Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/69

Rh  Who deem'd such heretics might ne'er atone To holy mother church their sinful doubts, By fires on earth, and quenchless fires beneath. Still o'er some brows a shade like pity stole, Gardiner seem'd satiate,—while the hollow eye Of persecuting Bonner flashed delight Too great for words. —But stifled tones were heard From murmuring groups,—and bitterly they mourn'd For good king Edward to his grave gone down In sanctity,—and then the mutter'd curse Fell deep upon that popish Queen, who fed The fires of Smithfield with the blood of saints, And dared to light in Oxford's* hallow'd vales Her bigot flame. There was a little band Who sad and silent sought their homes and wept O'er their loved prelates,—yet no railing word Or vengeful purpose breath'd,—but waiting stood For their own test of conscience and of faith, Inflexible,—and strong in heart to join The martyr'd host. This was the flock of Christ.

 

Clime by the tyrant North embraced, And scourged by Ocean's wildest ire! Who, mid thine intellectual waste, Would seek to find poetic fire? 