XVII.
Harlot of Rome! and dost thou come
With bland demeanour now?
The bridal-smile upon thy lips,
The flush upon thy brow—
The cup of sorcery in thy hand,
Still in the same array,
As when our fathers in their wrath
Dashed it and thee away?
No! by the ashes of the saints,
Who died beneath thy hand,
Thou shalt not dare to claim as thine
One foot of English land!
XVIII.
The echo of thy tread shall make
The light still higher burn—
A blaze shall rise from Cranmer's grave
And martyred Ridley's urn!
A blaze which they who own thy power
Shall stand aghast to see,
A blaze that in your infamy
Shall show both them and thee!
Yes! send thy Cardinals again—
Once more array thy powers—
Their watchword is, The Pope of Rome—
The Word of God, be ours!
W. I.
MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.—PART VI.
BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.