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SONGS FOR BOYHOOD. |
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The bird of bliss to mauy a nest
Will come back never, nevermore! So many a goodly, gallant crest
That waved to victory now lies low! We pray for them, we fear for them, And silently drop a tear for them,
As we sit by the household fire, This winter's night in England, Each life looking out for its own love star,
Holding our hearts, like beacons, up higher, For those who are fighting afar!
But there is no land like England,
Wherever that land may be! Of all the world 'tis king-land,
Crowned by its bride, the sea. And they shall rest in the balmiest bed,
Who battle for it and bleed for it ; And they shall be head of the glorious dead,
Who die in the hour of need for it; And long shall we sing of their deeds divine, In songs that warm the heart like wine,
As we sit by the household fire On a winter's night in England, And the tale is told of this night of war,
How we held our hearts, like beacons, up higher, For those who were fighting afar! |
Yet a black and murky battlement
Was resting on the hill, As though the thunder slept within.
All else was calm and still.
The grim Geneva ministers
With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock
Around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign,
But alone he bent the knee, And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace
Beneath the gallows tree. Then, radiant and serene, he rose,
And cast his cloak away; For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.
A beam of light fell o'er him,
Like a glory round the shriven; And he climbed the lofty ladder,
As it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll; And no man dared to look aloft,
For fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound,
A hush, and then a groan, And darkness swept across the sky�
The work of death was done ! |
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FROM THE "EXECUTION OF MONTROSE."
William Edmonstoune Aytoun.
" He is coming ! he is coming !"
Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison
To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead,
There was lustre in his eye ; And he never walked to battlfi
More proudly than to die. There was color in his visage,
Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marveled as they saw him pass,
That great and goodly man!
He mounted up the scaffold,
And he turned him to the crowd; But they dare not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud. But he looked upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether
The eye of God shone through ; |
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THE BATTLE OF IVRY.
Thomas Babington Maoaulay.
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all
glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of
Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and
the dance Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines, O
pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city
of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn�ing daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in
our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought
thy walls annoy. |
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