THE TRUMPET.

55 Pour out upon the needy ones the soft and healing

balm ; The storm hath not arisen yet—ye yet may keep

the calm : Already mounts the darkness,—the warning wind

is loud ; But ye may seek your fathers' God, and pray

away the cloud. Go, throng our ancient churches, and on the holy

floor Kneel humbly in your penitence among the kneel

ing poor; Cry out at morn and even, and amid the busy day, “ Spare, spare, O Lord, Thy people ;-oh, cast us

not away !" Hush down the sounds of quarrel ; let party-names

alone; Let brother join with brother, and England claim

her own : In battle with the Mammon-host join peasant,

clerk, and lord, Sweet charity your banner-flag, and GOD FOR ALL

your word.

ALFORD.

THE TRUMPET.
The trumpet's voice hath roused the land,

Light up the beacon-pyre ;

56

THE LIFE OF MAN.
A hundred hills have seen the brand,

And waved the sign of fire ;
A hundred banners to the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have cast;
And, hark, was that the sound of seas?

A king to war went past.
The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,

And rises from the earth;
The mother on her first-born son

Looks with a boding eye;-
They come not back, though all be won,

Whose young hearts leap so high.
The bard has ceased his song, and bound

The falchion to his side;
Even for the marriage-altar crown'd

The lover quits his bride;-
And all this haste and change and fear

By earthly clarion spread,-
How will it be when kingdoms hear

The blast that wakes the dead!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE LIFE OF MAN.
LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flight of eagles are,

57

THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubble which on water stood,
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight called in and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb’d in autumn lies,
The stream dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.

BISHOP KING,

THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide. A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire : O’er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain : No joys to him pacific sceptres yield; War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field. Behold surrounding kings their powers combine, And one capitulate, and one resign: Peace courts his hand and spreads her charms in

vain ; “ Think nothing gain’d,” he cries, " till naught

remainOn Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, And all be mine beneath the polar sky!”

58

THE WAR OF TIIE LEAGUE. The march begins in military state, And nations on his eye suspended wait ; Stern famine guards the solitary coast, And winter barricades the realms of frost. He comes —nor want nor cold his course delay : Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day! The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, And shews his miseries in distant lands; Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait, While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. But did not Chance at length her error mend? Did no subverted empire mark her end ? Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound? Or hostile millions press him to the ground? His fall was destined to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand : He left the name at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

JOHNSON.

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all

glories are ; And glory to our sovereign liege, Prince Henry

of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and

of dance Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines,

O pleasant land of France !

THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. 59 And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city

of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters;

[joy, As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our 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. Oh, how our hearts were beating, when at the

dawn of day We saw the army of the League drawn out in long

array; With all its priest-led citizens and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's

Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses

of our land, And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon

in his hand; And as on them we looked, we thought of Seine's

empurpled flood, And good Coligny's hoary hair all dabbled with

his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the

fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of

Navarre,