THE BATTLE OF MONCONTOUR. (1824.)

Он, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour
When the children of darkness and evil had power,
When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod
On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.

Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain,
Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain ;
Oh, weep for the living, who linger to bear
The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair.

One look, one last look, to our cots and our towers,
To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers,
To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed,
Where we fondly had deemed that our own would be laid.

Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome,
To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain,
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
To the song of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids,
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.

Farewell, and for ever. The priest and the slave
May rule in the halls of the free and the brave.
Our hearths we abandon; our lands we resign;
But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine,

SONGS OF THE CIVIL WAR.

I. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGSIN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT. (1824.)

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?

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, 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.
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 war.

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,

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, 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;

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.

HERE warlike coblers railed from tops of casks
At lords and love-locks, monarchy and masques.
There many a graceless page blaspheming reel'd,
From his dear cards and bumpers, to the field:
The famished rooks, impatient of delay,

Gnaw their cogg'd dice and curse the lingering prey:
His sad Andromache, with fruitless care,

Paints her wan lips and braids her borrowed hair:
For Church and King he quits his favourite arts,
Forsakes his Knaves, forsakes his Queen of Hearts:
For Church and King he burns to stain with gore
His doublet, stained with nought but sack before.

From a MS. Poem.

II. THE CAVALIER'S MARCH TO LONDON. (1824.)

To horse! to horse! brave Cavaliers!

To horse for Church and Crown!

Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears! And ho for London town!

The imperial harlot, doom'd a prey

To our avenging fires,

Sends up the voice of her dismay

From all her hundred spires.

The Strand resounds with maidens' shrieks,

The 'Change with merchants' sighs,

And blushes stand on brazen cheeks,

And tears in iron eyes;

And, pale with fasting and with fright,

Each Puritan Committee

Hath summon'd forth to prayer and fight
The Roundheads of the City.

And soon shall London's sentries hear
The thunder of our drum,

And London's dames, in wilder fear,
Shall cry, Alack! They come !

Fling the fascines;-tear up the spikes;

And forward, one and all.

Down, down with all their train-band pikes,
Down with their mud-built wall.