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The rosemary nods upon the grave ;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see, the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps !-and lo ! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her destinies !

O, lady bright, can it be right,
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs from the tree-top
Laughingly through the lattice drop ;
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully, so fearfully,
Above the closed and fringèd lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear ?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees.
Strange is thy pallor, strange thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness.
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep !
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps ! O, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep !
Soft may the worms about her creep !

Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back
Triumphant o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals ;
Some sepulchre remote, alone,
Against whose portal she had thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone ;
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,
It was the dead who groaned within.

PoE.

Spring
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king ;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye, birds tune this merry lay,

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street, these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo !
Spring ! the sweet Spring !

T. NASHE.

The Battle of Naseby (BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH

LINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT) Oh! 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?

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Oh 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 to the fight,
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd 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 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.
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 broad-pieces

and lockets, The tokens 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 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 perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds

and your spades? Down, down, for ever 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.

MACAULAY.

Rosabelle

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O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell ;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
‘Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew !

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay !
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
'The blackening wave is edged with white;

To inch' and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,

Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

'Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay ;
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?' —
"Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir

To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there

Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
“'Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide,

If ’tis not filld by Rosabelle.”

· Inch, isle.

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