Press where ye see my white plume shine, Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, Of Guelders and Alınayne. A thousand knights are pressing close Now, God be praised, the day is ours! The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, And all along our van, Was pass'd from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry, No Frenchman is my foe; As our sovereign lord, King Henry, Ho! maidens of Vienne! Ho! matrons of Lucerne! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those Who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, Thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass Keep watch and ward to-night! And the valour of the brave. Then glory to his holy name. From whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre. THE CAVALIER'S MARCH TO LON DON. To horse! to horse! brave cavaliers ! The imperial harlot, doom'd a prey Sends up the voice of her dismay The Strand resounds with maiden's shrieks, And tears in iron eyes; And, pale with fasting and with fright, Hath summon'd forth to prayer and fight And soon shall London's sentries hear Down, down with all their train-band pikes, Quarter?-Foul fall your whining noise, No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys. No quarter! Charge.-No quarter! Fire. Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch Brave lads, to tell us where, Sure London's sons be passing rich, Her daughters wondrous fair: Of many a board's derision, Their lean divines, of solemn brow, Shall edify the people: We'll hang, above his own Guildhall, Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair, And tons of rebel parchment there With them shall perish, cheek by jowl, We'll tread a measure round the blaze The beauties of the friars: Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine, And crown the largest bowl. And as with nod and laugh ye sip Drink to those names,-those glorious names,- THE SPANISH ARMADA. ATTEND all ye who list to hear Our noble England's praise! I tell of the thrice famous deeds She wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible Against her bore in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, The stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close Of a warm summer day, Her crew had seen Castile's black fleet At earliest twilight, on the waves, Lie heaving many a mile; Had held her close in chase. And with loose rein and bloody spur, With his white hair unbonneted, The stout old Sheriff comes; Behind him march the halberdiers, Before him sound the drums. His yeomen round the market-cross The standard of her grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, to stoo! And gayly dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind whywer th The royal blazon swells. Look how the lion of the seas of the veg Lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw Treads the gay lilies down! So stalk'd he when he turn'd to flight, And crush'd and torn beneath his claws The princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight,- Ho! gallants, draw your blades; The freshening breeze of eve unfurl'd And on the purple sea Such night in England ne'er had been, From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, That time of slumber was as bright And busy as the day; For swift to east and swift to west, The warning radiance spread- Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, Along each southern shire, Those twinkling points of fire;MAR On Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners pour'd to war O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, Right sharp and quick the bells all night Rang out from Bristol town, And ere the day three hundred horse The sentinel on Whitehall Gate Then bugle's note and cannon's roar The death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, The royal city woke. At once on all her stately gates Arose the answering fires; From all her reeling spires; Peal'd loud the voice of fear; And all the thousand masts of Thames Sent back a louder cheer; And from the farthest wards was heard And the broad streams of flags and pikes And louder still the din, As fast from every village round The horse came spurring in: And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, The warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall, The gallant 'squires of Kent. Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills, Flew those bright couriers fcrth; High on bleak Hempstead's swarthy moor, And on, and on, without a pause, All night from tower to tower they sprang- Till the proud Peak unfurl'd the flag Till like volcanoes flared to heaven, Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze On Malvern's lonely height, The Wrekin's crest of light Till broad and fierce the star came forth And tower and hamlet rose in arms O'er all the boundless plain Till Belvoir's lordly terraces And Lincoln sped the message on, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS. OH! weep for Moncontour. Oh! weep for the hour When the children of darkness On the bosoms that bled For their rights and their God. Oh! weep for Moncontour. Oh weep for the slain Who for faith and for freedom Lay