V.

Call back the joyous Past! Lo, England white-robed for a holyday! While, choral to the clarion's kingly blast, Shout peals on shout along the Virgin's way, As through the swarming streets rolls on the long array. Mary is dead!--Look from your fire-won homes, Exulting Martyrs!--on the mount shall rest Truth's ark at last! th' avenging Lutheran comes And clasps THE BOOK ye died for to her breast![H] With her, the flower of all the Land, The high-born gallants ride, And ever nearest of the band, With watchful eye and ready hand, Young Dudley's form of pride![I] Ah, ev'n in that exulting hour, Love half allures the soul from Power,-- To that dread brow in bending down Throbs up, beneath the manlike crown, The woman's heart wild beating, While steals the whisper'd worship, paid Not to the Monarch, but the Maid, Through tromps and stormy greeting.