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

sun;

And a wounded man speeds hither, I am told and cannot

see,

Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should be."

"I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough

a fray,

As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's

lay.

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,
The ship was as still as she could be,
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The Sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;

The sea birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
And there was joyaunce in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

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,
They cannot see the Sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.

Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon."

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore.' Now where we are I cannot tell,

66

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,-
"Oh Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!'

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.

R. SOUTHEY.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her sacred bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

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 busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

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;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.