Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/70

 Prince and priest, let a mourner's feast give thanks to God for your conquest won. England's heel is upon you: kneel, O priest, O prince, in the dust, and cry, 'Lord, why thus? art thou wroth with us whose faith was great in thee, God most high? Whence is this, that the serpent's hiss derides us? Lord, can thy pledged word lie?

'God of hell, are its flames that swell quenched now for ever, extinct and dead? Who shall fear thee? or who shall hear the word thy servants who feared thee said? Lord, art thou as the dead gods now, whose arm is shortened, whose rede is read?

'Yet we thought it was not for nought thy word was given us, to guard and guide: Yet we deemed that they had not dreamed who put their trust in thee. Hast thou lied?