We worship as our fathers did, In this our English home, Not asking grace from mortal man Nor craving leave from Rome. Once more the warning note is heard, The hour of strife is near-- What seeks he, with his mitred pomp, That rank Italian, here? What sought they in the former days, When last that mission came? The will, the craft, the creed of Rome Remain for aye the same! IV. Woe, woe to those who dared to dream That England might be free; That Papal power and Papal rule Were banished o'er the sea; That he who sate in Peter's chair, Had lost the will to harm, Was powerless as a withered crone Who works by spell and charm! Woe, woe to those who dared deny The Roman Pontiff's sway! His red right arm is bared in wrath, To smite, and burn, and slay! V. Light up, light up the ready fires! Sound trumpet, fife, and drum; Give welcome meet to him who brings The sovereign hests of Rome. No humble barefoot messenger-- No sandalled monk is he; A stately priest--a Cardinal-- Proclaims the Pope's decree. And see! upon her royal knees The Queen of England falls, In homage to a mightier Prince, Within her fathers' halls! VI. 'Tis done. Fair England! bow thy head, And mourn thy grievous sin! What though the Universal Church Will gladly let thee in? The stain is still upon thy brow, The guilt is on thy hand; For thou hast dared to worship God, Against the Pope's command. And thou hast scoffed at saint and shrine, Denied the Queen of heaven, And opened up with impious hands The Holy Book unshriven. VII. For this, and for thy stubborn will In daring to be free, A fearful penance must be done Ere guilt shall pass from thee. The prophets of the new-born faith, The leaders of the blind-- Arise, and take them in the midst-- Leave not a man behind! In London's streets and Oxford's courts A solemn fast proclaim, And let the sins of England's Church Be purged away by flame! VIII. In order long, the monkish throng Wind through the Oxford street, With up-drawn cowls, and folded hands, And slow and noiseless feet. Before their train the Crucifix Is borne in state on high, And banners with the Agnus wave, And crosiers glitter by: With spangled image, star-becrowned, And gilded pyx they come, To lay once more on English necks The hateful yoke of Rome. IX.