Classic Poem

Nor wants there Seraph warnings, morn and eve,
And oft as to the holiest Shrine we bear
Our pure, unbloody gifts, what time our prayer
In Heaven's sure ward all Christian kings would leave.
Why should that prayer be faltering? Wherefore heave
With sadness loyal hearts, when hallow'd air
That solemn suffrage hears? Alas! our care
Is not for storms without, but stains that cleave
Ingrain'd in memory, wandering thoughts profane;
Or worse, proud thoughts of our instructress meek,
The duteous Church, Heaven-prompted to that strain.
Thus, when high mercy for our King we seek,
Back on our wincing hearts our prayers are blown
By our own sins, worst foes to England's throne.
And with our own, the offences of our land
Too well agree to build our burthen high,
Christ's charter blurr'd with coarse, usurping hand,
And gall'd with yoke of feudal tyranny
The shoulders where the keys of David lie.
Angel of England! who might thee withstand?
Who for the spoil'd and trampled Church deny
Thy suit in Heaven's high courts, might one true band
Of holy brethren, breathing English air,
Be found, their Cross in thine array to bear,
And for their Mother cast earth's dreams away?
Till then, all gaily as our pennons glance,
And at the trumpet's call the brave heart dance,
In fear and grief for Church and King we pray.