TO THE ENGLISH MARTYRS

By Francis Thompson

Rain, rain on Tyburn tree,Red rain a-falling;Dew, dew on Tyburn tree,Red dew on Tyburn tree,And the swart bird a-calling.The shadow lies on England nowOf the deathly-fruited bough:Cold and black with malisonLies between the land and sun;Putting out the sun, the boughShades England now!The troubled heavens so wan with care,And burdened with the earth’s despairShiver a-cold; the starved heavenHas want, with wanting men bereaven.Blest fruit of the unblest bough,Aid the land that smote you, now!That feels the sentence and the curseYe died if so ye might reverse.When God was stolen from out man’s mouth,Stolen was the bread; then hunger and drouthWent to and fro; began the wail,Struck root the poor-house and the jail,Ere cut the dykes, let through that flood,Ye writ the protest with your blood;Against this night—wherein our breathWithers, and the toiled heart perisheth,—Entered thecaveatof your death.Christ in the form of His true Bride,Again hung pierced and crucified,And groaned, “I thirst!” Not still ye stood,—Ye had your hearts, ye had your blood;And pouring out the eager cup,—“The wine is weak, yet, Lord Christ, sup.”Ah, blest! who bathed the parched VineWith richer than His Cana-wine,And heard, your most sharp supper past:“Ye kept the best wine to the last!”Ah, happy whoThat sequestered secret knew,How sweeter than bee-haunted dellsThe blosmy blood of martyrs smells!Who did upon the scaffold’s bed,The ceremonial steel between you, wedWith God’s grave proxy, high and reverend Death;Or felt about your neck, sweetly,(While the dull hordeSaw but the unrelenting cord)The Bridegroom’s arm, and that long kissThat kissed away your breath, and claimed you His.You did, with thrift of holy gain,Unvenoming the sting of pain,Hive its sharp heather-honey. YeHad sentience of the mysteryTo make Abaddon’s hooked wingsBuoy you up to starry things;Pain of heart, and pain of sense,Pain the scourge, ye taught to cleanse;Pain the loss became possessing;Pain the curse was pain the blessing.Chains, rack, hunger, solitude,—these,Which did your soul from earth release,Left it free to rush uponAnd merge in its compulsive Sun.Desolated, bruised, forsaken,Nothing taking, all things taken,Lacerated and tormented,The stifled soul, in naught contented,On all hands straitened, cribbed, denied,Can but fetch breath o’ the Godward side.Oh, to me, give but to meThat flower of felicity,Which on your topmost spirit wareThe difficult and snowy airOf high refusal! and the heatOf central love which fed with sweetAnd holy fire i’ the frozen sodRoots that ta’en hold on God.Unwithering youth in you renewedThose rosy waters of your blood,—The trueFons Juventutis; yePass with conquest that Red Sea,And stretch out your victorious handOver the Fair and Holy Land.O by the Church’s pondering artLate set and named upon the chartOf her divine astronomy,Through your influence from on highLong shed unnoted! BrightNew cluster in our Northern night,Cleanse from its pain and undelightAn impotent and tarnished hymn,Whose marish exhalations dimSplendours they would transfuse! And thouKindle the words which blot thee now,Over whose sacred corse unhearsedEurope veiled her face, and cursedThe regal mantle grained in goreOf genius, freedom, faith, and More!Ah, happy Fool of Christ, unawedBy familiar sanctities,You served your Lord at holy ease!Dear Jester in the Courts of God⸺In whose spirit, enchanting yet,Wisdom and love together met,Laughed on each other for content!That an inward merriment,An inviolate soul of pleasure,To your motions taught a measureAll your days; which tyrant king,Nor bonds, nor any bitter thing,Could embitter or perturb;No daughter’s tears, nor, more acerb,A daughter’s frail declension fromThy serene example, comeBetween thee and thy much content.Nor could the last sharp argumentTurn thee from thy sweetest folly;To the keenaccoladeand holyThou didst bend low a sprightly knee,And jest Death out of gravityAs a too sad-visaged friend;So, jocund passing to the endOf thy laughing martyrdom;And now from travel art gone homeWhere, since gain of thee was given,Surely there is more mirth in heaven!Thus, in Fisher and in thee,Arose the purple dynasty,The anointed Kings of Tyburn tree;High in act and word each one:He that spake—and to the sunPointed—“I shall shortly beAbove yon fellow,” He too, heNo less high of speech and brave,Whose word was: “Though I shall haveSharp dinner, yet I trust in ChristTo have a most sweet supper.” PricedMuch by men that utterance wasOf the doomed Leonidas,—Not more exalt than these, which noteMen who thought as Shakespeare wrote.But more lofty eloquenceThan is writ by poet’s pensLives in your great deaths: O theseHave more fire than poesies!And more ardent than all ode,The pomps and raptures of your blood!By that blood ye hold in feeThis earth of England; Kings are ye:And ye have armies—Want, and Cold,And heavy Judgments manifoldHung in the unhappy air, and SinsThat the sick gorge to heave begins,Agonies and Martyrdoms,Love, Hope, Desire, and all that comesFrom the unwatered soul of manGaping on God. These are the vanOf conquest, these obey you; these,And all the strengths of weaknesses,That brazen walls disbed. Your hand,Princes, put forth to the command,And levy upon the guilty landYour saving wars; on it go down,Black beneath God’s and heaven’s frown;Your prevalent approaches makeWith unsustainable grace, and takeCaptive the land that captived you;To Christ enslave ye and subdueHer so bragged freedom: for the crimeShe wrought on you in antique time,Parcel the land among you; reign,Viceroys to your sweet Suzerain!Till she shall knowThis lesson in her overthrow:Hardest servitude has heThat’s jailed in arrogant liberty;And freedom, spacious and unflawed,Who is walled about with God.

