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Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given

ground: Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horse

men in 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 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



And he--he turns, he flies ; shame on those cruel

eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on


Ho! comrades,j 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 chambers 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 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.

Sweet are the uses of adversity ;
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in its head.


(Samuel Ferguson.) Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged-'tis at a

white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased—though

on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable

mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths

ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands

only bareSome rest upon their sledges here, some work the

windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black

mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at

every throe : It rises, roars, rends all outright-Oh, Vulcan, what

a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright—the high

sun shines not so ! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery,

fearful show ; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent earth, the ruddy

lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men

before the foe. As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the

sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil—all about the faces fiery grow. “Hurrah !" they shout, “leap out—leap out !”

bang, bang the sledges go.


“Hurrah !” the jetted lightnings are hissing high

and lowA hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing

blow, The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling

cinders strow The ground around : at every bound the sweltering

fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every

stroke pant “ho !" Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay

on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor—a bower thick and

broad; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous

roadThe low reef roaring on her lee—the roll of ocean

poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast

by the board ; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats

stove at the chains ! But courage still, brave mariners—the bower yet

remains. And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye

pitch sky high ; Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear

nothing-here am I!" Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand

keep time; Your blows make music sweeter far than any

steeple's chime. But, while you sling your sledges, sing, and let the The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen

burthen be,

we! Strike in, strike in—the sparks begin to dull their

rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will

soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich

array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy

couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry

craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the

sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go-far, far from

love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the

ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at

last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat

was cast. O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life

like me,

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the

deep green sea ! O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such

sights as thou? The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what joy

'twere now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of

the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath

their scourging tails ! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea


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