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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 *.



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 countenance,
Even in her own despite, both feed and cheer;
For all things are less dreadful than they seem.

* See Note.



WATCH, and be firm! for, soul-subduing vice,
Heart-killing luxury, on your steps await.
Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate,
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!



THAT heresies should strike (if truth be scanned
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.



RISE!-they have risen: of brave Aneurin ask
How they have scourged old foes, perfidious friends:
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!



NOR wants the cause the panic-striking aid
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

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 the fields 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 tumult-wrath and scorn-
The tribulation-and the gleaming blades-
Such it the impetuous spirit that pervades
The song of Taliesin;-Ours shall mourn

* See Note.

† See Note.

The unarmed Host who by their 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!



A BRIGHT-HAIRED company of youthful slaves,
Beautiful strangers, stand within the pale
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 ÆLLA--they shall sing
Glad HALLE-lujahs to the eternal King!

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