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THREE MEN OF GOTHAM Seamen three! What men be ye ?

Gotham's three wise men we be. Whither in your bowl so free ?

To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine.

6 And your ballast is old wine. Who art thou, so fast adrift ?

I am he they call Old Care. Here on board we will thee lift.

10 No: I may not enter there. Wherefore so ? 'Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be. In a bowl Care may not be. Fear ye not the waves that roll ?

15 No: in charméd bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl ?

Water may not pass the brim. The howl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine.

20 And your ballast is old wine.

T. L. PEACOCK.

299

THE GRAVE OF LOVE I dug, beneath the cypress shade,

What well might seem an elfin's grave;
And every pledge in earth I laid,

That erst thy false affection gave.
I pressed them down the sod beneath;

I placed one mossy stone above ;
And twined the rose's fading wreath

Around the sepulchre of love.

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Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead,

Ere yet the evening sun was set :
But years shall see the cypress spread,
Immutable as my regret.

T. L. PEACOCK.

300 A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith ; vain faith, and courage vain. For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep ; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting-place I asked, an early grave. O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I spake like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O’er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

LORD MACAULAY.

301 THE BATTLE OF NASEBY By Obadiah Bind-their-kings-in-chains-and-theirnobles-with-links-of-iron, serjeant in Ireton's regiment Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the

North, With your hands, and your feet, and your

raiment all red ? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous

shout ? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press

which ye tread ?

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Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we

trod; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and

the strong, Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints

of God. It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine,

10 And the Man of Blood was there, with his long

essenced hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of

the Rhine. Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his

sword, The General rode along us to form us to the fight, When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell’d

into a shout, Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's

right. And hark ! like the roar of the billows on the shore,

The cry of battle rises along their charging line ! For God! for the Cause! for the Church ! for the

Laws ! For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the

Rhine ! The furious German comes, with his clarions and

his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall ; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes,

close your ranks ; For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. They are here! They rush on! We are broken !

We are gone! Our left is borne before them like stubble on the

blast.

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O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the

right! Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to

the last Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath

given ground : Hark! hark !What means the trampling of

horsemen on our rear ? Whose banner do I see, boys ? 'Tis he, thank God!

'tis he, boys. Bear up another minute : brave Oliver is here. Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the

dykes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the

Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his

pikes. Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple

Bar : And he-he turns, he flies shame on those cruel

eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on

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war.

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Ho! comrades, scour the plain ; and, ere ye strip

the slain, First give another stab to make yoursearch secure, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad

pieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your

hearts were gay and bold, When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans

to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in

the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

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Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven

and hell and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your

blades, Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your

oaths, Your stage - plays and your sonnets, your

diamonds and your spades ?

Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the

crown, With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of

the Pope; There is woe in Oxford Halls ; there is wail in Durham's Stalls :

55 The Jesuit smites his bosom ; the Bishop rends

his cope.

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's

ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of

England's sword ; And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when

they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.

60 LORD MACAULAY.

302
BLACKMWORE MAIDENS
The primrwose in the sheäde do blow,

The cowslip in the zun,
The thyme upon the down do grow,

The clote where streams do run;
An' where do pretty maïdens grow

An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,

In Blackmwore by the Stour?

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