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 swelled 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!

15

For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! 20

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!

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Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast,
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?

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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.

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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 war.

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Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,
First give another stab to make your search 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,

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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.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, 50 Your perfumed 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:

The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.

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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.

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Lord Macaulay.

CCVI

CAVALIER SONG.

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,

My true love has mounted his steed and away,

Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down;

Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear, 5
He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long-flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,—
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;
His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,—
God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!

ΤΟ

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;
There's Erin's high Ormond and Scotland's Montrose!
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and
Brown,

15

With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!
Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown

In a pledge to Fair England, her Church, and her Crown.
Sir Walter Scott.

CCVII

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North

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Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime;

As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death,

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And the boldest held his breath

20

25

For a time.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ;—

Their shots along the deep slowly boom :-
Then ceased-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail,

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave:

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Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died,

With the gallant good Riou :

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

Thomas Campbell.

CCVIII

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

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