A brother's wife should too sincerely love
To pamper a vain heart with praise.
LADY ROCHFORD (aside).
Still shamed
And still rebuked-curse on her proud humility!
Enough of this—in truth the board that led
To this grave reasoning forces oft a smile
Even on Compassion's tearful face; the strange,
The motley groups! the doubts, the awe, the fears,
The pride of beggary! There are, who patch,
As though in honour of the royal feast,
With scarlet and rich hues their loose-hung tatters;
And some will creep, as they were led to justice.
Along the hall, and the next instant pledge,
Like jovial courtiers, the Queen's health. But those
Of the old religion move me most. They steal
Reluctant with suspicious steps, each instant
Crossing themselves, to exorcise, no doubt,
Ay, in good time,
Some twenty years or more we'll think of this:
But, by my faith, best mother, there's no joy
Of all that wait like chain'd and harness'd slaves
Around the thrones of kings-the pomp, the splendour,
The fiends beneath the board: each time they touch The hearty voice of popular acclaim,
Or dish or flagon, they renew the charm,
As though the viands flavour'd of rank heresy,
And 't were a deadly sin to taste the dole
Of wicked Gospeller. Last noon came in
Two maids, whose tatter'd veils but ill conceal'd
Their wan and famine-sunken cheeks, not worn
With holy fast, but bitter withering want;
Desperate they ate, as conscious of their sin:
Anon a pattering sound of beads I heard,
A voice half breathless muttering broken Aves;
Lo, the good lady Abbess, come to save
Her soul-endanger'd charge; but, sad to tell,
The tempting fumes o'erpower'd her holy rigour,
And the grave mother to the flesh-pots fell.
Madam, the Countess Wiltshire.
My child!-Your Highness' pardon; my old lips
Will never learn th' unwonted reverence;
Still clings the old familiar fondness round me.
Dear mother, have I ceased to be your child
Being a Queen? for your attendance, Ladies,
We thank you, and ere long may task your service;
But now-in truth I play the Queen but ill
Beside the cradle of my child-and thus
Within my mother's arms
The grave esteem of godly men, the power
Boundless of succouring the distress'd, the grace
And favour of a royal Husband, worthiest,
Were he a peasant, of our fondest dotage;
The consciousness of being a humble means
To build anew Christ's desolated Church-
There's nought more full, sincere, and rapturous-
I will pardon all
But this cold courteous ceremony:
I would not, Brother, for my throne, forego
My station in thy heart. Wert thou a stranger,
Thy letter'd fame had given thee entrance here.
"T is such as thou adorn a court, less honour'd
Than honouring; for you Poets hold a court
Which whoso visits not hath lost all title
To that nobility which lives for ages,
Where Kings are proud to enter. There's no clime
[The Ladies retire. Nor age not even the Heaven of Heavens, but sends,
Summon'd by your plumed herald Fantaisie,
Its embassage of noblest images
Oh! who had thought
Our little playful Anne, all mirth and frolic,
The veriest madcap that ere made a mother
Tremble, rejoice, and smile, and weep at once,
Should sit on England's throne? Nay, if thou bribe not
My garrulous age, I may betray strange tales
Not all beseeming the high sceptred state
Of the Queen's majesty.
To do you service; and ye entertain them
Right royally, do make them move to music
That they forget the sounds of their own spheres.
Sweet rebuke:
Dear Sister, I've been toiling in your service,
Or rather turning toil to sweet delight;
I've been enriching my rude verse with thoughts
I stole from thee in that religious converse
We held some days ago, when we discuss'd
The vain idolatries of Rome, adoring
With disproportionate and erring reverence
The Holy Virgin. I've a hymn, methinks
The misdirected homage, vain and blind;
Aside thou turnest thy offended ears
Where one Hosanna fills th' acclaiming spheres;
Oh! conscious child of Eve,
Mary, thy soul doth grieve
At godhead's sacred rite to thee assign'd;
Mourning the rash unholy injury done
To the redeeming name of thy Almighty Son!
