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 cry of battle rises along their charging line: For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!

For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,

His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flauks! 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.

O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!

Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the last!

Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground.

Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?

Whose banner do I see, boys? "Tis he! thank God! 'tis 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

dykes,

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his

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 broadpieces and lockets,

The token of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,

When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans today;

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!

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

THE CAVALIER'S SONG.

A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed,
A sword of metal keene!

All else to noble heartes is drosse,
All else on earth is meane.

The neighynge of the war-horse prowde,
The rowlinge of the drum,

The clangor of the trumpet lowde,

Be soundes from heaven that come;
And oh, the thundering presse of knightes,
Whenas their war-cryes swell,

May tole from heaven an angel bright,

And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
And don your helmes amaine:

Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call
Us to the field againe.

No shrewish teares shall fill our eye
When the sword-hilt's in our hand-
Heart whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaine and craven wight
Thus weepe and puling crye;

Our business is like men to fight,

And hero-like to die!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

THE DEATH OF LORD BROOKE.

He came in his glory, so gallant and brave,
He came to our city with helmet and glaive;

And the rebels around him they sware one and all
That Lichfield's good ramparts before them should fall.

He came to the pool by our Minster so fair,
He looked on our steeples high rising in air,
And he sware by his faith that beneath his glad eye
The spires of our Minster in dust they should lie.

He bent on his knee, and he prayed for a sign
If his way it seemed right to the Mercy Divine;
He prayed-and a bullet came whizzing in air
From the loftiest spire of our Minster so fair.

All other it passed, and sped right to his eye
Who swore that in dust our fair Minster should lie:
And high rose our shout from roof, steeple, and wall
When we saw the proud robber-chief stagger and fall.

No hand of a mortal that bullet did guide;
Saint Chad by his city doth ever abide,

And vain was their boasting, who came on his day
In dust the good walls of his Minster to lay.

Then cry we, Hurrah for the Church and the Crown!
Hurrah for the steeples of Lichfield's good town!
Hurrah for Saint Chad, for he stood by his own,
And low in the dust the proud spoiler hath thrown!

Haste on to the chancel,* Te Deum to sing,
And pray for our Country, our Church, and our King;
For the pride of the robber is turned into shame,
And perish all like him whose hearts are the same!
EDWARD A. FREEMAN.

It is well known that during the siege of Lichfield the usual service was continued in the choir till the fall of the great spire rendered that part of the church roofless.