And she of the seven hilis shall mourn her chil dren'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.1 1 Sir Thomas Fairfax (1612-1671), who commanded the army of the Parliament during England's Civil Wars, was the true hero of the Battle of Naseby. His gallant charge at the head of the right wing of his army insured the success of Cromwell's division. George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham (1627–1688), author of "The Rehearsal," and other dramatic pieces, who married Fairfax's daughter Mary, was one of the wildest of the gay and dissolute courtiers of the period; but that he appreciated the noble qualities of his father-in-law is evident from the following eulogistic lines: EPITAPH ON FAIRFAX BY THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 563 Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids! Ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades! Thou sun, shine ou her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide! Our glorious SEMPER EADEM! the banner of our pride! The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold: Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea: Such night in England ne'er hath been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; For swift to east, and swift to west, the ghastly war-flame spread; High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head : Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glitter ing waves, The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves; O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu : Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town; And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down. The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red light; Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, [woke. And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear, And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street: And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, [spurring in; As fast from every village round the horse came And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, And roused in many au ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent. Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth: High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the North; And on and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang, they sprang from hill to hill; Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales; [of Wales; Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height; Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, And town and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. THE BATTLE OF IVRY. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! [dance, Now let there be the merry sound of music and the Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mouruing daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war; Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André's plain, [mayne. With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders aud AlNow, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies now-upon them with the lauce! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest; A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, [Navarre. Oh, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath Hurrah! the foes are moving! hark to the mingled | Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories din are; of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roar- And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of ing culverin! Navarre! Sir Henry Taylor. SIR HENRY TAYLOR. Taylor (1800-18..) was a native of the County of Durham, England. In 1827 appeared his play of "Isaac Comnenus," which, says Southey, "met with few readers, and was hardly heard of." In 1834 his great dramatic poem of "Philip Van Artevelde" gave him at once an assured rank in English literature. It has gone through eight editions. Some of his other works are "Edwin the Fair," a historical drama, 1842; "The Eve of the Conquest, and other Poems," 1847; "Notes from Life," 1847; "A Sicilian Summer, and Minor Poems," 1868. A baronetcy was bestowed on him, and he was known as Sir Henry Taylor. Crabb Robinson says of him: "His manners are shy, and he is more a man of letters than of the world." IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE HON. EDWARD ERNEST VILLIERS. I. A grace though melancholy, manly too, And sunlights thrown the woodland tufts between, II. And even the stranger, though he saw not these, A simple grace and gentle dignity, That failed not at the first accost to please; III. 565 His life was private; safely led, aloof IV. But farther may we pass not; for the ground Life's dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed. I shaped my way of life for many a year, WHAT MAKES A HERO? What makes a hero?-not success, not fame, Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim Of glutted avarice-caps tossed up in air, Or pen of journalist, with flourish fair, Bells pealed, stars, ribbons, and a titular name- Or true reward; for never yet did these What makes a hero?-an heroic mind, Expressed in action, in endurance proved; And if there be pre-eminence of right, And troubled heart of thine; sustain it here, Adri. What was it that you said then? If you love, Why have you thus tormented me? Arter. Be calm; And let me warn thee, ere thy choice be fixed, Derived through pain, well suffered, to the height Thou hast beheld me living heretofore Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved, Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind, But worse-ingratitude and poisonous darts, One self-approval in his heart of hearts. EXTRACT FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE." Adriana. Oh, Artevelde; As one retired in staid tranquillity: [soon What can have made you so mysterious? Yet hath the heart of each declared its love Adri. I trusted not. I hoped that I was loved, Artev. I fear, my Adriana, 'tis a rash Weak to resist, strong to requite thy love; |