Will not offend.-Will 't please your Highness hear it? Yet ne'er Incarnate Godhead might reside,
Most willingly, it suits the hour-for eve,
That steals so softly on the quiet world,
Seems made for solemn music, even as nature
Breathed silence over all in earth and Heaven,
Vocal alone with grateful man's thanksgiving.
Here-call Mark Smeaton, bid him bring his lute. The above, SMEATON.
Now, boy, that tune I told thee of within;
And look thou touch it masterly: her Grace
Hath that nice ear that vibrates to the touch
Of harmony, so tremblingly alive,
The slightest discord jars on it like anguish.
Not with that shaking hand—
Look, the Queen smiles' Right, boy, thou own'st that inspiration.
The Protestant's Hymn to the Virgin.
1.
Oh! Virgin Mother! not with choral hymn
Around the lamp-deck'd altar high and dim,
Where silver bells are faintly ringing,
And odorous censers lightly swinging;
Till blazing forth above, beneath, around,
Rolls the full organ's never-ceasing sound:
Not with the costly gift of gold and gem,
Where thy enshrined image stands,
Save where his conscious presence glorified; Thee, therefore, lovelier far we deem
Than eye may see or soul may dream. Unchanged-unwasted by the pains of earth, Thou didst bring forth the fair immortal birth: And Hope and Faith, and deep maternal Joy, And Love, and not unholy Pride, With soft unevanescent glory dyed Thy cheeks, while gazing on the peerless boy; And surer than prophetic consciousness, That he was born all human-kind to bless! The musical and peopled air was dim, Mary, where'er thy haunt,
With angels visitant, Nor always did the viewless Seraphim Stand with their plumed glories unconfest, To see the Eternal Child while cradled on thy breast
And what, though in the winter, bleak and wild,
Thou didst bring forth the unregarded child,
The summon'd star made haste to shine
Upon that new-born face divine,
And the low dwelling of the stabled beast
Shone with the homage of the gorgeous East.
Though driven far off to Nilus' reedy shore,
As thou didst slake thy burning feet,
Where o'er the desert fount the arching palm
Still its soft pillow'd charge thy bosom bore;
And thou didst watch in rapture his sweet sleep;
Loveliest, though framed by daring human hands, Or gaze, while sportive he thy locks carest,
And halo'd with thy sun-like diadem:
Not with the deep devotion of the heart,
Close folded arms across the heaving breast,
And words that find no breath, and sighs supprest-
Mary, we seek not thee
With suppliant agony
Of burning tears, that all unbidden start; To mortal name our jealous souls deny The incommunicable meed of Deity.
And thon, where'er thy everlasting seat-
If ever human prayer, with noise unmeet,
Up to thy radiant throne on high,
Ascend through the reluctant sky;
Or earthly music its fond notes intrude
Upon the silence of beatitude:
Lowliest as loveliest among mortal maids!
With all the grief that may abate
The changeless bliss of thy empyreal state, Ever thy sad dejected look upbraids
Or drank the living fountain of thy breast. Yet, Mary, o'er thy soul
A silent sadness stole,
Nor could thy swelling eyes refuse to weep,
For Rachel, desolate, in agony,
And Bethlehem's mothers childless all but thee.
Nor fail'd thy watchful spirit to behold
The secret inborn Deity unfold:
Nor e'er without a painless awe,
The wonderous youth the mother saw;
For in the Baptist's playful love appear'd
The homage of a heart that almost fear'd:
And though in meek subjection still he dwelt
Beneath thy husband's lowly home,
Oft from his lips would words mysterious come,
The soul untaught the present Saviour felt.
As more than prophet raptures o'er him broke,
And fuller still the inspiration pour'd,
Half-bow'd to earth unconscious knees adored:
Mary, before thy sight,
The wonder-working might,
Prerogative of highest Godhead woke;
Unfearful yet!-when instant at his sign,
The water vessels blush'd with generous wine.
6.
