The Curse of the Charter-Breakers

King and council, lord and knight,

Squire and yeoman, stood in sight;

Stood to hear the priest rehearse,

In God’s name, the Church’s curse,

By the tapers round them lit,

Slowly, sternly uttering it.

“Right of voice in framing laws,

Right of peers to try each cause;

Peasant homestead, mean and small,

Sacred as the monarch’s hall,—

“Whoso lays his hand on these,

England’s ancient liberties;

Whoso breaks, by word or deed,

England’s vow at Runnymede;

“Be he Prince or belted knight,

Whatsoe’er his rank or might,

If the highest, then the worst,

Let him live and die accursed.

“Thou, who to Thy Church hast given

Keys alike of hell and heaven,

Make our word and witness sure,

Let the curse we speak endure!”

Silent, while that curse was said,

Every bare and listening head

Bowed in reverent awe, and then

All the people said, Amen!

Seven times the bells have tolled,

For the centuries gray and old,

Since that stoled and mitred band

Cursed the tyrants of their land.

Since the priesthood, like a tower,

Stood between the poor and power;

And the wronged and trodden down

Blessed the abbot’s shaven crown.

Gone, thank God, their wizard spell,

Lost their keys of heaven and hell;

Yet I sigh for men as bold

As those bearded priests of old.

Now too oft the priesthood wait

At the threshold of the state;

Waiting for the beck and nod

Of its power as law and God.

Fraud exults, while solemn words

Sanctify his stolen hoards;

Slavery laughs, while ghostly lips

Bless his manacles and whips.

Not on them the poor rely,

Not to them looks liberty,

Who with fawning falsehood cower

To the wrong, when clothed with power.

Oh, to see them meanly cling,

Round the master, round the king,

Sported with, and sold and bought,—

Pitifuller sight is not!

Tell me not that this must be:

God’s true priest is always free;

Free the needed truth to speak,

Right the wronged, and raise the weak.

Not to fawn on wealth and state,

Leaving Lazarus at the gate;

Not to peddle creeds like wares;

Not to mutter hireling prayers;

Nor to paint the new life’s bliss

On the sable ground of this;

Golden streets for idle knave,

Sabbath rest for weary slave!

Not for words and works like these,

Priest of God, thy mission is;

But to make earth’s desert glad,

In its Eden greenness clad;

And to level manhood bring

Lord and peasant, serf and king;

And the Christ of God to find

In the humblest of thy kind!

Thine to work as well as pray,

Clearing thorny wrongs away;

Plucking up the weeds of sin,

Letting heaven’s warm sunshine in;

Watching on the hills of Faith;

Listening what the spirit saith,

Of the dim-seen light afar,

Growing like a nearing star.

God’s interpreter art thou

To the waiting ones below;

’Twixt them and its light midway

Heralding the better day;

Catching gleams of temple spires,

Hearing notes of angel choirs,

Where, as yet unseen of them,

Comes the New Jerusalem!

Like the seer of Patmos gazing,

On the glory downward blazing;

Till upon Earth’s grateful sod

Rests the City of our God!