Now Whitehall's in the grave, And our head is our slave, The bright pearl in his close shell of oyster; Now the mitre is lost, The proud prelates, too, cross'd, And all Rome 's confin'd to a cloister; He that Tarquin was styl'd Our white land 's exil'd, Yea undefil'd; Not a court ape 's left to confute us: Then let your voices rise high, As your colours did fly, And flour'shing cry, Long live the brave Oliver-Brutus! Now the sun is unarm'd, And the moon by us charm'd, All the stars dissolv'd to a jelly; Now the thighs of the crown And the arms are lopp'd down, And the body is all but a belly: Let the Commons go on, The town is our own, We 'll rule alone; For the knights have yielded their spent gorge; And an order is ta'en, With Honi Soit profane, Shout forth amain, For our Dragon hath vanquish'd the St. George. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SECOND OPINION by STEPHEN CUSHMAN A BOY'S SUMMER SONG by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR LIMERICK by OLIVER BROOK HERFORD SOLOMON SCHECHTER by ALTER ABELSON HUDSON RIVER ANTHOLOGY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS LOOKING DOWNWARDS by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON IN IMMEMORIAM by EDWARD BRADLEY |