Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered...

Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered

By wrong triumphant through its own excess,

From fields laid waste, from house and home devoured

By flames, look up to heaven and crave redress

From God's eternal justice. Pitiless

Though men be, there are angels that can feel

For wounds that death alone has power to heal,

For penitent guilt, and innocent distress.

And has a Champion risen in arms to try

His Country's virtue, fought, and breathes no more;

Him in their hearts the people canonize;

And far above the mine's most precious ore

The least small pittance of bare mould they prize

Scooped from the sacred earth where his dear relics lie.