"Libera Nos, O Domine!"

By James Barron Hope.

What! ye hold yourselves as freemen? Tyrants love just such as ye! Go! abate your lofty manner! Write upon the State's old banner, "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Sink before the federal altar, Each one low, on bended knee, Pray, with lips that sob and falter, This prayer from the coward's psalter,-- "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

But ye hold that quick repentance In the Northern mind will be; This repentance comes no sooner Than the robbers did, at Luna! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

He repented him:--the Bishop Gave him absolution free; Poured upon him sacred chrism In the pomp of his baptism. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

He repented;--then he sickened! Was he pining for the sea? In extremis was he shriven, The viaticum was given, "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Then the old cathedral's choir Took the plaintive minor key; With the Host upraised before him, Down the marble aisles they bore him; "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

While the bishop and the abbot-- All the monks of high degree, Chanting praise to the Madonna, Came to do him Christian honor! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Now the miserere's cadence, Takes the voices of the sea; As the music-billows quiver, See the dead freebooter shiver! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Is it that these intonations Thrill him thus from head to knee? Lo, his cerements burst asunder! 'Tis a sight of fear and wonder! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Fierce, he stands before the bishop, Dark as shape of Destinie. Hark! a shriek ascends, appalling,-- Down the prelate goes--dead--falling! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Hastings lives! He was but feigning! What! Repentant? Never he! Down he smites the priests and friars, And the city lights with fires! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Ah! the children and the maidens, 'Tis in vain they strive to flee! Where the white-haired priests lie bleeding, Is no place for woman's pleading. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

Louder swells the frightful tumult-- Pallid Death holds revelrie! Dies the organ's mighty clamor, By the horseman's iron hammer! "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

So they thought that he'd repented! Had they nailed him to the tree, He had not deserved their pity, And they had not--lost their city. "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!"

For the moral in this story, Which is plain as truth can be: If we trust the North's relenting, We shall shriek-too late repenting-- "A furore Normanorum, Libera nos, O Domine!" [1]

[1] For this incident in the life of the sea-robber, Hastings, see Milman's History of Latin Christianity.