VIII.
In order long, the monkish throng
Wind through the Oxford street,
With up-drawn cowls, and folded hands,
And slow and noiseless feet.
Before their train the Crucifix
Is borne in state on high,
And banners with the Agnus wave,
And crosiers glitter by:
With spangled image, star-becrowned,
And gilded pyx they come,
To lay once more on English necks
The hateful yoke of Rome.
IX.
The mail-clad vassels of the Church
With men-at-arms are there,
And England's banner overhead
Floats proudly in the air.
And England's bishops walk beneath—
Ah me! that sight of woe!
An old, old man, with tottering limbs
And hair as white as snow.
Another, yet in manhood's prime,
The blameless and the brave—
And must they pass, O cruel Rome,
To yonder hideous grave?
X.
"Ay—for the Church reclaims her own;
To her all power is given—
The faggot and the sword on earth—
The keys of hell and heaven.
To sweep the heretics away,
'Tis thus the Church commands—
What means that wailing in the crowd?
Why wring they so their hands?
Why do the idle women shriek—
The men, why frown they so?
Lift up the Host, and let them kneel,
As onwards still we go."
XI.
The Host was raised—they knelt not yet—
Nor English knee was bowed,
Till Latimer and Ridley came,
Each in his penance shroud.
Then bent the throng on either side,
Then knelt both sire and dame,
And thousand voices, choked with sobs,
Invoked the martyr's name.
No chaunted hymn could drown the cry,
No tramp, nor clash of steel—
O England! in that piteous hour,
Was this thy sole appeal?
XII.