The furious German comes, with his trumpets 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! 25
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 Skippen hath a wound; the centre hath given ground: Hark! hark! — What means this trampling of horsemen in the

rear?

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What banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, boys, Bear up another minute; Brave Oliver is here.

Their heads are stooping low, their pikes 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 to those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.

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Ho! comrades, scour the plain, and, ere ye strip the slain,
First give another stab to make the quest secure,

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,

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

Fools! your doubtlets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay

and bold,

When you kiss'd your lily hands to your lemans to-day;

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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,

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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, 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 stalls: 55
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.

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JOHN HENRY NEWMAN

1801-1890

LEAD KINDLY LIGHT

LEAD kindly light, amid th' encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on;

The night is dark, and I am far from home;
Lead Thou me on;

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;

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I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!

So long Thy Power hath blessed me, sure it still
Will lead me on

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,

And with the morn those angel faces smile

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

ΙΟ

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ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

1806-1861

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

XXII

WHEN Our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curvèd point, — What bitter wrong
Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher,
The angels would press on us, and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
Rather on earth, Belovèd, - where the unfit,
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

ΙΟ

XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise;
I love thee with the passion put to use

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In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith;
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

IO

A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

WHAT was he doing, the great God Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,

Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great God Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river :
The limpid water turbidly ran,

And the broken lilies a-dying lay,

And the dragon-fly had fled away,

Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great God Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river;

5

ΙΟ

And hacked and hewed as a great God can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great God Pan,

(How tall it stood in the river!)

Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,

And notched the poor dry empty thing

In holes, as he sat by the river.

This is the way,' laugh'd the great God Pan, (Laughed while he sat by the river,)

The only way, since Gods began

To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great God Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly

Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great God Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man :
The true Gods sigh for the cost and pain,
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.

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