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“O, Fon the Church of God ”—As faint and rare
The accents came from WHITGIFT's palsied tongue,
While o'er his couch his royal Master1 hung
The dying Primate's last behest to share;
"O, for the Church of God!"-That livelong care,
While vigorous health his fame and spirit strung,
Still to his memory's fading tablet clung,

Form'd his sole wish, and moved his parting prayer.
Meet prayer to crown the work of him, who long
Had sway'd of England's Church the pastoral rod!
Meet prayer for all her sons! Or old or young,
As on we journey by this mortal road,

Be this our matins and our even-song,

In life, in death, "O, for the Church of God!"

BESIDE the headsman's block and sharpen'd blade,
Stands ONE, the first of England's hierarchy ! 2
By bonds and outrage bow'd, and

Degraded, trampled on, malign'd, betray'd,
Full threescore years and twelve have now allay'd
Somewhat the keenness of his eagle eye,
But not the conscience pure, the spirit high,
Submiss to God, but ne'er by man dismay'd.
Speak not his name and title, lest they call
From yonder rabble rout the infuriate yell!
But his high rank, his virtues, and his fall

By faction's lawless minions, ponder well;
And think, the storm, that rent the Primate's pall,
On kingly crown and hallow'd altar fell!

'King James I.

2 Abp. Laud.

SHAME on the regicide, who rent the tomb,
Where thy remains, age-honor'd PARKER, lay,
Commingling fast with consecrated clay!
Shame on the wretch profane, who dared presume
To" burst the marble cerements;" to exhume
Thy bones from holy earth and meet array;
And like a potsherd, vilely cast away,

To grave obscene the scatter'd fragments doom.
What was thy crime? 'Twas that thy country owes,
Revived, her rites apostolic to thee:

The channel thou, through which transmissive flows
The stream episcopal, from error free;
Guard of the Church from innovating foes,

And foster-father of her Liturgy!

XCIX.* .*** THE SISTER CHURCH, 1641-1649. FIERCE was thy trial then, and hard to bear, Mother beloved! Nor less full sure did she, Thy sister Church across the narrow sea, In that fierce trial hold an equal share. What time the Triple-crown'd cried havoc there; And Knox's leagued and stern presbytery, And Cromwell's swarm of independency, Harried her chosen fold and pastures fair. Thy sister she in worship, faith, and love,

Yea more than shared thy sufferings and disgrace. Woe worth the while, when lordly Edom strove, Hagar's wild tribes, and Moab's spurious race,

To plant the idols of man's dreams above

God's holy ark in his appointed place.

When in the time of the Great Rebellion, Lambeth Palace came into the possession of Colonel Scot, he turned the chapel into a hall,

C.*** THE REQUIEM, 1641.

"REST he in peace, of English race the last!

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Such dirge was heard o'er martyr'd BEDELL's tomb, As if in symbol of the general doom,

Which swept the Church with desolating blast. "Rest she in peace!"

Alas, her glory past,

She seem'd as if no radiance could illume
The deep deep gulf of her sepulchral gloom.
To moles and bats her goodly worship cast,
Helpless she lay, forsaken, and forlorn :

Her temples closed, denounced her rites divine,
Her sacred books and hallow'd vestments torn;
Her people slain or left in want to pine;
Her priests dispers'd; and chas'd or held in scorn
Tho dwindling remnant of her crosier'd line.


YET, ere it sank, with interrupted flame

Now and again her flickering worship shone,
Fann'd by some holy hierarchal son:

Men of high worth, but little known to fame.
Then at the front stood PARRY'S mitred name
Of Dublin's priesthood: them with stedfast tone
Who dared the usurper's lawless rule disown,
And vindicate their parent's rightful claim.
And MARTIN strove to keep alive the light
Of truth in great Eliza's sanctuary :

And LESLEY, dauntless prelate, fought the fight
Of ancient rites and pristine polity:

And BULKELEY pray'd, till crush'd by ruthless might,
The Church's pray'rs, and then retir'd to die.

demolished Archbishop Parker's monument, digged up his body, sold the lead that enclosed it, and buried the bones in a dunghill.

CII.*** THE CONSECRATED BISHOPS, 1661. "TWAS a glad scene of holy festival,

When they, the first and best of Erin's land, Priests, people, peers, and chiefs of high command Throng'd nave, and choir, and gallery and stall: And TAYLOR, golden-mouth'd, his willing thrall Held each tranc'd ear of that devoted band; And BRAMHALL bless'd with consecrating hand Twelve priestly heads, thenceforth episcopal. O'twas a gladsome scene! To Patrick's fane

The crowded street as that procession trod, God speed on all the speaking windows rain. For, past the terrors of the chastening rod, Her star-crown'd head the Church exalts again, And trims her lamp anew, and blesses God.


A HOLY pilgrim journey'd on his way:

His fingers touch'd the lute's melodious string,
And still his answering voice was carolling,
"Awake, my soul, thy morning tribute pay."
And oft as evening spread her shadows grey,


The lute and voice renew'd their communing,
Nor fail'd that holy pilgrim aye to sing

Glory to Him, who made the night and day!"
KEN, not a better greater name than thine,

With honor marks the Church's history. Who know thee, know thee strong in


But all applaud thy sacred minstrelsy; And village children, when their voices join


In hymns of daily praise, still learn of thee.

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SEVEN HOLY MEN,1 loved Mother, of thine own,
Superior one in honor as in age,

Stood forth, despite a bigot tyrant's rage,
Thy people's guardian 'gainst a despot's throne.
Of those seven holy men, when freedom's frown
Had chased that bigot tyrant from the stage,
FIVE to his name held fast their plighted gage,
And lost their mitres to maintain his crown!
ANGELS of Anglia's Church, STARS fair and bright,
I greet you, in her crowded galaxy!
'Twas yours to suffer wrong; yours to requite
Wrong meekly borne, with steadier loyalty;
Nor dare abandon in his friendless flight,
Whom in his pride of power ye dared defy!

EREWHILE in lordly pride of place he sate,
Unmatch'd in England's hierarchal chair:
The long retinue, and the sumptuous fare,
And mitre, pall, and crosier swell'd his state:
Now scarce a menial at his lowly gate,

The hermit's vestment, and the diet spare,
And, stript of outward pomp, the lonely prayer,
On the fall'n Patriarch's close retirement wait.
The meed thou merit'st, SANCROFT, freely have!
Zealous, but mild, in thy prelatic sway:
Amid the world's commotions meekly brave;
Contented thence thou took'st thy private way,
And left'st for record on thy rural grave,

"Praise to the Lord, who gives and takes away!

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1 Archbishop Sancroft: the Bishops, Lloyd of St. Asaph, Turner of Ely, Lake of Chichester, Ken of Bath and Wells, White of Peter borough, Trelawney of Bristol. Of these, Sancroft, Turner, Lake,

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