and the landscape sped away behind, like an ocean flying before the wind; and the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; he is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, with Sheridan only five iniles away!

The first that the General saw, were the groups of stragglers, and then the retreating troops!-What was done? what to do?-a glance told him both; then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath he dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas; and the wave of retreat checked its course there, because the sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; by the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils' play, he seemed to the whole great army to say, "I have brought you Sheridan, all the way from Winchester, down to save the day."

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! and when their statues are placed on high under the dome of the Union sky, the American soldiers' Temple of Fame, there, with the glorious General's name, be it said in letters both bold and bright,-"Here is the steed that saved the day by carrying Sheridan into the fight, from Winchester-twenty miles away!"

XIV.-PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.-Longfellow.

LISTEN, my friends, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere: on the eighteenth of April, in 'seventy-five ah! not a mar is now alive who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend: "If the British march by land or sea, from the town to-night, hang a lantern aloft, in the belfry arch of the North Church Tower, as a signal light one if by land, and two if by sea: and I on the opposite shore will be, ready to ride and spread the alarm through every Middlesex village and farm, for the country folk to be up, and to arm!" Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar silently rowed to the Charleston shore; just as the moon rose over the Bay, where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay the "Somerset," British man-of-war; a phantom-ship, with each mast and spar across the moon like a prison-bar; and a huge black bulk, that was magnified by its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, wanders and watches with eager ears, till, in the silence around him, he hears the muster of men at the barrack door; the sound of arms-and the tramp of feetand the measured tread of the grenadiers marching down to their boats on the shore! Then he climbed to the Tower of the Church, up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, to the belfry-chamber overhead; and startled the pigeons from their perch on the sombre rafters, that round him made masses, and moving shapes of shade: up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, to the highest window in the wall,-where he paused to listen and look down a moment on the roofs of the town, and the moonlight flowing over all! Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead in their nightencampment on the hill; wrapped in silence so deep and still that he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, the watchful night-wind as it went creeping along from tent to tent, and seeming to whisper, "All is well !" A moment only he feels the spell of the place, and the hour, and the secret dread of the lonely belfry and the dead; for, suddenly, all his

thoughts are bent on a shadowy something far away, where the river widens to meet the bay-a line of black that bends and floats on the rising tide....like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, booted and spurred, with a heavy stride on the opposite shore walked Paui Revere. Now, he patted his horse's side; now, gazed at the landscape far and near; then, impetuous, stamped the earth, and turned and tightened his saddle-girth; but mostly he watched with cager search the belfry-tower of the Old North Church, as it rose above the graves on the hill, lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still; and lo! as he looks on the belfry's height, a glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns-but lingers and gazes; till, full on his sight, a second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in the village street-a shape in the moonlight-a bulk in the dark-and, beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; that was all! and yet, through the gloom and the light, the fate of a Nation was riding that night; and the spark struck out by that steed in his flight, kindled the land into flame with its heat. It was TWELVE by the village clock when he cross'd the bridge into Medford-town: he heard the crowing of the cock, and the barking of the farmer's dog, and felt the damp of the river-fog that rises after the sun goes down. It was ONE by the village clock, when he galloped into Lexington; he saw the gilded weathercock swim in the moonlight as he pass'd, and the Meeting-house windows, blank and bare, gaze at him with a spectral glare, as if they already stood aghast at the bloody work they would look upon. It was Two by the village clock, when he came to the bridge in Concord-town: he heard the bleating of the flock, and the twitter of birds among the trees, and felt the breath of the morning breeze, blowing over the meadows brown.-And one was safe and asleep in his bed, who at the bridge would be first to fall-who, that day, would be lying dead, pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read, how the British Regulars fired and fled-how the farmers gave them ball for ball from behind each fence and farmyard wall, chasing the red-coats down the lane; then crossing the fields to emerge again under the trees at the turn of the road, and only pausing to fire and load!

