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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421182" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>King Charles the Martyr</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;This in thankworthy, if a man for conscience towards God endure grief, suffering wrongfully.&quot; I S.Peter ii. 19</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Praise to our Pardoning God! though silent now<br>The thunders of the deep prophetic sky,<br>Though in our sight no powers of darkness bow<br>Before th’ Apostles’ glorious company;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Martyrs’ noble army is still ours,<br>far in the North our fallen days have seen<br>How in her woe the tenderest spirit, towers<br>For Jesus’ sake in agony serene.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Praise to our God! not cottage hearths alone,<br>And shades imperious to the proud world’s glare,<br>Such witness yield: a monarch from his throne<br>Springs to his Cross and finds his glory there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes: wheresoe’er one trace of thee is found,<br>As in the sacred land, the shadows fall:<br>With beating hearts we roam the haunted ground,<br>Lone battle-field, or crumbling prison hall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And there are aching solitary breasts,<br>Whose widow’d walk with thought of thee is cheer’d,<br>Our own, our royal Saint: thy memory rests<br>On many a prayer, the more for thee endear’d.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">True son of our dear Mother, early taught<br>With her to worship and for her to die,<br>Nurs’d in her aisles to more than kingly thought,<br>Oft in her solemn hours we dream thee nigh.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For thou didst love to trace her daily lore,<br>And where we look for comfort or for calm,<br>Over the self-same lines to bend, and pour<br>Thy heart with hers in some victorious psalm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And well did she thy loyal love repay:<br>When all foresook, her Angel still was nigh,<br>Chain’d and bereft, and on thy funeral way,<br>Straight to the Cross she turn’d thy dying eye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yearly now, before the Martyrs’ King,<br>For thee she offers her maternal tears,<br>Calls us, like thee, to His dear feet to cling,<br>And bury in His wounds our earthly fears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Angels hear, and there is mirth in Heaven,<br>Fit prelude of the joy, when spirits won<br>Like thee to patient Faith, shall rise forgiven,<br>And at thy Saviour’s knees thy bright example own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Keble">John Keble</a><div class=q>
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Praise to our Pardoning God! though silent now
The thunders of the deep prophetic sky,
Though in our sight no powers of dark..."></div>
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