Once more some sable-stoled procession—say,

From Little-ease to Tyburn—wends its way,

Out of the dungeon to the gallows-tree

Where heading, hacking, hanging is to be

Of half-a-dozen recusants—this day

Three hundred years ago! How duly drones

Elizabethan plain-song—dim antique

Grown clarion-clear the while I humbly wreak

A classic vengeance on thy March! It moans—

Larges and Longs and Breves displacing quite