So through the night rode Paul Revere; and so through the night went his cry of alarm to every Middlesex village and farm :-"For freedom and fireside! Arm! arm! arm!"-A cry of defiance, and not of fear; a voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, and a word that shall echo for evermore! for, borne on the night-wind of the Past, through American history to the last, in the hour of darkness, and peril, and need, the people will waken and listen-to hear the hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, and the midnight message of Paul Revere !

XV.-SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.-J. G. Whittier. Or all the rides since the birth of time, told in story or sung in rhyme,-on Apuleius's Golden Ass-or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass-witch astride of a human back-Islam's prophet on Al Borakthe strangest ride that ever was sped, was Ireson's, out from Marblehead :-"Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart by the women of Marblehead !"

Body of turkey, head of owl, wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, feathered and ruffled in every part,-Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, strong of muscle, and glib of tongue; wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, girls in bloom of cheek and lips, wild-eyed, free-limbed-such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase,-brief of skirt, with ankles bare, loose of kerchief and loose of hair, pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, shouting and singing the shrill refrain :-" Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt torr'd an' futherr'd, an' corr'd in a corrt by the women o' Morble'ead! Small pity for him! He sailed away from a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay; sailed away from a sinking wreck, with his own town's-people on her deck! "Lay-by! lay-by!" they called to him. Back he answered, "Sink or swim! Brag of your catch of fish again!"-and off he sailed through the fog and rain! Fathoms deep, in dark Chaleur, that wreck shall lie for evermore! Mother and sister, wife and maid, looked from the rocks of Marblehead :-over the moaning and rainy sea, looked for the coming that might not be!-What did the winds and the sea-birds say of the cruel Captain who sailed away ?--" Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart by the women of Marblehead!"

Through the street on either side, up flew windows, doors swung wide; sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires cripple-bound, hulks of old sailors run aground, shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, and cracked, with curses, the hoarse refrain.-Sweetly along the Salem road bloom of orchard and lilac showed: little the wicked Skipper knew of the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, like an Indian idol, glum and grim, scarcely he seemed the sound to hear of voices shouting far and near; "Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, torr'd an' futherr'd, an' corr'd in a corrt by the women o' Morble'ead!"

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'Hear me, neighbours!" at last he cried-"What to me is this noisy ride? What is the shame that clothes the skin to the nameless horror that lives within? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, and hear a cry from a reeling deck! Hate me, and curse me-I only dread the hand of God, and the face of the dead!"-Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea, said, "God has touched him!-why should we?" Said an old wife mourning her only son, "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" So, with soft relentings and rude excuse, half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, and gave him a cloak to hide him in, and left him alone with his shame and sin! "Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, tarred and feathered, and carried in a cart by the women of Marblehead!"

XVI. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.-Lord Macaulay.
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 winepress 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 sat 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,
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 swelled 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 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 accurs'd,
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 dared not look on war!

Ho comrades, scour the plain; and, e'er 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.

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 perfumed 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!

Let men tremble when they think on the edge of England's sword: Ay! the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear

What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word!

XVII. THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY.- Thomas Davis.
THRICE, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed,
And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed !
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.—
On Fontenoy! on Fontenoy! how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,

Their cannons blaze in front and flank-Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope-steady they climb the hill;
Steady they load-steady they fire! moving right onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast;
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And, on the open plain above, they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force:
Past Fontenoy! past Fontenoy! while thinner grow their ranks-
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks!
More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush around;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore—still on they marched and
fired:-

Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired.

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Push on my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried:

To death they rush, but rude their shock—not unavenged, they died!
On through the camp the column trod-King Louis turns his rein:
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain ;"
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true!

"Lord Clare," he says, " you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!"
The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!
-How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay!
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day
The Treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry,
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown,-
Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked on him alone.

On Fontenoy! on Fontenoy! nor ever yet elsewhere,

Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,

"Fix bayonets!-Charge !"-Like mountain-storm, rush on these fiery

bands!

Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind-
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks, the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy! on Fontenoy! hark to the fierce huzza!

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Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassanach!"