rampart flow round thee, Conveying thy mandates to every shore,

And the empire of nature no longer can bound thee,

And the world be the scene of thy conquests no more:

Remember the man who in sorrow and danger,

When thy glory was set, and thy spirit was low,

When thy hopes were o'erturned by the arms of the stranger,

And thy banners displayed in the halls of the foe,

Stood forth in the tempest of doubt and disaster,

Unaided, and single, the danger to brave.

Asserted thy claims, and the rights of his master,

Preserved thee to conquer, and saved thee to save.

A RADICAL WAR SONG.
(1820.)

AWAKE, arise, the hour is come,
For rows and revolutions;
There's no receipt like pike and drum
For crazy constitutions.

Close, close the shop! Break, break the loom,

Desert your hearths and furrows, And throng in arms to seal the doom Of England's rotten boroughs.

On his own Dublin rack, sir; We'll drown the King in Eau de vie, The Laureate in his sack, sir, Old Eldon and his sordid hag

In molten gold we'll smother, And stifle in his own green bag The Doctor and his brother.

In chains we'll hang in fair Guildhall
The City's famed Recorder,
And next on proud St. Stephen's fall,
Though Wynne should squeak to
order.

In vain our tyrants then shall try
To 'scape our martial law, sir;
In vain the trembling Speaker cry
That"
Strangers must withdraw,"

sir.

Copley to hang offends no text;

A rat is not a man, sir: With schedules and with tax bills next We'll bury pious Van, sir. The slaves who loved the Income Tax, We'll crush by scores, like mites, sir, And him, the wretch who freed the blacks,

And more enslaved the whites, sir.

The peer shall dangle from his gate,
The bishop from his steeple,
Till all recanting, own, the State
Means nothing but the People.
We'll fix the church's revenues

On Apostolic basis,

One coat, one scrip, one pair of shoes Shall pay their strange grimaces.

We'll strap the bar's deluding train

In their own darling halter, And with his big church bible brain The parson at the altar. Hail glorious hour, when fair Reform Shall bless our longing nation, And Hunt receive commands to form A new administration.

Carlisle shall sit enthroned, where sat

Our Cranmer and our Secker; And Watson show his snow-white hat In England's rich Exchequer. The breast of Thistlewood shall wear Our Wellesley's star and sash, man; And many a mausoleum fair

Shall rise to honest Cashman.

Shall they who used it writhe, sir; And curates lean, and rectors fat,

Shall dig the ground they tithe, sir. Down with your Bayleys, and your Bests, Your Giffords, and your Gurneys: We'll clear the island of the pests, Which mortals name attorneys.

Down with your sheriffs, and your mayors,

Your registrars, and procters, We'll live without the lawyer's cares,

And die without the doctor's.
No discontented fair shall pout

To see her spouse so stupid;
We'll tread the torch of Hymen out,
And live content with Cupid.

Then, when the high-born and the great
Are humbled to our level,

On all the wealth of Church and State,
We'll live when hushed the battle's din,
Like aldermen, we'll revel.
In drinking unexcised gin,
In smoking and in cards, sir,

And wooing fair Poissardes, sir.

THE BATTLE OF MONCONTOUR. (1824.)

Он, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour

When the children of darkness and evil had power,

When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod

On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.

Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain,

Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain ;

Oh, weep for the living, who linger to bear The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair.

One look, one last look, to our cots and our towers,

To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers,

To the church where the bones of our

fathers decayed,

Where we fondly had deemed that our own would be laid.

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR - KINGS-IN

CHAINS AND THEIR - NOBLES-WITH

LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON'S
REGIMENT. (1824.)

OH! wherefore come ye forth, in tri-
umph 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.

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,

The General rode along us to form us to the fight,

When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a shout,

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

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,

His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of
Whitehall;

They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp
your pikes, close your ranks;
For Rupert never comes but to con-
quer or to fall.

They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!

O

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.

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,

of June,

That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,

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; 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,

First give another stab to make your

search secure, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets, 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:

While he explains what seems most clear,

So clearly that it seems perplexed, I'll stay, and read my sermon here; And skulls, and bones, shall be the text.

Art thou the jilted dupe of fame?

Dost thou with jealous anger pine Whene'er she sounds some other name, To thee I preach; draw near; attend! With fonder emphasis than thine?

Look on these bones, thou fool, and see Where all her scorns and favours end, What Byron is, and thou must be. Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust

Some clod like those that here we

spurn;

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.

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? Here take thy stand, and trample down Things that were once as fair as she. Here rave of her ten thousand graces, Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin, While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces Of Hamiltons and Waldegraves grin.

Whate'er thy losses or thy gains, Whate'er thy projects or thy fears, Whate'er the joys, whate'er the pains, That prompt thy baby smiles and tears;

Come to my school, and thou shalt learn, In one short hour of placid thought, A stoicism, more deep, more stern, Than ever Zeno's porch hath taught.

The plots and feats of those that press To seize on titles, wealth, or power, Shall seem to thee a game of chess,

Devised to pass a tedious hour. What matters it to him who fights

For shows of unsubstantial good, Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights,

Be things of flesh, or things of wood?

We check, and take; exult, and fret;

Our plans extend, our passions rise, Till in our ardour we forget

How worthless is the victor's prize. Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night:

Say will it not be then the same, Whether we played the black or white, Whether we lost or won the game? Dost thou among these hillocks stray, O'er some dear idol's tomb to moan? Know that thy foot is on the clay

Of hearts once wretched as thy own. How many a father's anxious schemes, How many rapturous thoughts of lovers,

How many a mother's cherished dreams,

The swelling turf before thee covers! 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,
Which now torment, which now be-
guile,
Are children's hurts, and children's toys,
Scarce worthy of one bitter smile.

Here learn that pulpit, throne, and

press,

Sword, sceptre, lyre, alike are frail, That science is a blind man's guess, And History a nurse's tale.

Here learn that glory and disgrace, Wisdom and folly, pass away, That mirth hath its appointed space, That sorrow is but for a day; That all we love, and all we hate,

That all we hope, and all we fear, Each mood of mind, each turn of fate, Must end in dust and silence here.

TRANSLATION FROM A. V.

ARNAULT.

Fables: Livre v. Fable 16. (1826.)

THOU poor leaf, so sear and frail,
Sport of every wanton gale,
Through this bleak autumnal sky?
Whence, and whither, dost thou fly,
On a noble oak I grew,

But the Monarch of the shade
Green, and broad, and fair to view;
By the tempest low was laid.
From that time, I wander o'er
Wood, and valley, hill, and moor,
Wheresoe'er the wind is blowing,
Nothing caring, nothing knowing:
Thither go I, whither goes,
Glory's laurel, Beauty's rose.

-De ta tige détachée, Pauvre feuille desséchée Où vas-tu ?-Je n'en sais rien. L'orage a frappé le chêne Qui seul était mon soutien. De son inconstante haleine, Le zéphyr ou l'aquilon Depuis ce jour me promène De la forêt à la plaine, De la montagne au vallon. Je vais où le vent me mène, Sans me plaindre ou m'effrayer, Je vais où va toute chose, Où va la feuille de rose Et la feuille de laurier.