A voice, from long-expectant thousands sent,
Shatters the air, and troubles tower and spire--
For Justice hath absolved the Innocent,
And Tyranny is balked of her desire:
Up--down the busy Thames--rapid as fire
Coursing a train of gunpowder--it went,
And transport finds in every street a vent,
Till the whole City rings like one vast quire.
The Fathers urge the People to be still,
With outstretched hands and earnest voice--in vain!
Yea, many, haply wont to entertain
Small reverence for the Mitre's offices,
And to Religion's self no friendly will,
A Prelate's blessing ask on bended knees.
Design, coding, and editing: Copyright © 1997-2004 by James M. Garrett. All rights reserved.