When her bloodhounds raged fierce to unpeople the land, When a King on his flock turned his butchering hand; And the old and the young, and the timid and brave Undistinguished were cast in one common grave.
Thou smilest proud harlot ! perchance at the thought
Which Bartholomew's day to our memory hath brought;
And high on the throne of thy purple and pride,
The woes of our martyrs canst calmly deride.
But deep on thine head lies the guilt of that day;
The shrieks of the dying have not passed away,
The cry of their blood hath ascended to heaven,
And a day for dread vengeance will surely be given.
Thine eye glares with hatred, thy proud lip is curled With a smile of contempt which defies the whole world,
But mark it, thou drunken with holiest blood!
The day of thy plagues will come in as a flood;
The year of the Lord's purchased people draws nigh,
And the light of his coming will flash on thine eye.
We look on the blood which thy right hand hath spilt;
We joy for our martyrs-we mourn for thy guilt;
Though thy brow is as brass, and thy heart is as steel,
Though thou laugh'st at our words, for thy woes we
can feel.
The smoke of thy flames to the sky will ascend,
The shrieks of thy tortures the deep hell will rend;
While loud hallelujahs triumphant proclaim,
God hath punished thy guilt, and avenged his great name!
The Gunpowder Plot.
LONDON, NOVEMBER 5TH, 1603.
Ye smile! I catch those shouts of joy,
I hail the bonfire's blaze;
And even love the ungainly toy*
That tells of other days:
I cannot look with eye of scorn,
As the rude image round is borne ;
I muse awhile on love and power,
Which saved our land in darken 'd hour.
Yes, dark and deadly all was done-
The plotted train was laid;
And England by to-morrow's sun
Had seen a sight of dread ;
But He who pierces deepest night
Darted abroad a ray of light;
No glory, Lord! for man we claim-
All glory be to thy great name.
Years passed away-a kingly hand
Was stretched in league with Rome;
Oppression stalked throughout the land,
Invading hearth and home:
Silent and still her chain she wound
Round England's church and English ground;
Men started, trembling, from repose,
And the deep prayer to heaven arose.
* The Effigy of Guy Fawks.
The prayer was heard-a foreign fleet
On Britain's coast was moor'd!
But who was there the Prince to greet *
As Britain's future Lord?
With silent lip, with speaking eye,
And thoughtful brow, he looked on high;
His God was near, his cause to own,
And sent him to a bloodless throne.
Twice perill'd, and twice rescued, Lord
To thee we lift our prayer;
The things which from our sires we've heard
Thy truth and power declare.
A spirit works-dark, restless, proud;
Rome's thunders roll-dread, deep, not loud;
The might displayed of old, we crave,
Our state, our church, to shield and save.
And smile not, friends, if with glad eye,
I see the village throng,
And watch the bonfire blazing high,
And list the good old song ;
I call to mind what God's right hand
Hath done for this our guilty land;
And joy to think that he is near,
Danger to mark, and prayer to hear.
* When the Prince of Orange, afterwards King William III. landed in England, he was for several days not joined by any one, the county of Devon having been terrified by the executions which followed after Monmouth's Rebellion.
The Homes of England.
The stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land.
The deer across the greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam,
The swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath-hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er her silvery brooks
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there they lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath the eaves.
The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long in hut and hall,
May sons of valour there be reared
To guard each hallowed wall!
for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!
Walker's Testimonial.
Here individual prowess peerless shone,
And courage in these modern days unknown;
By Grecian heroes only match'd of yore,
When Sparta's sons defied the Persian power,
And famed Leonidas, with his small band,
Against three millions made a gallant stand.
MURRAY and NOBLE, ever at their post,
Were still victorious-in themselves a host;
And many a hero gain'd a deathless name,
Whose deeds are blazoned in the scroll of fame,
Vain was the steel-clad Gallic soldier's hope,
In combat with the APPRENTICE BOYS to cope.
As Gaza's mightiest fell before the hand
Of Sampson, so the Gauls before our band.
God was to them a sword and buckler bright,
And they went forth and conquer'd in His might.
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