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With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return;

Then, then, ye ocean warriors,

Our

song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

Campbell.

MARSTON MOOR. A.D. 1644.

To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's note is high!

To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the big drum makes reply!

Ere this hath Lucas marched, with his gallant cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter in our

ears.

To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door,

And the raven whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice, from her brief and broken prayer, And she brought a silken banner down the narrow turret

stair;

Oh! many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed,

As she traced the bright word "Glory" in the gay and glancing thread;

And mournful was the smile which o'er those lovely fea

tures ran,

As she said: "It is your lady's gift; unfurl it in the

van!"

"It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride

'Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, the black dragoons of Pride;

The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a sicklier qualm, And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm, When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudly on their wing,

And hear her loyal soldiers shout, 'For God and for the King!'"

"Tis soon.

The ranks are broken, along the royal line They fly, the braggarts of the court! the bullies of the Rhine!

Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down,

And Rupert sheathes his rapier, with a curse and with a frown,

And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in their flight': "The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night."

The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleft in twain,

His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory

stain;

Yet still he waves his banner, and cries amid the rout: "For Church and King, fair gentlemen! spur on, and fight it out!"

And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave,

And now he quotes a stage-play, and now he fells a knave.

God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of

fear;

God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! for fearful odds are here! The rebels hem thee in, and at every cut and thrust, “Down, down," they cry, "with Belial! down with him to the dust!"

66

"I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that Belial's trusty sword

This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!"

The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower, The gray-haired warder watches from the castle's topmost tower;

"What news? what news, old Hubert?”—“The battle's lost and won :

The royal troops are melting, like mists before the sun! And a wounded man approaches—I'm blind and cannot

see,

Yet sure I am that sturdy step my master's step must be!"

"I've brought thee back thy banner, wench, from as rude and red a fray

As e'er was proof of soldier's thew, or theme for minstrel's lay!

Here, Hubert, bring the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff.

I'll make a shift to drain it yet, ere I part with boots and buff

Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing forth his life,

And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!

"Sweet! we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,

And mourn in merry Paris for this poor land's mischance :

For if the worst befall me, why, better axe and rope,
Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope!
Alas! alas! my gallant Guy!-curse on the crop-eared
boor

Who sent me, with my standard, on foot from Marston
Moor!".

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

BOADICE A.

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief.

"Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, "Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

"Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

"Rome, for empire far renowned
Tramples on a thousand states;

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

"Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

"Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Armed with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.

"Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they."

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow;
Rushed to battle, fought, and died;
Dying hurled them at the foe.
"Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance

Empire is on us bestowed,
Shame and ruin wait for you."

due;

William Couper.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,

In a vale in the land of Moab
There lies a lonely grave,

And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

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