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XCVI.** THE PRIMATE ON HIS DEATH-BED,
1604. “O, FOR the Church of God"-As faint and rare
The accents came from WHITGIFT's palsied tongue,
While o'er his couch his royal Master 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,
Had sway'd of England's Church the pastoral rod! Meet prayer for all her sons !
Or old or young,
In life, in death, “ O, for the Church of God!" XCVII.** THE PRIMATE AT THE BLOCK, 1644. Beside the headsman's block and sharpen'd blade,
Stands one, the first of England's hierarchy !?
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!
By faction's lawless minions, ponder well;
XCVIII.** THE PRIMATE DISINTERRED, 1648.1 Shame on the regicide, who rent the tomb,
Where thy remains, age-honor'd PARKER, lay,
Commingling fast with consecrated clay!
Thy bones from holy earth and meet array ;
And like a potsherd, vilely cast away,
Revived, her rites apostolic to thee:
The stream episcopal, from error free;
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,
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.
1 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 ! "
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 people slain or left in want to pine ;
Tho dwindling remnant of her crosier'd line.
Now and again her flickering worship shone,
Fann'd by some holy hierarchal son:
Of Dublin's priesthood : them with stedfast tone
Who dared the usurper's lawless rule disown,
Of truth in great Eliza's sanctuary :
Of ancient rites and pristine polity :
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 ànew, and blessés God.
CIII.** BISHOP KEN'S MORNING AND
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
divine But all applaud thy sacred minstrelsy; And village children, when their voices join
In hymns of daily praise, still learn of thee.
CIV.** THE IMPRISONED BISHOPS, 1688 SEVEN HOLY MEN, loved Mother, of thine own,
Superior one in honor as in age,
Stood forth, despite a bigot tyrant's rage,
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!
CV.** THE PRIMATE DEPRIVED, 1692. 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,
Zealous, but mild, in thy prelalic sway:
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!”
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,