Who deem'd such heretics might ne'er atone
To holy mother church their sinful doubts,
By fires on earth, and quenchless fires beneath.
Still o'er some brows a shade like pity stole,
Gardiner seem'd satiate,—while the hollow eye
Of persecuting Bonner flashed delight
Too great for words.
—But stifled tones were heard
From murmuring groups,—and bitterly they mourn'd
For good king Edward to his grave gone down
In sanctity,—and then the mutter'd curse
Fell deep upon that popish Queen, who fed
The fires of Smithfield with the blood of saints,
And dared to light in Oxford's*[1] hallow'd vales
Her bigot flame. There was a little band
Who sad and silent sought their homes and wept
O'er their loved prelates,—yet no railing word
Or vengeful purpose breath'd,—but waiting stood
For their own test of conscience and of faith,
Inflexible,—and strong in heart to join
The martyr'd host. This was the flock of Christ.
ON THE TRANSLATION OF MILTON
INTO THE LANGUAGE OF ICELAND, BY THOLASKEN, A NATIVE POET.
Clime by the tyrant North embraced,
And scourged by Ocean's wildest ire!
Who, mid thine intellectual waste,
Would seek to find poetic fire?
- ↑ * Latimer, bishop of Worcester, and Ridley, bishop of London, were burnt at Oxford, near Baliol-College,—October 16th, 1555.