slaughter'd in vain. Oh! weep for the living, Who linger to bear The renegade's shame, Or the exile's despair. One look, one last look, To the cots and the towers, To the rows of our vines, And the beds of our flowers, To the church where the bones Of our fathers decay'd, Where we fondly had deem'd That our own should be laid. Alas! we must leave thee, Dear desolate home, The shavelings of Rome, And the guile of Lorraine. Of the free and the brave ;- Our lands we resign; But, Father, we kneel To no altar but thine. Scarce half-resign'd we look'd, yet thought how "Twould be again in after months to meet. And months have pass'd: now the bright moon is shining O'er the gray mountains and the stilly sea, As, by the streamlet's willowy bend reclining, I pause remembering thee, Who to the moonlight lent a softer charm As through these wilds we wandered arm in arm. An angel phantom gliding through the trees, Thine alabaster brow, thy cheek of brightness, Thy tresses in the breeze Floating their auburn, and thine eyes that made, So rich their blue, heaven's azure like a shade. Methinks even yet I feel thy timid fingers, With their bland pressure thrilling bliss to mine; Methinks yet on my cheek thy breathing lingers As, fondly leant to thine, I told how life all pleasureless would be, Youth's summer calm with storms of wintry strife; The star of Hope shone o'er our path unclouded, And Fancy colour'd life With those elysian rainbow-hues, which Truth Melts with his rod, when disenchanting youth. Where art thou now? I look around, but see not The features and the form that haunt my dreams! Where art thou now? I listen, but for me, not The deep rich music streams Medicine, The Autobiography of Mansie Waugh, A Memoir of John Galt, and other works in prose. In his poems he alludes to frequent domestic misfortunes. Casa's Dirge, Wee Willie, and other pieces, breathe a pure and simple pathos, and his writings, generally, are characterized by much delicacy and grace. Of that entrancing voice, which could bestow I miss thy smile, when morn's first light is bursting Beside the moonlit sea: Vain are my longings, my repinings vain; Yet should it cheer me, that nor wo hath shatter'd And visions be fulfill'd, by Hope adored, I start from out my revery, to know Let Fortune change-be fickle Fate preparing For, ah! with others' wealth and mirth would be That happiness resides in outward shows: For genuine bliss can ne'er be far apart, I would not that the love which owes its birth Fall Heaven's best joys on thy beloved head! May cares that harass, and may griefs that wound me, Flee from thy path and bed! Be every thought that stirs and hour that flies, WEE WILLIE. FARE-THEE-WELL, our last and fairest, Like a sunbeam, through our dwelling To our sorrows thou wert balm;Brighter beam'd thine eyes than summer; And thy first attempt at speech Thrill'd cur heart-strings with a rapture Music ne'er could reach. As we gazed upon thee sleeping, With thy fine fair locks outspread, Thou didst seem a little angel, Who from heaven to earth had stray'd; Snows o'ermantled hill and valley, On our lintel set his sign; As the beams of Spring's first morning And in thy small coffin laid; Nine times had triumphant striven, In one grave had met your ashes, And your souls in Heaven! Five were ye, the beauteous blossoms Of our hopes, and hearts, and hearth; Two asleep lie buried under Three for us yet gladden earth: Yet while thinking, oh! our lost ones! "Tis night, and in darkness;-the visions of youth Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind; The hopes that excited have perish'd;-and truth Laments o'er the wreck they are leaving behind. "Tis midnight;-and wide o'er the regions of riot Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose; And man, sooth'd from revel and lull'd into quiet, Forgets in his slumber the weight of his woes. How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven, Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest: Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given, To omen a something like hope in the breast. Hark! how the lone night-wind up-tosses the forest; A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals; But ah! 'tis the tempests of Fortune, that sorest The desolate heart in its loneliness feels. Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust; Whose bosoms with mutual affection would burn? Alas! they are gone to their homes in the dust; The grass rustles drearily over their urn: Whilst I, in a populous solitude languish, Mid foes who beset me, and friends who are cold: Yes, the pilgrim of earth oft has felt in his anguish That the heart may be widow'd before it be old! Affection can soothe but its vot'rics an hour,Doom'd soon in the flames that it raised to de part; But oh! Disappointment has poison and power To ruffle and fret the most patient of heart! How oft 'neath the dark-pointed arrows of malice Hath merit been destined to bear and to bleed; And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalice, Can tell that the dregs are full bitter indeed! Let the storms of adversity lower,-'tis in vain, Though friendsshould forsake me and foes should condemn ; |