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A PLEASANT music floats along the Mere,
From Monks in Ely chanting service high,
While-as Canute the King is rowing by :

"My Oarsmen," quoth the mighty King, "draw


That we the sweet song of the Monks may hear!"
He listens (all past conquests and all schemes
Of future vanishing like empty dreams)
Heart-touched, and haply not without a tear.
The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still,
While his free Barge skims the smooth flood along,
Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme.*
O suffering Earth! be thankful; sternest clime
And rudest age are subject to the thrill
Of heaven-descended Piety and song.



THE woman-hearted Confessor prepares

The evanescence of the Saxon line.

Hark! 't is the tolling Curfew! - the stars shine; But of the lights that cherish household cares And festive gladness, burns not one that dares

*Which is still extant.

To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine,

Emblem and instrument, from Thames to Tyne,
Of force that daunts, and cunning that ensnares!
Yet as the terrors of the lordly bell,

That quench, from hut to palace, lamps and fires,
Touch not the tapers of the sacred choirs;
Even so a thraldom, studious to expel
Old laws, and ancient customs to derange,
To Creed or Ritual brings no fatal change.


COLDLY we spake. The Saxons, overpowered By wrong triumphant through its own excess, From fields laid waste, from house and home devoured

By flames, look up to heaven, and crave redress From God's eternal justice. Pitiless

Though men be, there are angels that can feel
For wounds that death alone has power to heal,
For penitent guilt, and innocent distress.

And has a Champion risen in arms to try
His Country's virtue, fought, and breathes no


Him in their hearts the people canonize;
And far above the mine's most precious ore

The least small pittance of bare mould they prize Scooped from the sacred earth where his dear relics lie.



"AND shall," the Pontiff asks, "profaneness flow
From Nazareth, source of Christian piety,
From Bethlehem, from the Mounts of Agony
And glorified ascension? Warriors, go,

With prayers and blessings we your path will sow;
Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye
Have chased far off by righteous victory
These sons of Amalek, or laid them low!"
"GOD WILLETH IT," the whole assembly cry;
Shout which the enraptured multitude astounds!
The Council-roof and Clermont's towers reply; —
"God willeth it," from hill to hill rebounds,
And, in awe-stricken Countries far and nigh,
Through "Nature's hollow arch" that voice



THE turbaned Race are poured in thickening


Along the west; though driven from Aquitaine, The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain; And soft Italia feels renewed alarms;

*The decision of this Council was believed to be instantly known in remote parts of Europe.

The cimeter, that yields not to the charms
Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain;
Not long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain
Their tents, and check the current of their arms.
Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever
Known to the moral world, Imagination,
Upheave, so seems it, from her natural station
All Christendom :- they sweep along (was never
So huge a host!) to tear from the Unbeliever
The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation.



REDOUBTED King, of courage leonine,
I mark thee, Richard! urgent to equip
Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip;
I watch thee sailing o'er the midland brine ;
In conquered Cyprus see thy Bride decline
Her blushing cheek, love-vows upon her lip,
And see love-emblems streaming from thy ship,
As thence she holds her way to Palestine.
My Song, a fearless homager, would attend
Thy thundering battle-axe as it cleaves the press
Of war, but duty summons her away

To tell how, finding in the rash distress
Of those Enthusiasts a subservient friend,

To giddier heights hath clomb the Papal sway.



REALMS quake by turns: proud Arbitress of grace, The Church, by mandate shadowing forth the


She arrogates o'er heaven's eternal door,
Closes the gates of every sacred place.
Straight from the sun and tainted air's embrace
All sacred things are covered: cheerful morn
Grows sad as night, - no seemly garb is worn,

Nor is a face allowed to meet a face

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With natural smiles of greeting. Bells are dumb;
Ditches are graves,
funeral rites denied ;
And in the churchyard he must take his bride
Who dares be wedded! Fancies thickly come
Into the pensive heart ill fortified,

And comfortless despairs the soul benumb.



As with the Stream our voyage we pursue,
The gross materials of this world present
A marvellous study of wild accident;
Uncouth proximities of old and new;
And bold transfigurations, more untrue
(As might be deemed) to disciplined intent

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