The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser. — 1839-11-15 (Liverpool, Merseyside, England)

CRANMER.  The martyrdom of Cranmer excited signal indignation in England, as a remorseless murder, combining all the tyranny and cruelty of Rome. But Cranmer's rank,--as the first prelate of the church, his eminent learning, and his exemplary character, rendered him only a victim more eagerly desired by the bloodthirsty supremacy of the popedom. After a trial, in which all the principles of justice and religion were equally violated, the venerable archbishop was brought to the stake. He perished with sacred constancy, holding his right hand in the flame, to be burned first, as the instrument of his unhappy recantation, and with extraordinary fortitude, declaring his sorrow for that single act of weakness, by crying out, " This unworthy band—this unworthy hand," until he died.  The mighty City's voice is still, As on her spirit hung a cloud, As if some sudden sense of ill Awoke her anguish, deep, not loud ; As when we stand beside the wave, And see those sink whom none can save. And man meets man with looks of gloom, And eyes weep then that seldom weep, And steps, as if they trod the tomb, From street to street in silence creep ; And groups are seen, with startled ear, Catching each distant sound of fear. But, clustering round a prison door, Are seen the soldier's plume and lance ; And sullen crowds around it pour, With clenching hand and frowning glance, And prayers that quick for vengeance rise, For on that day a Martyr dies !  And now the prison-portals ope, And from its arches, deep and dim, Gleam silver cross and broidered cope, And swells of death the chaunted hymn, And in the torches' tossing glare, Throng mitred brows and tonsures bare. But there moved one—his step was slow, His eyes were cast upon the ground, And when outburst the cry of woe, He looked as if he heard no sound— As if his step alone were there ; But his wan lips were moved in prayer. And now the train have reached the pile— There stands the monk, the man of blood ; Upon his cheek the bigot's smile, To see the faggot's living food; And round him, wrapped in cope and cowl, His tools of murder, fierce and foul. No longer stoop'd that prisoner's brow, His form was sudden majesty ; His cheek was lighted with the glow Of one who saw deliverance nigh— Who longed to have a mighty name, Tried by the test of gore and flame.  And now the ancient man is chained, And now_ around him bursts the blaze. Inquisitor ! thy cause is gained ! Harlot of Rome, thy wean raise— Watch, murderers, watch—perchance your flame May sting his lips to words of shame ! The Martyr stood within that flame, As standing in his own high hall ! But one dark memory o'er him came, Like Peter's tears for Peter's fall. And still he cried, " This worthless hand !" Until it was a burning brand. Then all was past—the furious monk, The guard—the weeping crowd were gone; In dust the fiery pile had sunk— The Martyr's starry crown was won ; And Rome exulted o'er his grave, And thought that England was her slave ! But from that grave her spirit spoke, The Bible made the nation free— By Cranmer's gore was burst her yoke, TRUTH was the Christian's liberty ! And shall we ope the murderer's den, And bid him light the pile again. —Britannia  H