Rain, rain on Tyburn tree,

Red rain a-falling;

Dew, dew on Tyburn tree,

Red dew on Tyburn tree,

And the swart bird a-calling.

The shadow lies on England now

Of the deathly-fruited bough:

Cold and black with malison

Lies between the land and sun;

Putting out the sun, the bough

Shades England now!

The troubled heavens so wan with care,And burdened with the earth’s despairShiver a-cold; the starved heavenHas want, with wanting men bereaven.Blest fruit of the unblest bough,Aid the land that smote you, now!That feels the sentence and the curseYe died if so ye might reverse.When God was stolen from out man’s mouth,

The troubled heavens so wan with care,

And burdened with the earth’s despair

Shiver a-cold; the starved heaven

Has want, with wanting men bereaven.

Blest fruit of the unblest bough,

Aid the land that smote you, now!

That feels the sentence and the curse

Ye died if so ye might reverse.

When God was stolen from out man’s mouth,

Stolen was the bread; then hunger and drouthWent to and fro; began the wail,Struck root the poor-house and the jail,Ere cut the dykes, let through that flood,Ye writ the protest with your blood;Against this night—wherein our breathWithers, and the toiled heart perisheth,—Entered thecaveatof your death.Christ in the form of His true Bride,Again hung pierced and crucified,And groaned, “I thirst!” Not still ye stood,—Ye had your hearts, ye had your blood;And pouring out the eager cup,—“The wine is weak, yet, Lord Christ, sup.”Ah, blest! who bathed the parched VineWith richer than His Cana-wine,And heard, your most sharp supper past:“Ye kept the best wine to the last!”

Stolen was the bread; then hunger and drouth

Went to and fro; began the wail,

Struck root the poor-house and the jail,

Ere cut the dykes, let through that flood,

Ye writ the protest with your blood;

Against this night—wherein our breath

Withers, and the toiled heart perisheth,—

Entered thecaveatof your death.

Christ in the form of His true Bride,

Again hung pierced and crucified,

And groaned, “I thirst!” Not still ye stood,—

Ye had your hearts, ye had your blood;

And pouring out the eager cup,—

“The wine is weak, yet, Lord Christ, sup.”

Ah, blest! who bathed the parched Vine

With richer than His Cana-wine,

And heard, your most sharp supper past:

“Ye kept the best wine to the last!”

Ah, happy whoThat sequestered secret knew,How sweeter than bee-haunted dellsThe blosmy blood of martyrs smells!Who did upon the scaffold’s bed,The ceremonial steel between you, wedWith God’s grave proxy, high and reverend Death;Or felt about your neck, sweetly,(While the dull hordeSaw but the unrelenting cord)The Bridegroom’s arm, and that long kissThat kissed away your breath, and claimed you His.You did, with thrift of holy gain,Unvenoming the sting of pain,Hive its sharp heather-honey. YeHad sentience of the mysteryTo make Abaddon’s hooked wingsBuoy you up to starry things;Pain of heart, and pain of sense,Pain the scourge, ye taught to cleanse;Pain the loss became possessing;Pain the curse was pain the blessing.

