Classic Poem

All ye who lament o'er England's fall
From the Holy Catholic Faith!
Hear what the Hermit of Finisterre
From his rocky eyry saith:

Last of that ancient brotherhood,
Who, forth from Tintern's Choir,
Were forc'd across the raging seas
By cruel Henry's ire.

He saith, that early one Easter morn,
In false Elizabeth's reign,
Musing sadly o'er England's fall,
He was looking out on the main:

From his narrow ledge of beetling rock,
Athwart the basaltic steep,
That foremost stands, confronting the swell
Of the broad Atlantic deep;—

When he saw a Ship in the misty dawn
Becalm'd on the silent sea;
Her sails all drooping—her helm unwatch'd—
As though no crew had she!

From stem to stern so quaintly shap'd,
A ship of Eld it seem'd;
Anon some birthling of the dawn,
So goldenly it gleam'd.

Then, as he gaz'd, there suddenly burst
A storm right overhead,
So deadly black, at once he knew
From Satan's breath it sped.

And, lo! before his very eyes
That Ship went sinking down;
Till naught at last, of hull or mast,
Was left, but a spar alone;—

The topmost spar!—whence gallantly still,
In the face of the storm unfurl'd,
Old England's Catholic ensign wav'd,—
The Cross that rules the world!

A H , then I thought that all was o'er;
And I breath'd aloft a prayer,
For those who, with the sinking Ship,
Were cruelly sinking there.

When, lo! a wonder most strange to tell!
But stranger far to see!
A wonder I scarce could have believ'd,
Had it been told to me!

For scarce had the Cross the waters kiss'd,
When, ere they could o'er it close,
Slowly—slowly—it mounted again,
And again the spar uprose;—

And after the spar, the three tall masts,
With sails of glistering white;
And after the masts, the Ship herself,
With all her armoury bright.

While softly, and softly, over the sea,
I heard a music pass,
Soothing the winds, and soothing the waves,
Till they lay as molten glass;

And in the East a vista began
To open, fold in fold,
Streaking all the ocean flood
With veins of purple and gold.

For now had risen the blessed Sun
Of the Resurrection Morn;
And his broad beam, in one full stream,
Upon the Ship was borne:

Whose deck one living topaz seem'd;
Each mast, a sapphire bright;
Each cord, of rainbow tissue wrought;
Each sail, of sheeted light;

The whole so wondrously appearing
Transfigur'd before mine eyes,
That the sight it fill'd my heart with tears,
My soul with Paradise.

Thus as I gaz'd, there stole along
A softly fanning breeze,
Breathing a solemn incense fresh
From Isles of the Southern seas.

The sails, they fill'd—the Ship she began
To walk the waters o'er;—
Full straight she steer'd;—full well I mark'd
She steer'd for England's shore.

While on her deck, in the sun's bright ray,
There knelt, in place of a crew,
A goodly company, all in prayer,
Whom for England's Saints I knew:

Save Her who stood at the helm apart,
With a calm majestic mien;
And Her I knew, by her robe of blue,
To be Heav'n's immortal Queen!

That Virgin Mother—who loves the Isle,
Where she was belov'd of yore;
That Virgin Mother—who loves it still,
Though it loves Her now no more.

O Vision of bliss!—She turn'd her head;
She smil'd benignly on me;
Pointing her hand to my native land,
Far Northward over the sea.

Then faster and faster the vessel sped,
O'er the breadth of the bounding surge;
Till into a speck I beheld it fade,
On the dim horizon's verge.

S UCH was the Vision, divinely fair,
That on Easter Sunday morn,
I, the Hermit of Finisterre,
Beheld at break of dawn.

And twice again, in the next two years,—
Believe it as ye may,—
The selfsame thing, at the selfsame hour,
I saw on the selfsame day.

Now, therefore, ye who for England weep,
As lost for ever to God,
Down in the black Satanic deep
Of heresy's awful flood,—

Give ear, give ear to this PROPHECY ,
Which, with his parting breath,
The last of Tintern's exil'd sons
For your consolation saith.

T HREE centuries shall England lie
Beneath the storm of Hell;
Three centuries her Church shall fade,
And all but seem to fail;

Three centuries her Saints shall mourn
To see the Faith expire;
Ivy shall climb, and birds shall sing,
In many a ruin'd choir.

But in the fourth, on Peter's chair
A Pope shall sit and reign,
Who, in the Virgin's glorious might,
Shall turn the tide again.

He first to all the world shall give
The long-desired Decree,
Proclaiming our sweet Lady's gift
Of peerless Purity.

Shall name Her THE I MMACULATE ,
Without a stain conceiv'd;
And stamp the doctrine as of Faith,
Immutably believ'd.

She, in return, to Peter's crown
Shall gratefully restore
Its long-lost gem, the Isle of Saints,
Far brighter than before;—

Cleans'd with the blood of martyr'd priests,
And virgins' holy tears,
That must for guilty England flow
For twice a hundred years.

Then shall the children think again
Of their dear Fathers' home;
And fly, as doves upon the wing,
To long-forgotten Rome.

Then shall the Abbey rear its head,
And open wide its door;
And lift its sacrificial chant,
As in the days of yore.

Then shall the glorious Cross of Christ
No more dishonour'd lie;
Then shall the throne of Britain wail
For its apostasy;

Then shall the sons of Scotia hide
The wreck their fathers made;
Then Celt and Saxon shall unite
Beneath St. Peter's shade.

Then, rank in rank, and file on file,
The armies of the Lord
Shall march, to spread through England's breadth
The Faith so long abhorr'd;

Which, once receiv'd, shall forth again
As from a centre sweep,
Borne on the wings of England's fleets
Across the trackless deep,

To earth's remotest empires,
Now sunk in night forlorn;
To Isles, and shoreless Continents,
Of nations yet unborn:

Till such a harvest shall be reap'd,
Beyond the world's belief,
As shall console the Church of God
For centuries of grief.

E' EN now, O England, I behold,
With solemn pace and slow,
Through thy long desecrated shrines
The glad Procession go.

I see the mitred Pontiff tread
Their festal aisles along;
I see the Crucifix o'erhead;
I hear their olden song.

The fragrant incense high aloft
Its waving circlet weaves;
And Rome, with more than Mother's joy,
Her erring child receives.

O day, O blissful day, for thee
How many saints have sigh'd!
And only to behold thy face
Most gladly would have died.

O prayer of longing Christendom!
O balm for sorrows past!
What joy 'twill be, when thou shalt come!
As come thou shalt at last.

S UCH is the hope that evermore
My lonely spirit cheers.
O Jesu! speed the time;—O speed
The slowly marching years!

And grant of Thy dear mercy, Lord,
That when these things shall be,
I, safe from my long pilgrimage
In heavenly light with Thee,

May from the crystal battlements
That day of days behold;
And in the sight, for present grief,
Rejoice a thousandfold.