"'Tis but a journey I shall go

Unto the land of bliss ;

Now, as a proof of husband's love,
Receive this holy kiss."

Then Florence faltering in her say Trembling these wordys spoke, "Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king!

My heart is well nigh broke:

"Ah, sweet Sir Charles! why wilt thou go, Without thy loving wife!

The cruel axe that cuts thy neck,
It eke shall end my life."
And now the officers came in
To bring Sir Charles away,
Who turned to his loving wife,
And thus to her did say :

"I go to life, and not to death,

Trust thou in God above,

And teach thy sons to fear the Lord,
And in their hearts Him love:

"Teach them to run the noble race

That I their father run:

Florence! should death thee take-adieu ! Ye officers, lead on."

Then Florence raved as any mad,

And did her tresses tear;

"Oh! stay, my husband! lord! and life!"Sir Charles then dropped a tear,

Till tired out with raving loud,
She fellen on the floor;
Sir Charles exerted all his might,
And marched from out the door.

Upon a sled he mounted then,

With looks full brave and sweet;
Looks that enshone no more concern
Than any in the street.

Before him went the council-men,
In scarlet robes and gold,
And tassels spangling in the sun,
Much glorious to behold;
The friars of Saint Augustine next
Appeared to the sight,
All clad in homely russet weeds,
Of godly monkish plight:

In different parts a godly psalm

Most sweetly did they chant;
Behind their backs six minstrels came,
Who tuned the strung bataunt.
Then five and twenty archers came;
Each one the bow did bend,
From rescue of King Henry's friends
Sir Charles for to defend.

Bold as a lion came Sir Charles,

Drawn on a cloth-laid sled,
By two black steeds in trappings white,
With plumes upon their head:
Behind him five and twenty more
Of archers strong and stout,
With bended bow each one in hand,
Marched in goodly rout:

Saint James's friars marched next,
Each one his part did chant;
Behind their backs six minstrels came,
Who tuned the strung bataunt :
Then came the mayor and aldermen,
In cloth and scarlet decked;
And their attending-men each one,
Like eastern princes trickt.

And after them a multitude
Of citizens did throng;

The windows were all full of heads,
As he did pass along.

And when he came to the high cross,
Sir Charles did turn and say,
"O Thou, that savest man from sin.
Wash my soul clean this day!"

At the great minster window sat
The king in mickle state,
To see Charles Bawdin go along
To his most welcome fate.

Soon as the sled drew nigh enough,
That Edward he might hear,

The brave Sir Charles he did stand up,
And thus his words declare :

"Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile!
Exposed to infamy;

But, be assured, disloyal man!
I'm greater now than thee.

"By foul proceedings, murder, blood,
Thou wearest now a crown;
And hast appointed me to die,
By power not thine own.

"Thou thinkest I shall die to-day ;

I have been dead till now,

And soon shall live to wear a crown
For aye upon my brow ;

"Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, Shall rule this fickle land,

To let them know how wide the rule
'Twixt king and tyrant hand;

"Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave!
Shall fall on thy own head"-
From out of hearing of the king
Departed then the sled.

King Edward's soul rushed to his face,
He turned his head away,
And to his brother Gloucester
He thus did speak and say:

"To him that so-much dreaded death
No ghastly terrors bring;
Behold the man! he spake the truth
He's greater than a king !"

"So let him die !" Duke Richard said;
"And may each one our foes
Bend down their necks to bloody axe,
And feed the carrion crows."

And now the horses gently drew
Sir Charles up the high hill;
The axe did glister in the sun,

His precious blood to spill.

Sir Charles did up the scaffold go,
As up a gilded car

Of victory, by val'rous chiefs

Gained in the bloody war:

And to the people he did say,
"Behold you see me die,
For serving loyally my king,
My king most rightfully.

"As long as Edward rules this land,

No quiet will you know;

Your sons and husbands shall be slain, And brooks with blood shall flow.

"You leave your good and lawful king,
When in adversity;

Like me, unto the true cause stick,
And for the true cause die."

Then he with priests, upon his knees,
A prayer to God did make,
Beseeching Him unto Himself
His parting soul to take.

