The war, that for a space did fail, With dying hand, above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" By this, though deep the evening fell That to King Charles did come. On Roncesvalles died! Such blast might warn them not in vain, To quit the plunder of the slain, And turn the doubtful day again, While yet on Flodden side. Afar, the Royal Standard flies, And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, Our Caledonian pride! In vain the wish, for far away, While spoil and havoc mark their way, And led her to the chapel fair Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. There all the night they spent in prayer, But as they left the dark'ning heath, That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring, Each stepping where his comrade stood, The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight ;— Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well; Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded king. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands As mountain waves, from wasted lands, Then did their loss his foemen know; Their king, their lords, their mightiest, low, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band, Disordered, through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land: To town and tower, to down and dale, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, Day dawns upon the mountain's side :— ། View not that corpse mistrustfully, Defaced and mangled though it be; Look northward with upbraiding eye; That, journeying far on foreign strand, May yet return again. He saw the wreck his rashness wrought; And well in death his trusty brand, But, oh! how changed since yon blithe night! Unto my tale again. WORDSWORTH. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Born 1770; Died 1850. Wordsworth, in youth and early manhood, was stirred by the revolutionary feelings of the time, and felt a keen sympathy with the French Revolution, a sympathy which animated his genius at this period of his life. When the excesses of the Revolution and the ambition of the French nation had produced a revulsion of feeling, he turned the more earnestly to the poetry of nature and contemplation, in which his work—work which is unsurpassed for depth and delicacy-for the future lay. ODE. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. I. THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. II. The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose, |