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I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase that was divinely moulded ;-
She wrote a charming hand, and oh !

How neatly all her notes were folded.

Our love was like most other loves,

A little glow, a little shiver ;
A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And “ Fly not yet,” upon the river ;
Some jealousy of some one's heir ;

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted ;
A miniature ; a lock of hair ;

The usual vows ;-and then we parted.

We parted : months and years rolled by,

We met again some summers after ;
Our parting was all sob and sigh!

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter !
For in my heart's most secret cell

There had been many other lodgers ;
And she was not the ball-room belle,

But only Mistress--something-Rogers !

The political satire is equally good-humoured, equally characteristic, and equally clever, perhaps cleverer—if that can be—than these specimens. Some of the objects of that keen and pungent verse still remain alive, although many are, like the author, removed from this transitory scene. I abstain, therefore, from inserting what might by possibility cause pain. The following cavalier version of the great fight of Marston Moor is transcribed from the author's own manuscript, apparently the first sketch. It is wonderful how little that fertile and fluent pen found to alter or to amend.

To horse ! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's note is high!
To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the big drum makes reply!
Ere this hath Lucas marched, with his gallant cavaliers,
And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter in our ears.
To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at the door,
And the raven wets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor.
Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,
And she brought a silken banner down the narrow turret-stair;
Oh! many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed,
As she traced the bright word “Glory,” in the gay and glancing

thread; And mournful was the smile which o'er those lovely features


As she said, “ It is your lady's gift, unfurl it in the van!” “ It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride, Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, the black dragoons of

Pride; The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a sickly qualm, And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm ; When they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt proudly on their wing, And hear her loyal soldier's shout · For God and for the King.'” 'Tis noon. The ranks are broken, along the royal line They fly, the braggarts of the court! the bullies of the Rhine ! Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is

down, And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown, And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in their flight, “ The German boar, had better far, have supped in York to

night.” The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleft in twain, His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain; Yet still he waves his banner, and cries amid the rout, “For Church and King, fair gentlemen ! spur on and fight it

out!” And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a

stave, And now he quotes a stage play, and now he fells a knave.

God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;
God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas ! for fearful odds are here !
The rebels hem thee in, and at every cut and thrust,
“ Down, down,” they cry, “ with Belial! down with him to the

dust." “I would,” quoth grim old Oliver, “ that Belial's trusty

sword, This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord !”

The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower,
The grey-haired warder watches from the castle's topmost

tower; " What news? what news, old Hubert ?"-" The battle's lost

and won ;
The royal troops are melting, like mist before the sun!
And a wounded man approaches ;-I'm blind and cannot see,
Yet sure I am that sturdy step, my master's step must be !”

“ I've brought thee back thy banner, wench, from as rude and

red a fray, As e'er was proof of soldier's thew, or theme for minstrel's lay! Here, Hubert, bring the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff. I'll make a shift to drain it yet, ere I part with boots and buff;Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing forth

his life, And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife !

“ Sweet ! we will fill our money bags, and freight a ship for

France, And mourn in merry Paris for this poor land's mischance; For if the worst befal me, why better axe and rope, Than life with Lenthall for a king, and Peters for a pope ! Alas! alas ! my gallant Guy !-curse on the crop-eared boor, Who sent me with my standard, on foot from Marston Moor !"

I pass some poems that have been greatly praised, “The Red Fishermen,” “Lilian,” and “The Troubadour," to come to the charades—the charming charades—which, in their form of short narrative poems, he may be said to have invented. I jnsert a few taken almost at random from his brilliant collection :

I graced Don Pedro's revelry,

All dressed in fire and feather ;
When loveliness and chivalry,

Were met to feast together.
He flung the slave who moved the lid,

A purse of maravedis ;
And this that gallant Spaniard did,

For me and for the ladies.
He vowed a vow, that noble knight,

Before he went to table,
To make his only sport the fight,

His only couch the stable,
Till he had dragged as he was bid

Five score of Turks to Cadiz ;-
And this that gallant Spaniard did,

For me and for the ladies.
To ride through mountains, where my First

A banquet would be reckoned ;
Through deserts where to quench their thirst

Men vainly turn my Second.
To leave the gates of fair Madrid,

And dare the gates of Hades ;-
And this that gallant Spaniard did,

For me and for the ladies.

Morning is beaming o'er brake and bower ;
Hark! to the chimes from yonder tower !
Call ye my First from her chamber now,
With her snowy veil and her jewelled brow.
Lo! where my Second in gorgeous array,
Leads from his stable her beautiful bay,
Looking for her as he curvets by
With an arching neck and a glancing eye.

Spread is the banquet and studied the song,
Ranged in meet order the menial throng,
Jerome is ready with book and with stole
And the maidens strew flowers,—but where is my Whole ?
Look to the hill ! is he climbing its side ?
Look to the stream ! is he crossing its tide ?
Out on the false one ! he comes not yet-
Lady, forget him ! yea scorn and forget !

The next is a surname, and one of the most beautiful compliments ever offered to a great poet.

Come from my First, aye, come !

The battle dawn is nigh ;
And the screaming trump and the thundering drum

Are calling thee to die !
Fight as thy father fought;

Fall as thy father fell ;
Thy task is taught; thy shroud is wrought;

So; forward and farewell !
Toll ye my Second! toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light;
And sing the hymn for a parted soul

Beneath the silent night!
The wreath upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed,

So,—take him to his rest!
Call ye my Whole, ay, call

The lord of lute and lay ;
And let him greet the sable pall

With a noble song to-day :
Go, call him by his name!

No fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame

On the turf of a soldier's grave.

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