And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging 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, For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! 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 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, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 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. SERMON IN A CHURCHYARD. (1825.) LET pious Damon take his seat, With mincing step, and languid smile, And spread his little jewelled hand, And smile round all the parish beauties, Let the thronged audience press and stare, And whisper "What a good young man!" Art thou the jilted dupe of fame? Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust, Some clod like those that here we spurn; Some thing that sprang like thee from dust, And shall like thee to dust return? Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits, At one sear leaf, or wandering feather? Behold the black, damp, narrow pits, Where they and thou must lie together. Dost thou beneath the smile or frown Of some vain woman bend thy knee? Whate'er thy losses or thy gains, The plots and feats of those that press We check, and take; exult, and fret; How worthless is the victor's prize. Dost thou among these hillocks stray, Of hearts once wretched as thy own. Here for the living and the dead, The weepers and the friends they weep, Hath been ordained the same cold bed, The same dark night, the same long sleep; Why shouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave O'er those, with whom thou soon must be ? Death his own sting shall cure-the grave Shall vanquish its own victory. Here learn that all the griefs and joys, Here learn that glory and disgrace, That all we hope, and all we fear, TRANSLATION FROM A. V. ARNAULT. THOU, poor leaf, so sear and frail, Green, and broad, and fair to view; -De ta tige détachée, Pauvre feuille desséchée Où vas-tu? Je n'en sais rien. |