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 the last!

Stout Skippon hath a wound — the centre hath given ground:

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."

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, òr 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.