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.