CON. CAL. Oh no!

Call me brother!

Brother?

CON. Brave youth, thou art indeed my brother-
One father gave us life. Before the summer
Of his prime day, my gallant sire did wed
A beauteous Greek, she was his earliest love;
Together rambled they the glorious coasts
Of the Egæan Sea, and on to Palestine,
A happy pilgrimage-in the holy city
She gave birth to a son, and there she died.
He stay'd in Judah till his infant boy
Could bear their wearisome journey. Here, in Syria,
Crossing a desert vale, a tribe of Arabs
Dispers'd his convoy-on the parched sands
My father bled, and when he woke to life
His child was missing.

CAL.

And thus my father's sword.

Might have spilt my father's blood! Unhappy wretch!
Call me not parricide-I slew him not,

But I sav'd him not-I sav'd him not.

CON.

Charge not thyself with guilt, 'Twas an ignorant sin-One, one alone is guiltyShall we revenge?

CAL.

Revenge! that glorious name
Calls up the brother here- Revenge! no words-
No dallying purposes-on with your bucklers;
Out with your swords. I know the ready way
To the black citadel-Brother, one grasp

Of thy forgiving hand.

CON.

My father's blood,

His noble blood leaps, in thy eager veins.

We'll fight together-side by side we'll fight.

CAL. Calaf will take his thrust, and thou shalt slay him! Death will atone for me.

CON.

Live, live my brother.

R. M.

321

SONGS OF THE CIVIL WAR.

Here warlike coblers railed from tops of casks
At lords and love-locks, monarchy and masques.-
There many a graceless page blaspheming reel'd,
From his dear cards and bumpers, to the field:
The famished rooks, impatient of delay,

Gnaw their cogg'd dice and curse the lingering prey :
His sad Andromache, with fruitless care,

Paints her wan lips and braids her borrowed hair:
For Church and King he quits his favourite arts,
Forsakes his Knaves, forsakes his Queen of Hearts:
For Church and King he burns to stain with gore
His doublet, stained with nought but sack before.

From a MS. Poem.

I. THE CAVALIER'S MARCH TO LONDON.

To horse! to horse! brave Cavaliers!

To horse for Church and Crown!

Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears!
And ho for London town!

The imperial barlot, doom'd a prey

To our avenging fires,

Sends up the voice of her dismay

From all her hundred spires.

The Strand resounds with maiden's shrieks,
The 'Change with merchants' sighs,

And blushes stand on brazen cheeks,

And tears in iron eyes;

And, pale with fasting and with fright,

Each Puritan Committee

Hath summon'd forth to prayer and fight

The Roundheads of the City.

And soon shall London's sentries hear

The thunder of our drum,

And London's dames, in wilder fear,

Shall cry, Alack! They come !

VOL. II. PART II.

Y

Fling the fascines;-tear up the spikes;

And forward, one and all.

Down, down with all their train-band pikes,
Down with their mud-built wall.

Quarter?-Foul fall your whining noise,
Ye recreant spawn of fraud !

No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys.
No quarter! Think on Laud.
What ho! The craven slaves retire.
On! Trample them to mud,

No quarter!-Charge.-No quarter !-Fire.
No quarter!-Blood!-Blood!-Blood!-

Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch, Brave lads, to tell us where,

Sure London's sons be passing rich,

Her daughters wondrous fair :
And let that dastard be the theme
Of many a board's derision,
Who quails for sermon, cuff, or scream
Of any sweet Precisian.

Their lean divines, of solemn brow,

Sworn foes to throne and steeple,

From an unwonted pulpit now

Shall edify the people:

Till the tir'd hangman, in despair,

Shall curse his blunted shears,

And vainly pinch, and scrape, and tear,
Around their leathern ears.

We'll hang, above his own Guildhall,
The city's grave Recorder,

And on the den of thieves we'll fall,
Though Pym should speak to order.
In vain the lank-haired gang shall try
To cheat our martial law;
In vain shall Lenthall trembling cry
That strangers must withdraw.

Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair,
We'll build a glorious pyre,

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-ear'd 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,

Those names no time shall sever,—

Drink, in a draught as deep as Thames,

Our Church and King for ever!

T. M.

II. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, BY ОBADIAH BIND-THEIRKINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OFIRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT.

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 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.

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 for 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

For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

They are here:-they rush on.-
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast..
O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!

-We are broken :-we are gone:

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.