We parted:months and years rolled by, Our meeting was all mirth and laughter! There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-r -room belle, But only Mistress-something-Rogers! I The political satire is equally good-humoured, equally characteristic, and equally clever, perhaps cleverer-if that can be-than these specimens. Some of the objects of that keen and pungent verse still remain alive, although many are, like the author, removed from this transitory scene. abstain, therefore, from inserting what might by possibility cause pain. The following cavalier version of the great fight of Marston Moor is transcribed from the author's own manuscript, apparently the first sketch. It is wonderful how little that fertile and fluent pen found to alter or to amend. To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's note is high! Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer, And she brought a silken banner down the narrow turret-stair; Oh many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed, thread; And mournful was the smile which o'er those lovely features ran, As she said, "It is your lady's gift, unfurl it in the van!" "It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride, Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, the black dragoons of Pride; The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a sicklier qualm, And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm; "Tis noon. down, And Rupert sheathes his rapier, with a curse and with a frown, And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in their flight, "The German boar, had better far, have supped in York tonight." The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleft in twain, His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain : Yet still he waves his banner, and cries amid the rout, "For Church and King, fair gentlemen! spur on, and fight it out!" And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave, And now he quotes a stage-play, and now he fells a knave. God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas ! thou hast no thought of fear; God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! for fearful odds are here! The rebels hem thee in, and at every cut and thrust, “Down, down,” they cry, "with Belial! down with him to 66 the dust." I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that Belial's trusty sword, This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!" The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower, The grey-haired warder watches from the castle's topmost tower; "What news? what news, old Hubert?"- "The battle's lost and won; The royal troops are melting, like mists before the sun! "I've brought thee back thy banner, wench, from as rude and red a fray, As e'er was proof of soldier's thew, or theme for minstrel's lay! Here, Hubert, bring the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff. I'll make a shift to drain it yet, ere I part with boots and buff ;Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing forth his life, And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife! "Sweet! we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France, And mourn in merry Paris for this poor land's mischance; Alas! alas! my gallant Guy!—curse on the crop-eared boor, Who sent me with my standard, on foot from Marston Moor!" I pass some poems that have been greatly praised, "The Red Fishermen," "Lilian," and "The Troubadour," to come to the charades-the charming charades-which, in their form of short narrative poems, he may be said to have invented. I insert a few taken almost at random from his brilliant collection : I graced Don Pedro's revelry, Were met to feast together. He flung the slave who moved the lid, A purse of maravedis ; And this that gallant Spaniard did, For me and for the ladies. He vowed a vow, that noble knight, To make his only sport the fight, Till he had dragged as he was bid To ride through mountains, where my First Through deserts, where to quench their thirst To leave the gates of fair Madrid, II. Morning is beaming o'er brake and bower; Lo! where my Second in gorgeous array, Spread is the banquet and studied the song, Look to the hill!-is he climbing its side? Lady, forget him! yea, scorn and forget! The next is a surname, and one of the most beautiful compliments ever offered to a great poet. III. Come from my First, aye, come! The battle dawn is nigh; And the screaming trump and the thundering drum Are calling thee to die! |