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 Eng

land'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."

The following lines are said to have been written by Charles I., during his imprisonment in Carisbroke Castle, 1648.

Great Monarch of the World! from whose arm

springs

The potency and power of kings;
Record the royal woe, my sufferings.

Nature and law, by thy divine decree, (The only work of righteous loyalty) With this dim diadem invested me:

With it the sacred sceptre, purple robe,
Thy holy unction, and the royal globe;
Yet I am levell'd with the life of Job.

The fiercest furies that do daily tread
Upon my grief, my gray discrowned head,
Are those that owe my bounty for their bread.

Tyranny bears the title of taxation,

Revenge and robbery are reformation,
Oppression gains the name of sequestration.

Great Britain's heir is forced into France,
Whilst on his father's head his foes advance;
Poor child! he weeps out his inheritance.

With my own power my majesty they wound,
In the king's name the king himself's uncrown'd,
So doth the dust destroy the diamond.

My life they prize at such a slender rate,
That in my absence they draw bills of hate,
To prove the king a traitor to the state.

Felons attain more privilege than I,
They are allowed to answer ere they die;
'Tis death to me to ask the reason why.

But, sacred Saviour! with thy words I woo
Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to

Such as thou know'st do not know what they do.

Augment my patience, nullify my hate,

Preserve my issue and inspire my mate;
Yet, though we perish, bless this church and state!

THE DEATH OF CHARLES I

ANDREW MARVEL

(From the "Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland")

ON January 30, 1649, the king was beheaded in the public square before Whitehall. He bore himself with dignity and courage. "I go," said he," from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown which nothing can disturb."

He nothing common did, or mean,
Upon that memorable scene,

But with his keener eye

The axe's edge did try;

Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;

But bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, had at first sympathized with the Covenanters, and he even crossed the Tweed with the Scotch army sent against Charles in 1640. But the arbitrary methods of the Presbyterians led him to fear a democratic despotism more terrible than the tyranny of any one man, and he offered his services to the king. The Marquis was immediately appointed commander of the royal forces in Scotland. The loyalists rallied to his standard, and by brilliant generalship he won six pitched battles over the Covenanters. When Montrose learned of the execution of the king, he swore to avenge his death and hastened to attach himself to Prince Charles. The endeavor to raise an army for the young Stuart was regarded as treason by the Covenanters. Betrayed at last into the hands of his foes, Montrose was condemned to death and executed in the Grassmarket at Edinburgh. Come hither, Evan Cameron.! Come, stand beside my knee : I hear the river roaring down Towards the wintry sea.

There's shouting on the mountain-side,

There's war within the blast;

Old faces look upon me,

Old forms go trooping past:

I hear the pibroch wailing
Amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again

Upon the verge of night.

'Twas I that led the Highland host
Through wild Lochaber's snows,

What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.

I've told thee how the Southrons fell
Beneath the broad claymore,

And how we smote the Campbell clan
By Inverlochy's shore.

I've told thee how we swept Dundee,
And tam'd the Lindsays' pride;

But never have I told thee yet
How the great Marquis died.

A traitor sold him to his foes;
O deed of deathless shame!
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet
With one of Assynt's name
Be it upon the mountain's side,
Or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone,

Or back'd by armèd men

Face him, as thou wouldst face the man
Who wrong'd thy sire's renown;
Remember of what blood thou art,
And strike the caitiff down!

They brought him to the Watergate,
Hard bound with hempen span,
As though they held a lion there,
And not a fenceless man.

They set him high upon a cart,

The hangman rode below,

They drew his hands behind his back
And bared his noble brow.