven's high will
Permits a second and a darker shade
Of Pagan night. Afflicted and dismayed,
The Relics of the sword flee to the mountains:
O wretched Land! whose tears have flowed

like fountains;
Whose arts and honours in the dust are laid
By men yet scarcely conscious of a care
For other monuments than those of Earth;
Who, as theficlds and woods have given them birth,
Will build their savage fortunes only there;
Content, if foss, and barrow, and the girth
Of long-drawn rampart, witness what they were.

The oppression of the tumultwrath and scorn— Monastery of

The tribulationand the gleaming blades— Old Bangor

Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades

The song of Taliesin ;—Ours shall mourn

The unarmedHostwho bytheir prayers would turn

The sword from Bangor's walls, and guard the store

Of Aboriginal and Roman lore,

And Christian monuments, that now must burn

To senseless ashes. Mark! how all things swerve

From their known course, or vanish like a dream;

Another language spreads from coast to coast;

Only perchance some melancholy Stream

And some indignant Hills old names preserve,

When laws, and creeds, and people all are lost!

—wvw—

A Bright-haired company of youthful slaves, Casual

Beautiful strangers, stand within the pale Incitement

Of a sad market, ranged for public sale,

Where Tiber's stream the immortal City laves:

Angli by name; and not an Angel waves

His wing who could seem lovelier to man's eye

Than they appear to holy Gregory;

Who, having learnt that name, salvation craves

For Them, and for their Land. The earnest Sire,

His questions urging, feels, in slender ties

Of chiming sound, commanding sympathies;

De-irians—he would save them from God's Ire;

Subjects of Saxon iEixA—they shall sing

Glad HALLE-lujahs to the eternal King!

Glad Tidings For ever hallowed be this morning fair,

Blest be the unconscious shore on which ye tread,
And blest the silver Cross, which ye, instead
Of martial banner, in procession bear;
The Cross preceding Him who floats in air,
The pictured Saviour !—By Augustin led,
They come—and onward travel without dread,
Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful prayer—
Sung for themselves, and those whom they would
free!

Rich conquest waits them:—the tempestuous sea
Of Ignorance, that ran so rough and high
And heeded not the voice of clashing swords,
These good men humble by a few bare words,
And calm with fear of God's divinity.

Paulinus But to remote Northumbria's royal Hall,

Where thoughtful Edwin, tutored in the school
Of sorrow, still maintains a heathen rule,
Who comes with functions apostolical?
Mark him, of shoulders curved, and stature tall,
Black hair, and vivid eye, and meagre cheek,
His prominent feature like an eagle's beak;
A Man whose aspect doth at once appal
And strike with reverence. The Monarch leans
Toward the pure truths this Delegate propounds,
Repeatedly his own deep mind he sounds
With careful hesitation,—then convenes
A synod of his Counsellors :—give ear,
And what a pensive Sage doth utter, hear!

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