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But in a strength which heaven did grant them then.

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Sordino came to London just in time

To view a drama, not unseldom seen

By Englishmen in Mary Tudor’s reign,

Who left upon her country’s page a stain

So dark and bloody that scarce any queen

Has ever steeped her rule in fouler crime.

From Newgate prison, in the early morn,

An old decrepit man was rudely led,

Amid the gibes and scoffings of a mob,

Which drowned the words of pity and the sob;

Abuses fell upon his hoary head;

But for his Master they were gladly borne.

They brought him to an open square, where stood

An upright stake with iron rings and chains,

Awaiting his frail body to entwine,

And round about were twigs of birch and pine,

Piled up in bundles, groaning with the pains,

They should inflict on one whose life was good.

The rising sun cast on the earth a soft,

Warm, trembling light, God’s Cherubim who told

To all whose soul had vision: “He is Love;”

At least one marked it, smiled and looked above,