Blest o'er all women; did thy heart repress,
Humble as chaste, each thought of loftiness,
When wonder after wonder burst
Around the child thy bosom nurst;—
The dumb began to sing, the lame to leap;
His unwet footsteps trod the unyielding deep;
Still at his word disease and anguish ceased,
And healthful blood began to flow,
Ruddy, beneath the leper's skin of snow; And shuddering fiends the tortured soul released; And from the grave arose the summon'd dead? Yet, ah! did ne'er thy mother's heart repine, When he set forth upon his dread design?
Mary, did ne'er thy love
His piteous fate reprove, When on the rock reposed his houseless head? Seem'd it not strange to thy officious zealAll pains, all sorrows, save his own, to heal?
Yet, oh! how awful, Desolate! to thee,
Thus to have shrined the living Deity!
When underneath the loaded Rood,
Forlorn the childless mother stood:
Then when that voice, whose first articulate breath
Thrill'd her enraptured ear, had now in death
Bequeath'd her to his care whom best he loved;
When the cold death-dew bathed his brow,
And faint the drooping head began to bow,
Wert thou not, saddest, too severely proved?
As in thy sight each rigid limb grew cold,
And the lip whiten'd with the burning thirst,
And the last cry of o'erwrought anguish burst,
Where then the Shiloh's crown,
Mary, the Christ's renown,
By Prophets and Angelic harps foretold?
Was strength to thy undoubting spirit given?
Or did not human love o'erpower thy trust in Heaven?
But when Death's conqueror from the tomb return'd,
Was thine the heart that at his voice ne'er burn'd?
Follow'd him not thy constant sight,
Slow melting in Heaven's purest white,
To take his ancient endless seat on high,
On the right hand of Parent Deity?
As when thine earthly pilgrimage was ended,
We deem not, but that circled round,
With ringing harps of Heaven's most glorious
sound,
We gaze, admire, and wonder-love and bless:
Pure, blameless, holy, every praise be thine,
All honour, save thy Son's, all glory but divine,
The Palace of the Bishop of Winchester.
More blood! more blood!-three noble brethren more
From the Carthusian's decimated house (1),
Doom'd to the block-ay, pour it forth like water!
Make your Thames red, till your proud galleys plough
Their way, and leave a sanguine wake behind them:
Set wide the gates of Hell, and summon thence
Murder, enthroned on your high judgment-seat;
Arm her dark sister, lawless Massacre,
With the dread axe of public Execution;
Can Hell, or Earth's confederate Kings prevail
'Gainst the true Church ?-But, oh! ye martyr'd souls!
Spirits, with whose saintly blood their robes are wet-
Oh! all-accomplish'd More, and sainted Fisher,
Rejoice ye not that with your death ye rouse
The fire-wing'd ministers of Heaven's just wrath,
That welcoming your souls to th' abode of bliss,
Stand with spread wings, and ready girt for vengeance!
But ye, the pulpit Captains of the Schism, Worse than the worst-soul murderers, Hell's Apostles
Ye would pour oil into the Church's wounds
That your own parricide hands have rent, and think
They will not plead against you.-Oh! ye blind
To earthly wisdom as Heaven's light, that dare not
Greatly to sin, or, politicly severe,
Crush where ye conquer-ye will stand aloof
From the black scaffold, preach, protest, forswear
All deeds of blood; yet your infected cause
Shall smell of it to latest generations!
Oh fools! to plunge in internecine strife,
Yet pause, and fear to slay :-deserving none,
And by Heaven's throne receiving none, to dream
Of showing mercy; either way ye perish,
Or shed the martyrs' blood, whose dying voices
Arm Earth, Hell, Heaven, 'gainst your ungodly cause
Abstain, the uncheck'd recoil of our fierce vengeance
Shall sweep you to the appointed pit of Hell!
My Lord of Winchester, thou hast received Our full credentials from St. Peter's chair?
Brother in Christ, thou know'st this land rejects Rome's Bishop and his tyrannous usurpation.
That Stephen Gardiner owns no power in Rome
Thy spirit, redeem'd through thy Son's blood, ascended: I know, nor yet in England. What cares he There evermore in lowliest loftiness,
Meek thou admirest, how that living God,
That fills the Heaven and Earth, in thee abode.
