I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase that was divinely moulded ;- How neatly all her notes were folded. Our love was like most other loves,— A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly not yet," upon the river; Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; The usual vows ;-and then we parted. We parted months and years rolled by, There had been many other lodgers; 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, there fore, 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! Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer, thread; And mournful was the smile which o'er those lovely features ran, 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; "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; "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 l 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; 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 insert a few taken almost at random from his brilliant collection: I. I graced Don Pedro's revelry, Were met to feast together. He flung the slave who moved the lid, And this that gallant Spaniard did, He vowed a vow, that noble knight, To make his only sport the fight, 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 ;— II. Morning is beaming o'er brake and bower; Lo! where my Second in gorgeous array, With an arching neck and a glancing eye. Spread is the banquet and studied the song, And the maidens strew flowers,-but where is my Whole? Look to the hill! is he climbing its side? 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. III. Come from my First, aye, come! The battle dawn is nigh; And the screaming trump and the thundering drum 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 |