To purify her soul, convince, and save.
But all in vain! When Self-conceit and Doubt,
Those unbelieving spirits, seem'd cast out,
There entered in two others, near allied,
But more unclean, Obduracy and Pride.
To banish these required more sharp research,
By rigorous means, abhorr'd of Holy Church;
Means only urged when none beside succeed,
Then urged with sorrow, nor beyond the need;
But which, urged here to equal it, have proved
Less rigid than the soul they have not moved.
"What rests? All human labours know their span:
Nor will the Spirit always strive with man:
Apostasies are rife; more odious none;
Examples needed;—and God's will be done!
God's and the King's. For having crown'd his brows
O'er prostrate France, the Fifth King Henry vows
To wear Christ's cross, his sepulchre restore,
And lash the apostate tribes from Judah's shore.
And well must we in England aid our chief,
And purge his realm of schism and unbelief.
What therefore rests? but having once more striven,
Ere that last—dread—anathema be given,
To save this miscreant, miserable maid,
Whom Hell has hardened thus, and Heaven betray'd;
Should these lures fail the last to be renew'd,
Should penitence and grace be still eschew'd,
What rests, my brethren, save—ye all concur,
To leave the secular arm to deal with her?"
What saith Anne Ayliffe to an appeal so kind, considerate, charitable, Christian? She says not a word—for the Evil one is busy within her—and she smiles. "Smiles, wretched girl, beseem her ill," cries the Primate, shocked at the blindness—not of her bodily eyes—for these he had extinguished—but of her soul; for it he would fain enlighten with gospel truth—
"And on its sightless eyeballs pour the day."
But tolerance must end somewhere—and is near its end. The gates of hell are yawning to receive her. "Penance and pardon still are in thy choice."
"Behold the Book of Life! abjure thy sin,
And haste, dear child, to write thy name therein;
Thine shall be all rewards a heaven possest,
And all this earth retains to make thee blest."
What blessing—she might haply say—pointing to the bandage, can earth now retain for her? Hush—say not—think not so—for the good Bishop, "Lord Primate of the realm, Lord Legate of the Pope," has ready for her a holy retreat, where she may enjoy earthly peace and commune with heaven.
"'In Netley Abbey—on the neighbouring isle
The woods of Binstead shade as fair a pile;—
(Where sloping meadows fringe the shores with green,
A river of the ocean rolls between,
Whose murmurs, borna on sunny winds, disport
Through oriel windows and a cloister'd court;
O'er hills so fair, o'er terraces so sweet,
The sea comes twice each day to kiss their feet:—
Where sounding caverns mine the garden bowers,
Where groves intone, where many an ilex towers,
And many a fragrant breath exhales from fruit and flowers:—
And lowing herds and feather'd warblers there
Make mystic concords with repose and prayer;
Mix'd with the hum of apiaries near,
The mill's far cataract, and the sea boys' cheer,
