I knew her, O brother, I knew her full well! As would thrill thy bold heart;-but how long she remained, I knew not, but ages seem short to the while. The present to shun and some respite to find, "She told me, and turned my chilled heart to a stone, 66 A parting embrace in one moment she gave,Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave; Then flitting illusive, she said, with a frown, 66 The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own!'" When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring." Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night, Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light: It faded-it darkened-he shuddered-he sighed,— "No! not for the universe!" low he replied. Away went Macgregor, but went not alone: All silent they went, for the time was approaching,- No foot was abroad on the forest or hill, No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill; Young Malcolm, at distance, crouched trembling the while; Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen-Gyle. Few minutes had passed ere they spied on the stream Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle: As slumbering he dozed on the shelf of the rock; Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach, Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side. "Macgregor! Macgregor!" the echoes replied. He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem, XXII. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY. BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLESWITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT. (LORD MACAULAY.) The battle of Naseby, in Northamptonshire, which decided the fate of Charles I., was fought on the 14th June 1645. The King's army was commanded by Lord Astley, Prince Rupert (of Bavaria, son of Frederick, King of Bohemia, and Elizabeth, daughter of James I. of England), and Sir Marmaduke Langdale, the King himself being in charge of the reserve forces. Thomas Fairfax (afterwards Lord Fairfax), Oliver Cromwell, and Henry Ireton (Cromwell's son-in-law), led the Parliamentary troops. 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 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, Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain, Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces 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 ye kissed your lily hands to your lemans1 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, With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope: There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham's Stalls; The Jesuit smites his bosom; the Bishop rends his cope. And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword; And the kings of earth in fear, shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the word. 1 Lovers. 2 Houses of Parliament. |