Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour, When the children of darkness and evil had power, When the hors.e.m.e.n of Valois triumphantly trod On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their G.o.d.
Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain, Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain; Oh, weep for the living, who linger to bear The renegade"s shame, or the exile"s despair.
One look, one last look, to our cots and our towers, To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers, To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed, Where we fondly had deemed that our own would be laid.
Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home, To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome, To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain, To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.
Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades, To the song of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids, To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees, And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.
Farewell, and for ever. The priest and the slave May rule in the halls of the free and the brave.
Our hearths we abandon; our lands we resign; But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.
THE BATTLE OF NASEBY, (1824.)
BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-n.o.bLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, 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 G.o.d.
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, That we saw their banners dance, and their cuira.s.ses 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 to the fight, When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell"d into a shout, Among the G.o.dless hors.e.m.e.n upon the tyrant"s right.
And hark! like the roar of the billows on the sh.o.r.e, The cry of battle rises along their charging line!
For G.o.d! 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 G.o.d"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 hors.e.m.e.n on our rear?
Whose banner do I see, boys? "Tis he, thank G.o.d, "tis he, boys, Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.
Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the d.y.k.es, Our cuira.s.siers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.
Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar; And he--he turns, he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.
Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your search secure, 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 you kissed your lily hands to your lemans 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 h.e.l.l and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, Your perfum"d 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 G.o.d hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.
SERMON IN A CHURCHYARD. (1825.)
Let pious Damon take his seat, With mincing step and languid smile, And scatter from his "kerchief sweet, Sabaean odours o"er the aisle; And spread his little jewelled hand, And smile round all the parish beauties, And pat his curls, and smooth his band, Meet prelude to his saintly duties.
Let the thronged audience press and stare, Let stifled maidens ply the fan, Admire his doctrines, and his hair, And whisper, "What a good young man!"
While he explains what seems most clear, So clearly that it seems perplexed, I"ll stay and read my sermon here; And skulls, and bones, shall be the text.
Art thou the jilted dupe of fame?
Dost thou with jealous anger pine Whene"er she sounds some other name, With fonder emphasis than thine?
To thee I preach; draw near; attend!
Look on these bones, thou fool, and see Where all her scorns and favours end, What Byron is, and thou must be.
Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust Some clod like those that here we spurn; Some thing that sprang like thee from dust, And shall like thee to dust return?
Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits, At one sear leaf, or wandering feather?
Behold the black, damp narrow pits, Where they and thou must lie together.
Dost thou beneath the smile or frown Of some vain woman bend thy knee?
Here take thy stand, and trample down Things that were once as fair as she.
Here rave of her ten thousand graces, Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin, While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces Of Hamiltons and Waldegraves grin.
Whate"er thy losses or thy gains, Whate"er thy projects or thy fears, Whate"er the joys, whate"er the pains, That prompt thy baby smiles and tears; Come to my school, and thou shalt learn, In one short hour of placid thought, A stoicism, more deep, more stern, Than ever Zeno"s porch hath taught.
The plots and feats of those that press To seize on t.i.tles, wealth, or power, Shall seem to thee a game of chess, Devised to pa.s.s a tedious hour.
What matters it to him who fights For shows of unsubstantial good, Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights, Be things of flesh, or things of wood?
We check, and take; exult, and fret; Our plans extend, our pa.s.sions rise, Till in our ardour we forget How worthless is the victor"s prize.
Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night: Say will it not be then the same, Whether we played the black or white, Whether we lost or won the game?
Dost thou among these hillocks stray, O"er some dear idol"s tomb to moan?
Know that thy foot is on the clay Of hearts once wretched as thy own.
How many a father"s anxious schemes, How many rapturous thoughts of lovers, How many a mother"s cherished dreams, The swelling turf before thee covers!
Here for the living, and the dead, The weepers and the friends they weep, Hath been ordained the same cold bed, The same dark night, the same long sleep; Why shouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave O"er those with whom thou soon must be?
Death his own sting shall cure--the grave Shall vanquish its own victory.