Mary, we yield to thee
All but idolatry;
For King or Pontiff, so he may maintain
The proud supremacy of Stephen Gardiner.
A second, but a greater Wolsey, thou,
With thine unbounded soul, wouldst rule o'er allChurch, State, the world
Italian, thou 'rt too bold
Too true, good Islander! but think not, Gardiner,
I or lament or deprecate thy greatness.
What qualities that make man fit to rule
Meet not in Winchester's capacious soul?
The statesman's large and comprehensive mind;
The politician's keen prophetic eye;
The scholar's mastery o'er the realm of knowledge;
Smooth manners, that with courtly art persuade;
The eloquent pen, pregnant with thought profound;
Quickness to penetrate each dark design;
Sagacity to wind the unwilling soul
To his own purpose: wisest in the council;
Deep read in books-in man's dark heart still deeper;
Most knowing in all Europe's courts. Blest England,
If she but prize his worth; himself most blest,
If but to his own interests blind, he err not
On his ascendant path-
A Churchman, and abase the Church's rule!
To wrest the thunder from his awful grasp,
Whose delegates are we, as he is Heaven's,
And place it in the temporal tyrant's hands,
That hath no scope nor end but his own pride
And carnal lust of sway! Rome covets power,
But for her sons, with wholesome tyranny,
To their own weal, to govern kings and nations.
Oh! traitor to thy people, King, and God,
As to thyself! to cast away the sceptre
That sways man's soul to his immortal vantage!
Son of the Holy Church, I exorcise
The fiend of disobedience from thine heart;
By all thou lovest-pomp, majesty, dominion,
By all thou hatest-th' apostate cause and crew,
Th'all powerful Cranmer!-ay, I see thy cheek
Blanch, thy low quivering lip-by all thou fear'st,
By all thon hopest, thou 'rt ours, thou 'rt Rome's,
thou 'rt Heaven's!
Good Father, walls have ears-the treacherous air,
With terrible delation, wanders round
The thrones of Kings.
Thon think'st not, I or Rome
Would urge a rashness, which might wreck our cause:
Would have thee cast this wise dissembling off,
By which thou hast won the easy confidence
Of foolish heretics: be supple still,
And seeming true, thou 'rt worthier of our trust.
We know thy heart our own, and lend awhile
While Stephen Gardiner
Must sink into the baser rank. Oh! fear not,
Nor jealously mistrust me, lest I cross
Thy upward path: I have forsworn the world,
Not with the formal oaths that burst like flax,
But those that chain the soul with triple iron.
Thy tongue, thy pen, to the proud King, t'abase him Earth hath no guerdon I may covet, none
To a more abject slave of thee and Rome.
Now hear me, Prelate, glut thine car with tidings,
For there are dark and deep-delved plots, that 'scape
Even Gardiner's lynx-eyed sight-thy soul shall laugh.
The Queen-the Boleyn-the false harlot heretic-
She's in our toils-lost, doom'd
I may enjoy.-Thou, Stephen Gardiner,
Shalt rule submissive Prelates, Peers and Kings,
Loftiest in station, as in mind the mightiest;
And a perpetual noon of golden power
Shall blaze around thy lordly mitred state.
I'm girt for other journeys: at that hour,
When all but crown'd the righteous work, this Isle
Half bow'd again to the Holy See, I go
Far in some savage land unknown, remote
From civilized or reasonable life,
From letters, arts-where wild men howl around
Their blood-stain'd altars-to uplift th' unknown,
Unawful Crucifix: I go to pine
With famine; waste with slow disease; the loathing
And scorn of men. And when thy race is run,
Thou, Winchester, in marble cemetery,
Where thy cathedral roof, like some rich grove,
Spreads o'er, and all the walls with 'scutcheons blaze,
Shalt lie. While anthem'd choirs and pealing organs,
And incense clouds, and a bright heaven of lamps,
Shall solemnize thy gorgeous obsequies;
O'er my unsepulchred and houseless bones,
Cast on the barren beach of the salt sea,
Or arid desert, where the vulture flaps
Her dreary wings, shall never wandering Priest
Or bid his beads or say one passing pray'r.
