THE BATTLE OF MONCONTOUR. (1824.) Он, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain, One look, one last look, to our cots and our towers, Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home, Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades, Farewell, and for ever. The priest and the slave SONGS OF THE CIVIL WAR. I. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGSIN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT. (1824.) 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? 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 furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! 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 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, 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. HERE warlike coblers railed from tops of casks Gnaw their cogg'd dice and curse the lingering prey: Paints her wan lips and braids her borrowed hair: From a MS. Poem. II. THE CAVALIER'S MARCH TO LONDON. (1824.) To horse! to horse! brave Cavaliers! To horse for Church and Crown! Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears! And ho for London town! The imperial harlot, doom'd a prey To our avenging fires, Sends up the voice of her dismay From all her hundred spires. The Strand resounds with maidens' shrieks, The 'Change with merchants' sighs, And blushes stand on brazen cheeks, And tears in iron eyes; And, pale with fasting and with fright, Each Puritan Committee Hath summon'd forth to prayer and fight And soon shall London's sentries hear And London's dames, in wilder fear, Fling the fascines;-tear up the spikes; And forward, one and all. Down, down with all their train-band pikes, |