Then, changing his theme, came the tune, like a wave :— 'When haughty invaders defy,

His fame shall be first on the roll of the brave-
Who meets them, to conquer or die :

His name shall ascend in the prayers of the free '-
'Beware!' said the foe-' we are strong;

The minstrel is safe, but another than he
Might have paid with his life for his song!'

Ex. 114.

Canute and his Courtiers.

Upon his royal throne he sat,

In a monarch's thoughtful mood;
Attendants on his regal state

His servile courtiers stood,
With foolish flatteries, false and vain,
To win his smile, his favour gain.
They told him e'en the mighty deep
His kingly sway confessed;
That he could bid its billows leap,
Or still its stormy breast.

He smiled contemptuously and cried,
'Be then my boasted empire tried !'
Down to the ocean's sounding shore
The proud procession came,
To see its billows' wild uproar

Mackay.

King Canute's power proclaim ;
Or, at his high and dread command,
In gentle murmurs kiss the strand.
Not so, thought he, their noble king,
As his course he sea-ward sped ;-
And each base slave, like a guilty thing,
Hung down his conscious head ;-
He knew the ocean's Lord on high;
They, that he scorned their senseless lie,
His throne was placed by ocean's side,
He lifted his sceptre there;
Bidding, with tones of kingly pride,
The waves their strife forbear :-
And, while he spoke his royal will,
All but the winds and waves were still.
Louder the stormy blast swept by,
In scorn of his idle word;

The briny deep its waves tossed high,
By his mandate undeterred,

As threatening, in their angry play,
To sweep both king and court away.
The monarch with upbraiding look,
Turned to the courtly ring;

But none the kindling eye could brook
Even of his earthly king;

For in that wrathful glance they see
A mightier monarch wronged than he !
Canute thy regal race is run;

Thy name had passed away,
But for the meed this tale hath won,
Which never shall decay :
Its meek, unperishing renown
Outlasts thy sceptre and thy crown.
The Persian, in his mighty pride,
Forged fetters for the main;
And, when its floods his power defied,
Inflicted stripes as vain ;--

But it was worthier far of thee
To know thyself, than rule the sea!

The Battle of Hastings.

Across the ocean's troubled breast
The base-born Norman came,
To win for his helm a kingly crest,
For his sons a kingly name;

And in his warlike band,
Came flashing fair and free

Bernard Barton.

The brightest swords of his father's land,
With the pomp of its chivalry.

What doth the foe on England's field?

Why seeks he England's throne?
Has she no chiefs her arms to wield,
No warrior of her own?

But, lo! in regal pride

Stern Harold comes again,

With the waving folds of his banner dyed
In the blood of the hostile Dane.

The song, the prayer, the feast were o'er,
The stars in Heaven were pale,

And many a brow was bared once more
To meet the morning gale.

Ex. 115.

At length the sun's bright ray
Tinged the wide east with gold,
And the misty veil of the morning gray
Away from his forehead rolled.
And all along each crowded tract
His burning glance was thrown,
Till the polished armour sent him back
A lustre like his own.

Still flashed the silver sheen
Along the serried lines,

Where the deadly wood of spears was seen
To rise like forest-pines.

In either host was silence deep,

Save the falchions' casual ring,

When a sound arose like the first dread sweep Of the distant tempest's wing;

Then burst the clamour out,

Still maddening more and more,
Till the air grew troubled with the shout,
As it is at the thunder's roar.

And the war was roused by that fearful cry,
And the hosts rushed wildly on,

Like clouds that sweep o'er the gloomy sky
When summer days are gone.

Swift as the lightning's flame
The furious horsemen passed,

And the rattling showers of arrows came
Like hailstones on the blast.

The Island Phalanx firmly trod

On paths all red with gore;

For the blood of their bravest stained the sod They proudly spurned before.

But close and closer still

They plied them blow for blow,

Till the deadly stroke of the Saxon bill

Cut loose the Norman bow.

And the stubborn foemen turned to flee,
With the Saxons on their rear,

Like hounds when they lightly cross the lea
To spring on the fallow-deer.

Each war-axe gleaming bright

Made havoc in its sway;

But in the mingled chase and flight
They lost their firm array.

From a mounted band of the Norman's best

A vengeful cry arose ;

Their lances long were in the rest,

And they dashed upon their foes

On, on, in wild career;

Alas for England, then,

When the furious thrust of the horsemen's spear

Bore back the Kentish men.

They bore them back, that desperate band,
Despite of helm or shield;

And the corslet bright and the gory brand
Lay strewed on the battle-field.
Fierce flashed the Norman's steel,
Though soiled by many a stain;
And the iron tread of his courser's heel
Crushed down the prostrate slain.

But still for life the Saxons ply,
In hope or in despair,

And their frantic leader's rallying cry
Rings in the noontide air.

He toils; but toils in vain !

The fatal arrow flies,

The iron point has pierced his brain-
The Island Monarch dies.

The fight is o'er, and wide are spread
The sounds of the dismal tale;
And many a heart has quailed with dread,
And many a cheek is pale.

The victor's fears are past,

The golden spoil is won,

And England's tears are flowing fast

Ex. 116.

In grief for England's son.

Death of Prince William.

M'Dongall.

The bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves rolled on ;
And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne,
Ere sorrow break its chain ;-

Why comes not death to those who mourn?
He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms before his throne,
The stately and the brave ;

But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave ?
Before him passed the young and fair,
In pleasure's reckless train;

But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair-
He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round;
He heard the minstrel sing;
He saw the tournay's victor crowned
Amidst the knightly ring.

A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep-
He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace

Of vows once fondly poured,

And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board,

Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,

Were left to heaven's bright rain,

Fresh hopes were born for other years—

He never smiled again!

Mrs. Hemans.

Ex. 117.

The Bard.

'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait!

Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.

Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,

Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance

To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Robed in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the poet stood;