Ah, happy who

That sequestered secret knew,

How sweeter than bee-haunted dells

The blosmy blood of martyrs smells!

Who did upon the scaffold’s bed,

The ceremonial steel between you, wed

With God’s grave proxy, high and reverend Death;

Or felt about your neck, sweetly,

(While the dull horde

Saw but the unrelenting cord)

The Bridegroom’s arm, and that long kiss

That kissed away your breath, and claimed you His.

You did, with thrift of holy gain,

Unvenoming the sting of pain,

Hive its sharp heather-honey. Ye

Had sentience of the mystery

To make Abaddon’s hooked wings

Buoy you up to starry things;

Pain of heart, and pain of sense,

Pain the scourge, ye taught to cleanse;

Pain the loss became possessing;

Pain the curse was pain the blessing.

Chains, rack, hunger, solitude,—these,Which did your soul from earth release,Left it free to rush uponAnd merge in its compulsive Sun.Desolated, bruised, forsaken,Nothing taking, all things taken,Lacerated and tormented,The stifled soul, in naught contented,On all hands straitened, cribbed, denied,Can but fetch breath o’ the Godward side.Oh, to me, give but to meThat flower of felicity,Which on your topmost spirit wareThe difficult and snowy airOf high refusal! and the heatOf central love which fed with sweetAnd holy fire i’ the frozen sodRoots that ta’en hold on God.

Chains, rack, hunger, solitude,—these,

Which did your soul from earth release,

Left it free to rush upon

And merge in its compulsive Sun.

Desolated, bruised, forsaken,

Nothing taking, all things taken,

Lacerated and tormented,

The stifled soul, in naught contented,

On all hands straitened, cribbed, denied,

Can but fetch breath o’ the Godward side.

Oh, to me, give but to me

That flower of felicity,

Which on your topmost spirit ware

The difficult and snowy air

Of high refusal! and the heat

Of central love which fed with sweet

And holy fire i’ the frozen sod

Roots that ta’en hold on God.

Unwithering youth in you renewedThose rosy waters of your blood,—The trueFons Juventutis; yePass with conquest that Red Sea,And stretch out your victorious handOver the Fair and Holy Land.O by the Church’s pondering artLate set and named upon the chartOf her divine astronomy,Through your influence from on highLong shed unnoted! BrightNew cluster in our Northern night,Cleanse from its pain and undelightAn impotent and tarnished hymn,Whose marish exhalations dimSplendours they would transfuse! And thouKindle the words which blot thee now,Over whose sacred corse unhearsedEurope veiled her face, and cursedThe regal mantle grained in goreOf genius, freedom, faith, and More!

Unwithering youth in you renewed

Those rosy waters of your blood,—

The trueFons Juventutis; ye

Pass with conquest that Red Sea,

And stretch out your victorious hand

Over the Fair and Holy Land.

O by the Church’s pondering art

Late set and named upon the chart

Of her divine astronomy,

Through your influence from on high

Long shed unnoted! Bright

New cluster in our Northern night,

Cleanse from its pain and undelight

An impotent and tarnished hymn,

Whose marish exhalations dim

Splendours they would transfuse! And thou

Kindle the words which blot thee now,

Over whose sacred corse unhearsed

Europe veiled her face, and cursed

The regal mantle grained in gore

Of genius, freedom, faith, and More!

Ah, happy Fool of Christ, unawedBy familiar sanctities,You served your Lord at holy ease!Dear Jester in the Courts of God⸺In whose spirit, enchanting yet,Wisdom and love together met,Laughed on each other for content!That an inward merriment,An inviolate soul of pleasure,To your motions taught a measureAll your days; which tyrant king,Nor bonds, nor any bitter thing,Could embitter or perturb;No daughter’s tears, nor, more acerb,A daughter’s frail declension fromThy serene example, comeBetween thee and thy much content.Nor could the last sharp argumentTurn thee from thy sweetest folly;To the keenaccoladeand holyThou didst bend low a sprightly knee,And jest Death out of gravityAs a too sad-visaged friend;So, jocund passing to the endOf thy laughing martyrdom;And now from travel art gone homeWhere, since gain of thee was given,Surely there is more mirth in heaven!