Thy memory shall live in this land's records
While the sea girds the isle; but mine shall perish
As utterly as some base beggar's child
That unbaptized drops like abortive fruit
Into unhallow'd grave.
Rome cannot waste on such wild service minds Like thine, nor they endure the base obedience.
Of stern deliberate duty, and I rose
Resolved to sail the flood, to tread the fire-
That's nought-to quench all natural compunction.
To know nor right nor wrong, nor crime nor virtue
But as subservient to Rome's cause and Heaven's.
I've school'd my haughty soul to subtlest craft,
I've strung my tender heart to bloodiest havoc,
And stand prepared to wear the martyr's flames
Like nuptial robes;-far worse, to drag to the stake
My friend, the brother of my soul-if thus
I sear the hydra's heads of heresy.
Think not thine order, brother, nor thy tenets
Sublime as that unquestioning devotion
With which God's Seraphim perform his mandates
Unknown, unnoticed, unobserved. I lay
The volume of this heart, that man ne'er read,
Before thee. Here is hate of heresy.
Deep, desperate as thine own. In the dead night,
And in the secret prayers of my dark chamber,
Like thee I cry, Holy and True, how long-
Oh! when will they blaze up and gladden heaven,
The glorious purifying fires, and purge
The land of its pollutions; when the Church
Its pure and virgin whiteness re-array,
And its true Sons shake off dissembling darkness?
Oh! Gardiner, beware! No lust of vengeance,
No carnal hate, nor hope of worldly triumph,
Must leaven our heroic zeal: God's will
Its sole commission, its sole end God's glory,
Man of this world, thou know'st not those who tread We must gird up our souls to this high service,
The steps of great Ignatius, those that bear
The name of Jesus and his Cross. I've sunk
For ever title, rank, wealth-even my being;
And self annihilated, boast myself
A limb, a nameless limb, of that vast body
That shall bespread the world, uncheck'd, untraced-
Like God's own presence, every where, yet no
Th' invisible control, by which Rome rules
The universal mind of man.
On me
My Father's palace-gates no more shall open,
I own no more my proud ancestral name,
I have no property even in these weeds,
These coarse and simple weeds I wear; nor will,
Nor passion, nor affection, nor the love
Of kindred touch this earth-estranged heart;
My personal being is absorb'd and dead.
Thou think'st it much with cilice, scourge, and fast
To macerate thy all-too-pamper'd body,
That thy sere heart is seal'd to woman's love,
That child shall never climb thy knees, nor call thee
His father-on the altar of my God
I've laid a nobler sacrifice, a soul
Conscious it might have compass'd empire.-This
I've done; and in no brief and frantic fit
Of youthful lust ungratified-in the hour
Of disappointed pride. A noble, born
Of Rome's patrician blood, rich, letter'd, versed
In the affairs of men; no monkish dreamer
Hearing Heaven's summons in ecstatic vision.
God spoke within this heart but with the voice
Alike subdue and bend our pride and passions
To our great scope; with nought too stern or dread
But that we'll on relentless, nought too base
But we will stoop-much is already done-
Enough, I ask no more, would know no more.
I'll stand aloof, and wait in holy hope
Th' appointed hour.
In safety reap the harvest Sown in the sweat of others' brows. 'Tis well, Thus shall it be, thus best the cause will prosper; And, prosper but the cause, my work is done.
QUEEN (dismissing her Ladies). Away-we are not used to order twice; Away-depart.
I am alone-aloneNor that cold hateful pomp of fawning faces Pursues me, nor the true officious love Of those whose hearts I would not wring, by seeming The wretch I am so pour thee forth. mine heart, Pour thy full tide of bitterness; for Queens Must weep in secret when they weep. I saw it"T was no foul vision-with unblinded eyes I saw it; his fond hands, as once in mine, Were wreathed in hers; he gazed upon her face Even with those fatal eyes, no woman looks at
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