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Brightly thine eye was smiling, sweet !

But now decay hath stilled its glancing ;

Warmly thy little heart was dancing,
But it hath ceased to beat !

A few short months—and thou wert here !

Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;

And what is thy memorial now?
A flower—and a Tear.

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They hurried to the feast,

The warrior and the priest,
And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow;

The minstrel's harp and voice

Said “Triumph and rejoice !"--,
One only mourned !-many are mourning now !

“Peace! startle not the light

With the wild dreams of night!”-
So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,

When I, in their dull ears,

Shrieked forth my tale of tears,
“Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy!”

Ye watch the dim smoke rise

Up to the lurid skies;
Ye see the red light flickering on the stream ;

Ye listen to the fall

Of gate, and tower, and wall;
Sisters, the time is come Galas, it is no dream!

Through hall, and court, and porch,

Glides on the pitiless torch
The swift avengers faint not in their toil :

Vain now the matron's sighs,

Vain now the infant's cries ;-
Look, sisters, look! who leads them to the spoil ?

Not Pyrrhus, though his hand

Is on his father's brand ;
Not the fell framer of the accursèd steed;

Not Nestor's hoary head,

Nor Teucer's rapid tread,
Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.

Visions of deeper fear

To-night are warring here ;-
I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three:

Minerva's lightning frown,

And Juno's golden crown,
And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding sea !

Through wailing and through woe

Silent and stern they go ;
So have I ever seen them in my trance :

Exultingly they guide

Destruction's fiery tide, And lift the dazzling shield, and point the deadly lance.

Lo, where the old man stands,

Folding his palsied hands, And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer :

“Where is my noble son,

My best my bravest oneTroy's hope and Priam's—where is Hector, where?”.

Why is thy falchion grasped ?

Why is thy helmet clasped ?
Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine !

The altar reeks with gore;

O sisters, look no more!
It is our father's blood upon the shrine !

And ye, alas ! must roam

Far from your desolate home,
Far from lost Ilium, o'er the joyless wave ;

Ye may not from these bowers

Gather the trampled flowers To wreath sad garlands for your brethren’s grave.

Away, away ! the gale

Stirs the white-bosomed sail ;
Hence ! look not back to freedom or to fame ;

Labour must be your doom,

Night-watchings, days of gloom, The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.

Even now some Grecian dame

Beholds the signal flame,
And waits, expectant, the returning fleet;

“ Why lingers yet my lord ?

Hath he not sheathed his sword ?
Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?.

Me too, the dark Fates call:

Their sway is over all,
Captor and captive, prison-house and throne :-
* I tell of others' lot ;

They hear me, heed me not !
Hide, angry Phæbus, hide me from mine own!

SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR. To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion's note is

high; To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas ! the huge drum makes

reply: Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our

ears. To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the

door, And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Marston


Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,
And she brought a silken standard down the narrow

turret stair.
Oh, many were the tears those radiant eyes had shed,
As she worked the bright word “Glory” in the gay and

glancing thread ; And mournful was the smile that o'er those beauteous

features ran, As she said, “It is your lady's gift, unfurl it in the van." “It shall Autter, noble wench, where the best and bold

est ride,
Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black

dragoons of Pride ;
The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm,
And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,
When they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their

wing, And hear her loyal soldiers shout, For God and for the



'Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line; They fly, the braggarts of the court, the bullies of the

Rhine: Stout Langley'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 the flight, “The German boar had better far have supped in York


The knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory

stain ; But still he waves the standard, 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 here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a


Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas ! thou hast no thought

of fear; Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas ! but fearful odds are

here. The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow 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 !"

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