TO LUCASTA.

ON GOING TO THE WARS.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde
That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde
To warre and armes I flee.

True, a new mistresse now I chase-
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, should adore;

I could not love thee, deare, so much,
Loved I not honor more.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

SIR NICHOLAS AT 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 cava

liers,

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 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 flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride,

'Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, and 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 soldiers' shout, 'For God and for the King!""

'Tis noon. line;

The ranks are broken, along the royal

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 to-night."

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 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 traitors ring thee round, 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 bow

er,

The gray-haired warder watches from the castle's topmost tower;

'What news? what news, old Anthony ?"—"The battle's lost and won;

The royal troops are melting, like mists before the

sun!

And a wounded man approaches-I am old and can

not see,

Yet sure I am that sturdy step my master's step must be!"

"I've brought thee back thy banner, wench, from as rude and rough a fray

As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's lay!

Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum

suff.,

I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boots 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;

For if the worst befall me, why better axe or rope Than a life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a

pope!

Alas! alas! my gallant Guy!-curse on the crop-eared boor

Who sent me with my standard on foot from Marston

Moor."

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

NASEBY.

BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIRNOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON'S

REGIMENT.

O, wherefore come ye forth in triumph 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 wine-press which ye tread?

O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we

trod;

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,

Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,

That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses

shine,

And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,

And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the

Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,

The general rode along us to form us for the fight;