"The heaven is very dark, Love,
The blast is very keen,

But merrily rides my bark, Love-
Good night, my Josephine !"

She did not speak of ring or vow,
But filled the cup of wine,

And took the roses from her brow
To make a wreath for mine;
And bade me, when the gale should lift
My light skiff on the wave,

To think as little of the gift

As of the hand that gave:

"Go gaily o'er the sea, Love,

And find your own heart's queen ; And look not back to me, Love,

Your humble Josephine !"

That garland breathes and blooms no more.
Past are those idle hours;

I would not, could I choose, restore
The fondness or the flowers;

Yet oft their withered witchery
Revives its wonted thrill,

Remembered-not with Passion's sigh,

But oh! remembered still :

And even from your side, Love,

And even from this scene, One look is o'er the tide, Love,

One thought with Josephine!

Alas! your lips are rosier,

Your eyes of softer blue,

And I have never felt for her
As I have felt for you;

Our love was like the snow-flakes,

Which melt before you pass

Or the bubble on the wine, which breaks Before you lip the glass.

You saw these eye-lids wet, Love,

Which she has never seen;

But bid me not forget, Love,

My poor, poor Josephine!

MARSTON MOOR.

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

features 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 soldier's 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."

"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 top most 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!"