Distributes weapons resonant,
And dons his harness militant;
For now the day begins to dip,
The night begins to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship
Mayflower;

And Rose, his wife, unlocks a chest-
She sees a Book, in vellum dressed,
She drops a tear, and kisses the tome,
Thinking of England and of home:
Might they the Pilgrims, there and then.
Ordained to do the work of men-

Have seen, in visions of the air,
While pillowed on the breast of prayer
(When now the day began to dip,

The night began to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship
Mayflower),

The Canaan of their wilderness
A boundless empire of success;
And seen the years of future nights
Jewelled with myriad household lights;
And seen the honey fill the hive;
And seen a thousand ships arrive;
And heard the wheels of travel go;

It would have cheered a thought of woe,
When now the day began to dip,

The night began to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship

Mayflower.

Erastus Wolcott Ellsworth [1822

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

THE Pilgrim Fathers,-where are they?
The waves that brought them o'er
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray
As they break along the shore;

Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day
When the Mayflower moored below;
When the sea around was black with storms,
And white the shore with snow.

The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep
Still brood upon the tide;

And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep
To stay its waves of pride.

But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale,
When the heavens looked dark, is gone,
As an angel's wing through an opening cloud
Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The pilgrim exile,-sainted name!
The hill whose icy brow

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now.

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night

On the hillside and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head,—

But the Pilgrim,—where is he?

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest:

When summer's throned on high,

And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed,

Go, stand on the hill where they lie.

The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast;

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,

Looks kindly on that spot last.

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled:

It walks in noon's broad light;

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,

With the holy stars, by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,

And still guard this ice-bound shore,

Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay,

Shall foam and freeze no more.

John Pierpont [1785-1866]

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY

BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON; SERGEANT IN IRETON'S REGI

MENT.

[JUNE 14, 1645]

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 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 the 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 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 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 Accursed,
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 chamber in the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above 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 perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down! down! forever 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!

Thomas Babington Macaulay [1800-1859]

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE

[MAY 21, 1650]

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.