Then, kneeling down, he laid his head,
Most seemly on the block;
Which from his body fair at once
The able headsman stroke;
And out the blood began to flow,
And round the scaffold twine;
And tears enough, to wash't away,
Did flow from each man's eyne.

The bloody axe his body fair

Into four partés cut ;

And every part and eke his head,
Upon a pole was put.

One part did rot on Kynwulft-hill,
One on the minster tower,
And one from off the castle-gate
The crowen did devour;

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright-the high sun shines not so!

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such a fiery fearful show ;

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe.

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow

Sinks on the anvil;-all about the faces fiery grow. "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out-leap out;" bang,

bang, the sledges go;

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow,

The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strew

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow,

And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant, "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out, and lay on load!

Let's forge a goodly anchor;-a bower thick and

broad;

To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles

shoals

But courage still, brave mariners! the bower yet remains,

And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high;

Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing-here am I."

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time:

Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime.

But while you sling your sledges, sing-and let the burthen be,

The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we! Strike in, strike in-the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;

Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, on an oozy couch of clay;

The dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line;

And night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day,

Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play

But shamer of our little sports! forgive the name I gave

A fisher's joy is to destroy-thine office is to save. O lodger in the sea-king's halls! couldst thou but understand

Whose be the white bones by thy side-or who that dripping band,

Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend,

And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat

was cast.

O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?

The hoary monster's palaces! methinks what joy 'twere

now

To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales,

And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails!

Then deep in tangle-weeds to fight the fierce sea-unicorn,

And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn;

To leave the subtile sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn; And for the ghastlv-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to

scorn;

within the sea!

F

Lashed to madness by the wind,

As the Red Sea surges roar,
Leave a gloomy gulf behind,
And devour the shrinking shore.
Thus, with overwhelming pride,
Gallia's brightest, boldest boast,
In a deep and dreadful tide,

Rolled upon the British host.
Now the veteran chief drew nigh,
Conquest towering on his crest,
Valor beaming from his eye,

Pity bleeding on his breast. On the whirlwind of the war

High he rode in vengeance dire;
To his friends a leading star;

To his foes consuming fire.
Charged with Abercrombie's doom,
Lightning winged a cruel ball:
'Twas the herald of the tomb,

And the hero felt the call-
Felt-and raised his arms on high;
Victory well the signal knew,
Darted from his awful eye,

And the force of France o'erthrew.

Harp of Memnon! sweetly strung
To the music of the spheres ;
While the hero's dirge is sung,
Breathe enchantment to our ears.
Let thy numbers, soft and slow,

O'er the plain with carnage spread,
Soothe the dying while they flow
To the memory of the dead.
Then thy tones triumphant pour,
Let them pierce the hero's grave;
Life's tumultuous battle o'er,

O, how sweetly sleep the brave!
From the dust their laurels bloom,
High they shoot and flourish free;
Glory's temple is the tomb;
Death is immortality.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.

AIR stood the wind for France,

When we our sails advance,

Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,

At Kause, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,

Marched toward Agincourt

In happy hour; Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopped his way,
Where the French general lay
With all his power.

Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the king sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet, with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then:
Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed;
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

And for myself, quoth he,
This my full rest shall be ;
England ne'er mourn for me.
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

Poitiers and Cressy tell,

When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell.
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led ;
With the main Henry sped

Amongst his henchmen.
Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there;
O Lord! how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen.
They now to fight are gone;
Armor on armor shone;
Drum now to drum did groan,

To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham!
Which did the signal aim
To our hid forces;

When, from a meadow by
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Struck the French horses, With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their hilboes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy :
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent;
Down the French peasants went;
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble king,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it;

And many a deep wound rent
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent,

Bruised his helmet.
Glo'ster, that duke so good
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

E mariners of England

a

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze,

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave;

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

Brittannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.

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.

THOMAS Campbell.

THE UNRETURNING BRAVE.

ND Ardennes waves above them her green

leaves,

Dewy with nature's tear drops, as they pass

Grieving. If aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave;-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valor, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and

low.