Ah, happy Fool of Christ, unawed

By familiar sanctities,

You served your Lord at holy ease!

Dear Jester in the Courts of God⸺

In whose spirit, enchanting yet,

Wisdom and love together met,

Laughed on each other for content!

That an inward merriment,

An inviolate soul of pleasure,

To your motions taught a measure

All your days; which tyrant king,

Nor bonds, nor any bitter thing,

Could embitter or perturb;

No daughter’s tears, nor, more acerb,

A daughter’s frail declension from

Thy serene example, come

Between thee and thy much content.

Nor could the last sharp argument

Turn thee from thy sweetest folly;

To the keenaccoladeand holy

Thou didst bend low a sprightly knee,

And jest Death out of gravity

As a too sad-visaged friend;

So, jocund passing to the end

Of thy laughing martyrdom;

And now from travel art gone home

Where, since gain of thee was given,

Surely there is more mirth in heaven!

Thus, in Fisher and in thee,Arose the purple dynasty,The anointed Kings of Tyburn tree;High in act and word each one:He that spake—and to the sunPointed—“I shall shortly beAbove yon fellow,” He too, heNo less high of speech and brave,Whose word was: “Though I shall haveSharp dinner, yet I trust in ChristTo have a most sweet supper.” PricedMuch by men that utterance wasOf the doomed Leonidas,—Not more exalt than these, which noteMen who thought as Shakespeare wrote.But more lofty eloquenceThan is writ by poet’s pensLives in your great deaths: O theseHave more fire than poesies!And more ardent than all ode,The pomps and raptures of your blood!By that blood ye hold in feeThis earth of England; Kings are ye:And ye have armies—Want, and Cold,And heavy Judgments manifoldHung in the unhappy air, and SinsThat the sick gorge to heave begins,Agonies and Martyrdoms,Love, Hope, Desire, and all that comesFrom the unwatered soul of manGaping on God. These are the vanOf conquest, these obey you; these,And all the strengths of weaknesses,That brazen walls disbed. Your hand,Princes, put forth to the command,And levy upon the guilty landYour saving wars; on it go down,Black beneath God’s and heaven’s frown;Your prevalent approaches makeWith unsustainable grace, and takeCaptive the land that captived you;To Christ enslave ye and subdueHer so bragged freedom: for the crimeShe wrought on you in antique time,Parcel the land among you; reign,Viceroys to your sweet Suzerain!Till she shall knowThis lesson in her overthrow:Hardest servitude has heThat’s jailed in arrogant liberty;And freedom, spacious and unflawed,Who is walled about with God.

Thus, in Fisher and in thee,

Arose the purple dynasty,

The anointed Kings of Tyburn tree;

High in act and word each one:

He that spake—and to the sun

Pointed—“I shall shortly be

Above yon fellow,” He too, he

No less high of speech and brave,

Whose word was: “Though I shall have

Sharp dinner, yet I trust in Christ

To have a most sweet supper.” Priced

Much by men that utterance was

Of the doomed Leonidas,—

Not more exalt than these, which note

Men who thought as Shakespeare wrote.

But more lofty eloquence

Than is writ by poet’s pens

Lives in your great deaths: O these

Have more fire than poesies!

And more ardent than all ode,

The pomps and raptures of your blood!

By that blood ye hold in fee

This earth of England; Kings are ye:

And ye have armies—Want, and Cold,

And heavy Judgments manifold

Hung in the unhappy air, and Sins

That the sick gorge to heave begins,

Agonies and Martyrdoms,

Love, Hope, Desire, and all that comes

From the unwatered soul of man

Gaping on God. These are the van

Of conquest, these obey you; these,

And all the strengths of weaknesses,

That brazen walls disbed. Your hand,

Princes, put forth to the command,

And levy upon the guilty land

Your saving wars; on it go down,

Black beneath God’s and heaven’s frown;

Your prevalent approaches make

With unsustainable grace, and take

Captive the land that captived you;

To Christ enslave ye and subdue

Her so bragged freedom: for the crime

She wrought on you in antique time,

Parcel the land among you; reign,

Viceroys to your sweet Suzerain!

Till she shall know

This lesson in her overthrow:

Hardest servitude has he

That’s jailed in arrogant liberty;

And freedom, spacious and unflawed,

Who is walled about with God.

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