Classic Poem

E NGLAND , look up! Thy soil is stained with blood,
Thou hast made martyrs many of thine own,
If thou hadst Grace, their deaths would do thee good.
The seed will take, which in such blood is sown,
And Campion's learning fertile so before,
Thus watered too, must needs of force be more.

All Europe wonders at so rare a man,
England is filled with rumour of his end.
London must needs, for it was present then
When constantly three saints their lives did spend,
The streets, the stones, the steps, they hale them by,
Proclaim the cause, for which these martyrs die.

The Tower says, the truth he did defend,
The Bar bears witness of his guiltless mind,
Tyburn doth tell, he made a patient end.
In every gate his martyrdom we find.
In vain you wrought, that would obscure his name,
For heaven and earth will still record the same.

His quartered limbs shall join with joy again,
And rise a body brighter than the sun,
Your bloody malice tormented him in vain,
For every wrench some glory hath him won.
And every drop of blood, which he did spend,
Hath reaped a joy, which never shall have end.