When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! Close your ranks! For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or to fall. They are here, they rush on, we are broken, - we are gone, Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. right! Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the last! Stout Skippen hath a wound, the centre hath given ground. Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? Whose banner do I sce, boys? 'Tis he! thank God! 't is 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 scattered the forest of bis 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 were gay and bold, hearts When you kissed 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 mocked 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! forever 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! T FONTENOY. BY THOMAS DAVIS. HRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed; And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed, The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride! And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread ; Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head. Steady they step adown the slope, steady they mount the hill, Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnaceblast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast; And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve that mocked at hostile force. Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks, They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean-banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bombshell and grape and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired; Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried. To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged they died. On through the camp the column trod, - King Louis turned his rein. "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed; "the Irish troops remain." |