And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, 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, 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! 't is 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 broadpieces 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 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. 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. Macaulay. To Althea from Prison W HEN Love with unconfinèd wings And fettered to her eye, The birds, that wanton in the air, When flowing cups run swiftly round Our careless heads with roses crowned, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deep, When, like committed linnets, I When I shall voice aloud how good Stone walls do not a prison make, Lovelace. K Marching Along ENTISH Sir Byng stood for his King, And see the rogues flourish and honest folk Marched them along, fifty-score strong, God for King Charles! Pym and such carles Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Chorus.-Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song? Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! B Boot and Saddle OOT, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Chorus.-Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: Chorus." Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Chorus." Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Cavalier Song HILE the dawn on the mountain was misty W and gray, My true love has mounted his steed and away, down; Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown! He has doffed the silk doublet the breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long-flowing hair, |