I pray to God that she may lie While the dim sheeted ghosts go by! My love, she sleeps! O, may her sleep, Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold--- P Triumphant o'er the crested palls It was the dead who groaned within. POE. SPRING SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; The palm and may make country houses gay, The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, T. NASHE. (BY OBADIAH THE BATTLE OF NASEBY BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH LINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT) 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, And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line! For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks, They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground: 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, Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets, 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, Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, 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, ROSABELLE O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay! 'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! 'The blackening wave is edged with white; 1 The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 'Last night the gifted Seer did view 1 Inch, isle. |