from the north,

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?

And whence be the grapes of the winepress which ye tread?

ken-we are gone

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.

O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!

Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the last!

Stout Skippon hath a wound-the centre

hath given ground.

Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank God! 'tis he, boys! Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here!

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a

deluge on the dikes,

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the accurst,

And at a shock have scatter'd the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide

Their coward heads, predestined to rot

on Temple Bar;

And he he turns! he flies! shame on those cruel eyes

That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war!

Ho, comrades! scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain,

First give another stab to make your search secure;

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their

broad-pieces and lockets,

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder

of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and

your hearts were gay and bold, When you kiss'd your lily hands to your lemans to-day;

And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above

the prey.

Where be your tongues, that late mock'd at heaven, and hell, and fate? And the fingers that once were so busy

with your blades?

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths?

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down! down! for ever down with the mitre and the crown!

With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope!

There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's stalls;

The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope.

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children'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!

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST,

AT NIGHT IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR.

THE castle clock had toll'd midnight. With mattock and with spadeAnd silent by the torches' light— His corse in earth we laid.

The coffin bore his name, that those
Of other years might know,
When earth its secrets should disclose,
Whose bones were laid below.

"Peace to the dead!" no children sung,
Slow pacing up the nave;
No prayers were read, no knell was rung
As deep we dug his grave.

We only heard the winter's wind,
In many a sullen gust,
As o'er the open grave inclined,
We murmur'd, "Dust to dust!"

A moonbeam from the arch's height Stream'd, as we placed the stone; The long aisles started into light,

And all the windows shone.

We thought we saw the banners then
That shook along the walls,
Whilst the sad shades of mailèd men
Were gazing on the stalls.