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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 swelld 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 ever comes but to conquer or to fall. They are here ! They rush on! We are broken! We
are gone! Qur 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 Whose banner do I see, boys ? 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis
on our rear?
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 And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, Ani 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.
No haughty feat of arms I tell ;
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay !
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
To inch' and rock the sea-mews fly;
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay ;
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?'-
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
If 'tis not filld by Rosabelle.'—
' Inch, isle.
O’er Roslin all that dreary night,
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
And seen from cavernd Hawthornden. Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-
The lordly line of high St. Clair.
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ;
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! And each St. Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell ; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild wings sung, The dirge of lovely Rosabelle !
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
IN SEVEN PARTS
It is an ancient Mariner,
"The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide,
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone :
Higher and higher every day Till over the mast at noon The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast For he heard the loud bassoon.
The Bride hath paced into the hall,