(BY OBADIAH THE BATTLE OF NASEBY 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, 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, And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line! For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks, They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! 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, Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets, 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, Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, 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, ROSABELLE O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay! 'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! 'The blackening wave is edged with white; 1 The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 'Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; 1 Inch, isle. ''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir '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 fill'd by Rosabelle.' 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 cavern'd Hawthornden. Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, Seem'd all on fire within, around, Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fairSo still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair. There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Each one the holy vault doth hold— And each St. Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell ; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild wings sung, SIR W. SCOTT. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER IN SEVEN PARTS PART I It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din.’ He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; |