Imatges de pàgina
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Thither they go, and well each brow and eye,
Gloomy as night, bespeak their sympathy.
Who is the victim?-what the fearful deed
Which asks such expiation? Plead, oh! plead,
With angel-tongue, sweet Pity, till thou win
A milder doom, how dark soe'er the sin!
Can yonder be the culprit?—he whose brow,
"So saintly bright," no trace of earth doth show
Beyond what Time's rude hand itself has wrought?
His look, his bearing, both forbid the thought;
For Virtue never did herself such wrong

As trace her lineaments thus clear and strong

On hoary vice;

nay, nay, it cannot be

That he hath lent himself to infamy.

What is the charge alleged? In that dark time

He lived, when Gospel truth was deem'd a crime;

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He knew that truth, and taught it, — gently led
The guilty unto Him for guilt that bled;

He won the sinner whilst he chid his deed,

Himself a "living Gospel" all might read.

Such were the crimes that brought him to a death

Which flesh most shrinks from! But, upheld by faith,

Whilst others weep and tremble as they gaze,

Calmly the scene of torture he

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surveys;

With more than nature's strength then mounts the pyre, And suffers all the agonies of fire!

A martyr's pangs, a martyr's faith, were his,

And soon-oh, glorious thought!-a martyr's bliss!

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Hail, holy Church! Say, is it wrong to feel
A glow of pride athwart my bosom steal,
As, one by one, thy glorious martvr-train, -
Who bled, thy rights, thy doctrine to maintain, -
In vision pass before me? No! even pride,
At such a sight, almost is sanctified.

Hail, holy Church! What though thy leagued foes
The war-cry raise, and round thee fiercely close,
Viewing thy stately towers with jealous eye,
Marking thy bulwarks only to destroy;

What though they long to see thee fall'n-discrown'd"Thy pleasant things laid waste," and strewn around;

If treachery lurk not in thy hallow'd fold,

If in thy sons, as in their sires of old,

The martyr-spirit live, if each, if all,

Who bear thy name, do love thy gentle thrall,

Who at thy font, Christ's soldiers sworn and seal'd,

Have never wish'd that sacred vow repeal'd,

But, ever and anon, renew'd the same,

When at thine altar met in His dear name,

Then, though thy foes be mighty, fear not thou!
The crown shall never fall from off thy brow;
Thou shalt not o'er thy ravaged temples mourn,
Nor see "strange fire" upon thy altars burn.
Mother of martyrs! holy Church! all hail!
While time itself shall last, thy glory shall prevail !

THE ASH.

FRAXINUS EXCELSIOR.

"The towering ash is fairest in the woods."

SUCH is the testimony of Virgil,—a testimony confirmed by the moderns, who have designated this tree the "Venus of the forest;" and surely, of all that compose our British sylva, entitled to the rank of timber trees, it is decidedly the most elegant.

"All know that in the woods the ash reigns queen,

In graceful beauty soaring to the sky!"

The same character runs through its various component parts; thus constituting a beautiful and consistent whole. The easy, flowing line of the stem suits the elegant pendent sprays, and these again the bright green slender leaves; whilst, lastly, the tree itself is in happy accordance with the habitat in which it most delights,

a niche in

some grey ruin or splintered rock, where, like the sylvan genius of the scene, it hangs with the most becoming gracefulness.

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