« 이전계속 »
And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight, "The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night."
The Knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain; But still he waves the standard, 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 here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave.
Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;
Good speed to thce, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here. The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,
Down, down," they cry, "with Belial, down with him to 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 warden watches on the castle's highest tower.
“What news, what news, old Anthony?"—"The field is lost and won;
The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the
And a wounded man speeds hither, I am told and cannot
Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should be."
"I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough
As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's
Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff.; I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff; Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out 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 realm's mischance;
Or, if the worst betide me, why, better axe or rope,
Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope! Alas, alas, my gallant Guy!-out on the crop-eared boor, That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!"
W. M. PRAED.
THE INCHCAPE ROCK.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
Without either sign or sound of their shock
The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell,
The Sun in heaven was shining gay,
The sea birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
He felt the cheering power of spring,
His eye was on the Inchcape float;
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,
He scour'd the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore.' Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."
They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;
But even in his dying fear
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: Ilow jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,