Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!

England, good cheer! Rupert is near! Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, (Chorus)

Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls

To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles !

Hold by the right, you double your might; So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

You know, we French storm'd Ratisbon: A mile or so away

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms lock'd behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mus'd "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall, ".

Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reach'd the mound.

Lie back could thought of mine improve you?

From this shoulder let there spring
A wing; from this, another wing;
Wings, not legs and feet, shall move
you!

Snow-white must they spring, to blend
With your flesh, but I intend
They shall deepen to the end,
Broader, into burning gold,

Till both wings crescent-wise enfold
Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet
To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet
As if a million sword-blades hurl'd
Defiance from you to the world!
Rescue me thou, the only real!
And scare away this mad ideal
That came, nor motions to depart!
Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!

Still he muses

What if the Three should catch at last
Thy serenader? While there 's cast
Paul's cloak about my head, and fast
Gian pinions me, Himself has past
His stylet through my back; Î reel ;
And... is it thou I feel?

They trail me, these three godless knaves, Past every church that saints and saves,

Row home? must we row home? Too surely
Know I where its front's demurely
Over the Guidecca pil'd;
Window just with window mating,
Door on door exactly waiting,
All's the set face of a child:
But behind it, where 's a trace
Of the staidness and reserve,
And formal lines without a curve,
In the same child's playing-face?
No two windows look one way
O'er the small sea-water thread
Below them. Ah, the autumn day
I, passing, saw you overhead!
First, out a cloud of curtain blew,
Then a sweet cry, and last came you
To catch your lory that must needs
Escape just then, of all times then,
To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds
And make me happiest of men.

I scarce could breathe to see you reach
So far back o'er the balcony,

To catch him ere he climb'd too high
Above you in the Smyrna peach,
That quick the round smooth cord of gold,
This coil'd hair on your head, unroil'd,
Fell down you like a gorgeous snake
The Roman girls were wont, of old,
When Rome there was, for coolness' sake

To let lie curling o'er their bosoms.
Dear lory, may his beak retain
Ever its delicate rose stain,

As if the wounded lotus-blossoms
Had mark'd their thief to know again.
Stay longer yet, for others' sake

Than mine! What should your chamber do?

- With all its rarities that ache
In silence while day lasts, but wake
At night-time and their life renew,
Suspended just to pleasure you

Who brought against their will together
These objects, and, while day lasts, weave
Around them such a magic tether
That dumb they look: your harp, believe,
With all the sensitive tight strings
Which dare not speak, now to itself
Breathes slumberously, as if some elf
Went in and out the chords, his wings
Make murmur, wheresoe'er they graze,
As an angel may, between the maze
Of midnight palace-pillars, on
And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone
Through guilty glorious Babylon.
And while such murmurs flow, the nymph
Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell
As the dry limpet for the lymph
Come with a tune he knows so well.
And how your statues' hearts must swell!
And how your pictures must descend
To see each other, friend with friend!
Oh, could you take them by surprise,
You'd find Schidone's eager Duke
Doing the quaintest courtesies
To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke!
And, deeper into her rock den,
Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen
You'd find retreated from the ken
Of that rob'd counsel-keeping Ser-
As if the Tizian thinks of her,
And is not, rather, gravely bent
On seeing for himself what toys
Are these his progeny invent,
What litter now, the board employs
Whereon he sign'd a document
That got him murder'd! Each enjoys
Its night so well, you cannot break
The sport up: so, indeed must make
More stay with me, for others' sake.

She speaks

To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, Is used to tie the jasmine back