Beaumanoir, mid them all, bravest and first- Deep had it pierced him-the foemen's swift sword, While on his shield, that no shame had defaced, THE LAMENTATION OF DON RODERICK. J. G. LOCKHART. THE hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in dismay, His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame-he could no farther go; For, sore athirst and hungry, he staggered faint and sick. All stained and strewed with dust and blood, like to some smouldering brand Plucked from the flame, Rodrigo showed: his sword was in his hand, But it was hacked into a saw of dark and purple tint; His jewelled mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint. He climbed unto a hill-top, the highest he could see- He looked for the brave captains that led the hosts of Spain, Where'er his eye could wander, all bloody was the plain, And, while thus he said, the tears he shed run down his cheeks like rain: "Last night I was the King of Spain-to-day no King am I; Oh, luckless, luckless was the hour, and cursed was the day, THE LORD OF BUTRAGO. J. G. LOCKHART. "YOUR horse is faint, my King-my Lord! your gallant horse is sickHis limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; Mount, mount on mine, oh, mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! Or in my arms I'll lift your grace—their trampling hoofs are nigh! "My King-my King! you're wounded sore-the blood runs from your feet; But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat: Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!-I hear their coming cry- "Stand, noble steed! this hour of need-be gentle as a lamb: "Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours, And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures: "Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain, And say there's ONE that ran away when our good lords were slain !— I leave Diego in your care-you'll fill his father's place: Strike, strike the spur, and never spare-God's blessing on your grace!" So spake the brave Montañez, Butrago's lord was he; THE CAVALIERS' MARCH TO LONDON. To horse! to horse! brave cavaliers! To horse for church and crown! LORD MACAULAY Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears! And ho for London town! The imperial harlot, doomed a prey To our avenging fires, Sends up the voice of her dismay From all her hundred spires. The Strand resounds with maidens' shrieks, The 'Change with merchants' sighs, And tears in iron eyes; And, pale with fasting and with fright, Each Puritan committee Hath summoned forth to prayer and fight And soon shall London's sentries hear And London's dames, in wilder fear, Fling the fascines ;-tear up the spikes; Down, down with all their train-band pikes, Quarter?-Foul fall your whining noise, No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys. No quarter! Blood! blood! blood! Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch, Her daughters wondrous fair: Their lean divines, of solemn brow, Sworn foes to throne and steeple, From an unwonted pulpit now Shall edify the people: Till the tired hangman, in despair, Shall curse his blunted shears, We'll hang, above his own Guildhall, And on the den of thieves we'll fall, In vain shall Lenthall trembling cry Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair, And tons of rebel parchment there Shall crackle in the fire. With them shall perish, cheek by jowl, Petition, psalm, and libel, The colonel's canting muster-roll, The chaplain's dog-eared Bible. We'll tread a measure round the blaze Where England's pest expires, And lead along the dance's maze The beauties of the friars: Then smiles in every face shall shine, And joy in every soul. Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine, And crown the largest bowl. And as with nod and laugh ye sip The goblet's rich carnation, Whose bursting bubbles seem to tip The wink of invitation; Drink to those names,-those glorious names,- Drink, in a draught as deep as Thames, 337 THE COMBAT OF HERMINIUS AND MAMILIUS. RIGHT glad were all the Romans Who, in that hour of dread, Against great odds bare up the war Around Valerius dead, When from the south the cheering Mamilius spied Herminius, And dashed across the way. All round them paused the battle, The horses black and gray. LORD MACAULAY. Through breast-plate and through breast; And fast flowed out the purple blood Over the purple vest. Mamilius smote Herminius Through head-piece and through head; Together fell down dead. Down fell they dead together In a great lake of gore; And still stood all who saw them fall While men might count a score. |