Down with the Church

Shall the grey tower in ruin spread ?
And must the furrow hold your dead ?
Our best-beloved are at rest,
Their cold hands folded on their breast, —
Spring's placid flowers their ashes hide,
And we shall slumber at their side.

Shall the grey tower in ruin bow ?
Must the babe die with nameless brow ?
Or common hands in mockery fling
The unbless'd waters of the spring ?
Where will the dove-like spirit rest
When yon old Church shall close her breast ?

Shall the grey tower in silence stand
When the heart thrills within the hand,
And beauty's lip to youth hath given
The vow on Earth that links for Heaven ?
Shall no glad peal from churchyard grey
Cheer the young matron's homeward way ?

Yes ! by the heart of England's pride
Still beating on the mountain side !
Yes! by the spirit of former men,
That slumbers in each Cornish glen !
The cry of triumph yet shall ring —
The Vyvyan-cry — " Our Church and King!"

Fair dame! the babe that climbs thy knee
Would lift its lisping voice to thee.
Maiden! with fond one at thy side —
Tell! by the holy name of Bride!
Mourner! by that beneath the pall ! —
Shall the grey tower in ruin fall?

No! though the sweat of faction reek
On each reformer's clammy cheek,
No ! though the voice of discord rend
The stately towers that none shall bend,
No! while the Cornish cry can ring —
The Vyvyan-cry — " Our Church and King! "