Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;

If I have freedom in my love

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone, that soar above,

Enjoy such liberty.

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY

BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIRNOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN IRETON'S

THE romantic and dashing Cavaliers had at first better fortune than the plain and prosy Roundheads, because the latter lacked experience in war. The weakness of the Parliament's troops was pointed out by Oliver Cromwell. "Your troops," said he, speaking to his cousin Hampden, "are most of them old decayed serving-men and tapsters and such kind of fellows, and their troops are gentlemen's sons and persons of quality. Do you think that the spirits of such base and mean fellows will ever be able to encounter gentlemen that have honor, courage and resolution in them? You must have men animated by a spirit which will lead them as far as gentlemen would go, otherwise I am sure you will always be beaten." Cromwell undertook to organize an army of men that had the fear of God before their eyes, and would put conscience into their service. His " "ironsides won the battle of Naseby (1645), the decisive battle of the war, and were the chief instrument in the final defeat of the king.

Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the north,

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?

Y

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous

shout?

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that 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 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 gone —

we are broken

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

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, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the

dykes,

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scatter'd the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide

Their coward heads, predestin'd 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 broadpieces 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 kiss'd 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 about 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 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 God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word!

MAJESTY IN MISERY

DESPAIRING of beating the Parliamentarians in the field, Charles had resort to diplomacy. He surrendered to the Scots, hoping that the loyalists among them would defend him against his English foes. But Scotland cared more for the Presbyterian church than for the king. When he refused to abandon the episcopal establishment, the Scotch authorities handed him over to Parliament. He was tried for treason and condemned to die "as a tyrant, traitor, murderer, and public enemy."