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And thou know'st the holy lore, and the mason's cunning skill:

So speak the word, good Wykeham, for thou shalt have thy will.”

"I ask not wealth, nor honor," the Bishop lowly said,

"Too much of both thy grandsire's hand heaped on a poor monk's head:

This world it is a weary load, it presses down my soul;

Fain would I pay my vows, and to Heaven restore the whole.

Then came the dark and evil time, when English blood was shed

All over fertile England, for the White Rose or the Red;

But still in Wykeham's chapel the notes of praise were heard,

And still in Wykeham's college they taught the Sacred Word;

And in the gray of morning, on every saint'sday still,

That black-gowned troop of brothers were winding up the hill:

There in the hollow trench which the Danish pirate made,

charters sure,

At Oxford, and at Winchester, forever may

endure;

Which Wykeham's hands shall raise upon the grassy sod

In the name of Blessed Mary, and for the love of God."

ful scholars played.

Trained in such gentle discipline from childhood to their prime,

Grew mighty men and merciful, in that distracted time,

Men on whom Wykeham's mantle fell, who stood beside their king

ham traced the plan,

same pastoral ring ;

Who taught Heaven-destined monarchs to emulate his deeds

Upon the banks of Cam, and in Eton's flowery meads;

Founders of other colleges by Cherwell's lilied side,

Who laid their bones with his, when in ripe old age they died.

And after that, when love grew cold, and Christendom was rent,

And sinful churches laid them down in ashes to repent;

When impious man bore sway, and wasted church, and shrine,

And cloister, and old abbey, the works of men divine;

Though upon all things sacred their robber hands they laid,

They did not tear from Wykeham's gates the Blessed Mother-maid:

But still in Wykeham's cloisters fair wisdom did increase,

And then his sons began to learn the golden songs of Greece.

And all through great Eliza's reign, those days of pomp and pride,

the pious tear,

And sang the hallowed requiem over his

swerve aside :

Still in their vaulted chapel, and in the min

saintly bier.

ster fair,

And in their lamp-lit chambers they said the frequent prayer;

And when the Scottish plague-spot ran withering through the land,

The sons of Wykeham knelt beneath meek Andrew's fostering hand,

And none of all the faithless who breathed the unhallowed vow

Drank of the crystal waters beneath the plane-tree bough.

Dread was the hour, but short as dread, when

from the guarded down

Fierce Cromwell's rebel soldiery kept watch o'er Wykeham's town:

Beneath their pointed cannon all Itchen's valley lay,

Saint Catharine's breezy side, and the wood

lands far away,

Yet Wykeham's works are green and fresh beside the crystal stream. Four hundred years and fifty their rolling course have sped

Since the first serge-clad scholar to Wykeham's feet was led;

And still his seventy faithful boys, in these presumptuous days,

Learn the old truths, speak the old words tread in the ancient ways:

Still for their daily orisons resounds the matin chime;

Still, linked in bands of brotherhood, St. Catharine's steep they climb;

Still to their Sabbath worship they troop by Wykeham's tomb;

Still in the summer twilight sing their sweet song of home.

Norman home.

They spoiled the graves of valiant men, warrior, and saint, and sage,

But at the grave of Wykeham good angels quenched their rage.

Good angels still were there, when the basehearted son

Of Charles, the royal martyr, his course of

shame did run:

Then in those cloisters holy Ken strengthened with deeper prayer

His own and his dear scholars' souls, to what pure souls should dare:

Bold to rebuke enthroned sin, with calm undazzled faith,

Whether amid the pomp of courts, or on the bed of death;

Firm against kingly terrors in his free country's cause,

Faithful to God's anointed against a world's applause.

Since then, what wars, what tumults, what change has Europe seen!

But never since, in Itchen's vale, has war or tumult been;

God's mercies have been with us, his favor

still has blest

The memories sweet, and glorious deeds, of

the good man at rest:

The many prayers, the daily praise, the nurture in the Word,

ham's bounties claim

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, the historian, was born Oct. 25, 1800, and died Dec. 28, 1859. His history and his essays constitute the basis of his fame as one of the first men of letters of England, but his verse also is very much admired. Ivry is a town near Paris, where Henry IV. gained a victory over the " Army of the League," March 14, 1590. The king was at the time a Protestant.

Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance.

Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France !

proud city of the waters,

melted like a dream;

mourning daughters;

Almayne.

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,

Charge for the golden lilies, - upon them with the lance!

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein;

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain;

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail;

And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van,

"Remember Saint Bartholomew !" was passed from man to man.

But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe;

Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."

Oh, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,

As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ?

Ho! maidens of Vienna; 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 for thy

poor spearmen's souls.

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night;

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave.

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the

valor of the brave.

Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are;

And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre!

THOMAS BABINGTON MAC? Uray.

Macaulay admired the Puritans, but had no sympathy with them. The battle of Naseby was fought between the King and the Commons, June 14, 1645, and resulted in the flight of Charles I. from the field, owing to the skill of Oliver Cromwell, who routed the left wing of the royal forces.

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 that 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,

Stout Skippen 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! 't is he, boys!

Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here!

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes,

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;

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,

The General rode along us to form us for the fight:

When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,

- 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,

First give another stab to make your search

secure;

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broadpieces and lockets,

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

line:

For God! for the cause! for the Church! for the laws!

For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,

His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall:

your hearts were gay and bold, When you kissed your lily hands to your le

mans to-day;

And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

pikes! Close your ranks!

For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or to

fall.

heaven and hell and fate?

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! forever 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!

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland,
Of England green and old,
That out from fane and ivied tower

A thousand years have tolled;
How glorious must their music be
As breaks the hallowed day,
And calleth with a seraph's voice
A nation up to pray!

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales,

Sweet tales of olden time;

And ring a thousand memories

At vesper, and at prime !

At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and king,

Those chimes, those glorious Christian chimes,

How blessedly they ring!

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, Upon a Christmas morn,

Outbreaking as the angels did,

For a Redeemer born!

How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,

With holly decked and mistletoe,
To keep the festival!

The chimes of England, how they peal From tower and Gothic pile,

Where hymn and swelling anthem fill The dim cathedral aisle;

Where windows bathe the holy light
On priestly heads that falls,
And stain the florid tracery

Of banner-dighted walls!

And then, those Easter bells, in spring,
Those glorious Easter chimes!
How loyally they hail thee round,
Old Queen of holy times!
From hill to hill, like sentinels,

Responsively they cry,

And sing the rising of the Lord,
From vale to mountain high.

I love ye, chimes of Motherland,
With all this soul of mine,
And bless the Lord that I am sprung
Of good old English line :
And like a son I sing the lay

That England's glory tells;
For she is lovely to the Lord,

For you, ye Christian bells!

And heir of her historic fame,

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