And found the Hamadryad with her head
Upon her aching wrist; and show'd one wing
Half broken off, the other's meshes marr'd,
And there were bruises which no eye could see
Saving a Hamadryad's.

At this sight

Down fell the languid brow, both hands fell down,
A shriek was carried to the ancient hall
Of Thallinos: he heard it not his son
Heard it, and ran forthwith into the wood.
No bark was on the tree, no leaf was green,

The trunk was riven through. From that day forth
Nor word nor whisper sooth'd his ear, nor sound
Even of insect wing: but loud laments
The woodmen and the shepherds one long year
Heard day and night; for Rhaicos would not quit
The solitary place, but moan'd and died.

Hence milk and honey wonder not, O Guest!
To find set duly on the hollow stone.

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT.

1784-1859.

JAFFAR.

(Inscribed to the memory of Shelley.)

Shelley! take this to thy dear memory!
To praise the generous is to think of thee.

Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier,

The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
Jaffàr was dead, slain by a doom unjust ;

And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust

Of what the good and even the bad might say, Ordain'd that no man living from that day Should dare to speak his name, on pain of death. All Araby and Persia held their breath :

All but the brave Mondeer. He, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go,

And facing death for very scorn and grief
(For his great heart wanted a great relief),
Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square
Where once had stood a happy house, and there
Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar

On all they owed to the divine Jaffàr.

"Bring me this man!" the Caliph cried. Was brought, was gazed upon.

The man

The mutes began

To bind his arms; 66 Welcome, brave cords!" cried he,— "From bonds far worse Jaffàr deliver'd me,

From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears,—
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears,

Restored me, loved me, put me on a par
With his great self,-how can I pay Jaffàr?

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deign'd to smile, as one great Lord of Fate
Might smile upon another half as great.

He said—“ Let Worth grow frenzied if it will!
The Caliph's judgment shall be master still.

Go! and since gifts thus move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,

And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!"

"Gifts!" cried the friend. He took, and holding it High tow'rd the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaim'd-" This too I owe to thee, Jaffar!"

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.
(LORD MACAULAY.)
1800-1859.

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.

(By Obadiah Bind-their-kings-in-chains-and-their-nobles-with-links-of-iron, sergeant in Ireton's regiment.)

O 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 ?
O, 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 sat 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 Accursed,
And at a shock have scatter'd 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 kiss'd 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 mock'd at Heaven and Hell and Fate,

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down! down! forever 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 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 tremble when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word!

THOMAS HOOD.

1799-1845.

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.

'Twas in the prime of summer time,

An evening calm and cool,

And four and twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school:

There were some that ran and some that leapt,

Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,

And souls untouch'd by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about
And shouted as they ran,

Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can ;

But the Usher sat remote from all,—
A melancholy man.

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze,—

For a burning thought was in his brow,

And his bosom ill at ease:

So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read

The book between his knees.

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er,

Nor ever glanced aside,—

For the peace of his soul he read that book

In the golden eventide :

Much study had made him very lean,

And pale, and leaden-eyed.