O, 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? | |
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| O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, | 5 |
| 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. | |
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| It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, | |
| That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine, | 10 |
| And the man of blood was there, with his long essenced hair, | |
| And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. | |
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| Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, | |
| The General rode along us to form us to the fight; | |
| When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout | 15 |
| Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right. | |
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| 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! | 20 |
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| 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. | |
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| They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! | 25 |
| 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? | 30 |
| Whose banner do I see, boys? ’T is he! thank God! ’t is he, boys! | |
| Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here. | |
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| Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, | |
| Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes, | |
| Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, | 35 |
| And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. | |
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| 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! | 40 |
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| 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. | |
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| Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, | 45 |
| 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. | |
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| Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate? | |
| And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, | 50 |
| Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths! | |
| Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades? | |
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| 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; | 55 |
| The Jesuit smites his bosom; the bishop rends his cope. | |
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| 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! | 60 |
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