Whose pride lay quench'd and prostrate In blood, before its close. In vain impetuous Rupert Broke wounded Ireton's wing; And vain all loyal valour In presence of the king. For outraged men had gather'd The son, an English mother Might well be proud to bear, And conquer'd every where. It was on this high moor-ground, in the centre of England, that King Charles on the 14th of June, 1645, fought his last battle; dashed fiercely against the New-Model army, which he had despised, till then; and saw himself shivered to ruin thereby. Prince Rupert, on the King's right, charged up the hill, and carried all before him ;' but Lieutenant-General Cromwell charged down-hill on the other wing, likewise carrying all before him,—and did not gallop off the field to plunder. Cromwell, ordered thither by the Parliament, had arrived from the Association two days before, amid shouts from the whole army :' he had the ordering of the Horse this morning. Prince Rupert, on returning from his plunder, finds the King's Infantry a ruin; prepares to charge again with the rallied Cavalry; but the Cavalry teo, when it came to the point, broke all asunder,' never to re-assemble more. The chase went through Harborough; where the King had already been that morning, when in an evil hour he turned back, to revenge some surprise of an outpost at Naseby the night before,' and gave the Roundheads battle. The Parliamentary Army stood ranged on the height still partly called Mill Hill, as in Rushworth's time, a mile and a half from Naseby; the King's Army on a parallel Hill, its back to Harborough, with the wide table of upland now named Broad Moor between them; where indeed the main brunt of the action still clearly enough shows itself to have been. There are hollow spots, of a rank vegetation, scattered over that Broad Moor; which are understood to have once been burial mounds; some of which have been (with more or less of sacrilege) verified as such. A friend of mine has in his cabinet two ancient grinder-teeth, dug lately from that ground, and waits for an opportunity to re-bury them there. Sound effectual grinders, one of them very large, which ate their breakfast on the fourteenth morning of June two hundred years ago, and, except to be clenched once in grim battle, had never work to do more in this world !-THOMAS CARLYLE. TREES. ANONYMOUS. YE bless the earth with beauty. Laughs not spring Of the warm gleaming sunshine? Trees, you bring, Of many a sweet-voiced bird, whose weary flight THE MAN OF HEREAFTER. PIERRE-JEAN DE BERANGER. TRANSLATED BY HENRY GLASSFORD BELL. BERANGER WAS BORN IN PARIS, AUGUST 19, 1780. THEY'LL talk of his glory for many a day, Our children will name him when we are away; And the peasant will tell it again and again. At night, round their grandame the young will be found— "Speak of him," they will say, "for there's joy in the sound: Speak of him, for you lived ere his bright star had set, And, mother, his country is proud of him yet." "My children, he pass'd, many long years ago, "Next year 'twas my fortune at Paris to see "But war came again, and our troops seem'd to yield, "I am hungry!" he cried; "so the table I spread, "A relic, indeed! But he went to his ruin. That crown Which a pope had thrice bless'd, from his proud head fell down: Far away on a rock it was said that he died, But France on her love and his greatness relied; |