« PreviousContinue »
The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;
tower." What news, what news, old Anthony ?"_" The field
is lost and won, The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun ; And a wounded man speeds hither,-- I am old and
cannot see, Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should
“I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough
a fray, As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for min
strel's lay, Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum
suff: I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff; Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing
out his life, And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful
wife ! “Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship
for France, And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's mischance; Or, if the worse betide me, why, better axe or rope, Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope ! Alas, alas, my gallant Guy ! out on the crop-eared boor, That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston
THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR
The men of sin prevail ! Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn ; Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne
Before the stormy gale.
Where are our brethren ? where The good and true, the terrible and fleet ? They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,
With whom we kneeled in prayer?
Mangled and marred they lie
Spurs his fierce charger by.
So let our foes rejoice; We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts, Will call for comfort ; to the God of hosts
We will lift up our voice.
Give ear unto our song; For we are wandering o'er our native land As sheep that have no shepherd ; and the hand
Of wicked men is strong.
Only to Thee we bow :
To Heaven for vengeance now.
Avenge, -oh! not our years Of pain and wrong, the blood of martyrs shed, The ashes heaped upon the hoary head,
The maiden's silent tears,
The babe's bread torn away,
Judge not for these to-day !
Is not Thine own dread rod Mocked by the proud, Thy holy book disdained, Thy name blasphemed, Thy temple courts profaned ?
Avenge Thyself, O God !
Break Pharaoh's iron crown ; Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings; Wash from thine house the blood of unclean things,
And hurl their Dagon down!
Come in Thine own good time ! We will abide ; we have not turned from Thee, Though in a world of grief our portion be,
Of bitter grief and crime.
Be Thou our guard and guide! Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go, That we may worship where the torrents flow
And where the whirlwinds ride.
From lonely rocks and caves
Safe temples, quiet graves !
WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF KING'S
COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.
Most beautiful! I gaze and gaze
In silence on the glorious pile,
Come thronging back the while.
The perfect grandeur of the shrine ;
The ground were still divine.
Some awe the good and wise have felt,
As reverently their feet have trod
To commune with his God;
Beneath the ruined temple's gloom,
Or the false Prophet's tomb.
But when was high devotion graced
With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,
From the time-honoured stone ?
To bind the soul in willing thrall,
Come at her voiceless call ;
At midnight, when the lonely moon
Looks from a vapour's silvery fold ;
Crests the high towers with gold ;
For every change of hour and form
Makes that fair scene more deeply fair, And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,
Are all Religion there.
“Oh yes ! he is in Parliament;
He's been returning thanks ;
Already on his franks.
But place, and the Gazette :”—
You won't believe them yet.
“ He filled an album, long ago,
With such delicious rhymes;
His speeches in the Times :
Bright eyes and locks of jet,
Oh! don't believe them yet!
“I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun,
By that disgusting Bill;
He's danced his last quadrille.
With any fair coquette ;
Psha !--don't believe them yet.