Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 69, No. 424, February 1851. Various

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      Light up, light up the ready fires!

      Sound trumpet, fife, and drum;

      Give welcome meet to him who brings

      The sovereign hests of Rome.

      No humble barefoot messenger —

      No sandalled monk is he;

      A stately priest – a Cardinal —

      Proclaims the Pope's decree.

      And see! upon her royal knees

      The Queen of England falls,

      In homage to a mightier Prince,

      Within her fathers' halls!

      'Tis done. Fair England! bow thy head,

      And mourn thy grievous sin!

      What though the Universal Church

      Will gladly let thee in?

      The stain is still upon thy brow,

      The guilt is on thy hand;

      For thou hast dared to worship God,

      Against the Pope's command.

      And thou hast scoffed at saint and shrine,

      Denied the Queen of heaven,

      And opened up with impious hands

      The Holy Book unshriven.

      For this, and for thy stubborn will

      In daring to be free,

      A fearful penance must be done

      Ere guilt shall pass from thee.

      The prophets of the new-born faith,

      The leaders of the blind —

      Arise, and take them in the midst —

      Leave not a man behind!

      In London's streets and Oxford's courts

      A solemn fast proclaim,

      And let the sins of England's Church

      Be purged away by flame!

      In order long, the monkish throng

      Wind through the Oxford street,

      With up-drawn cowls, and folded hands,

      And slow and noiseless feet.

      Before their train the Crucifix

      Is borne in state on high,

      And banners with the Agnus wave,

      And crosiers glitter by:

      With spangled image, star-becrowned,

      And gilded pyx they come,

      To lay once more on English necks

      The hateful yoke of Rome.

      The mail-clad vassels of the Church

      With men-at-arms are there,

      And England's banner overhead

      Floats proudly in the air.

      And England's bishops walk beneath —

      Ah me! that sight of woe!

      An old, old man, with tottering limbs

      And hair as white as snow.

      Another, yet in manhood's prime,

      The blameless and the brave —

      And must they pass, O cruel Rome,

      To yonder hideous grave?

      "Ay – for the Church reclaims her own;

      To her all power is given —

      The faggot and the sword on earth —

      The keys of hell and heaven.

      To sweep the heretics away,

      'Tis thus the Church commands —

      What means that wailing in the crowd?

      Why wring they so their hands?

      Why do the idle women shriek —

      The men, why frown they so?

      Lift up the Host, and let them kneel,

      As onwards still we go."

      The Host was raised – they knelt not yet —

      Nor English knee was bowed,

      Till Latimer and Ridley came,

      Each in his penance shroud.

      Then bent the throng on either side,

      Then knelt both sire and dame,

      And thousand voices, choked with sobs,

      Invoked the martyr's name.

      No chaunted hymn could drown the cry,

      No tramp, nor clash of steel —

      O England! in that piteous hour,

      Was this thy sole appeal?

      What more? That cry arose on high;

      'Twas heard, where all is calm,

      By Him who, for the martyr's pang,

      Vouchsafes the martyr's palm;

      By Him who needs no human arm

      To work his righteous will: —

      "The Lord is in his holy place,

      Let all the earth be still."

      They said it – they who gave the doom,

      In that most awful name —

      And if they spoke in blasphemy,

      So shall they die in shame!

      To death – to death! The stake is near,

      The faggots piled around;

      The men-at-arms have made their ring,

      The spearmen take their ground;

      The torches, reeking in the sun,

      Send up their heavy fume;

      And by the pile the torturer

      Is waiting for the doom.

      With earnest eye and steadfast step,

      Approach the martyr twain —

      "Our cross!" they said – then kissed the stake,

      And bowed them to the chain.

      Short be the pang! – Not yet, not yet!

      The Tempter lingers near —

      Rome parts not with her victims so;

      A Priest is at their ear.

      "Life – life, and pardon! say the word,

      Why still so stubborn be?

      Do homage to our Lord the Pope —

      One word, and you are free!

      O brothers! yield ye even now —

      Speak but a single name —

      Salvation lies not but with Rome;

      Why die in raging flame?"

      Then out spoke aged Latimer: —

      "I tarry by the stake,

      Not trusting to my own weak heart,

      But for the Saviour's sake.

      Why speak of life or death to me,

      Whose days are but a span?

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