Marston Moor. MARSTON MOOR. OT Rupert came spurring to Marston Moor; Hor Came spurring hard with thousands a score: Beleaguered York, that we lay before, He knew would be ours ere a week was o'er, To Newcastle's succor he swore to come; And at morning we heard his march's hum; And with blare of trumpet and roll of drum, God gave them to drink of pride, we knew, That his saints his wrath on their hosts might do; He bade us flee, that they might pursue: So from trench and leaguer straight off we drew, But we halted on Marston Moor anew; To the Lord our God be glory! There, biding pursuit, stood our long array, While slow hours came and passed away; They will not come to the strife to-day," We said, and southwards our march then lay, But the Lord had doomed them that hour our prey; To the Lord our God be glory! But Leslie's regiments had left the ground, When the fierce Prince bade his trumpets sound; Then was spurring and running and fronts faced round. Then the shot of their guns through our stilled ranks tore; Then a pause and a hush fell on the war; Then their squadrons thickened, and down once more With Leslie and Fairfax the saints were few; Not theirs the hearts that our God well knew; Vessels uncleansed, what would they do! The godless had ridden them through and through ; The accursed slay and slay and pursue; To the Lord our God be glory! Not so, O Lord, was it with thine own; To us were thy truth and mercy shown; Through our closed-up ranks were our trumpets blown; And Cromwell, his servant, spoke the word; "On! smite for the Lord! spare not! we heard; Hotly our spirits within us stirred; Reins were loosened and flanks were spurred, Lo, the bow of the Lord was strung this day; And the arm of our God was strong to slay; He gave us the proud ones for a prey; Where are ye, ye noble and ye proud? Where are ye who cried 'gainst his saints aloud? The great of the earth in death are bowed; Lo, the Lord, our helper, hath heard our cries; He hath raised the foolish and shamed the wise; In him our rock and our sure hope lies; Ho! Baal-priests, did we cry in vain? He shall break ye, ye sons of Dagon, again; He shall winnow the chaff from the priceless grain; And the Lord our God and his saints shall reign! William C. Bennett. Matlock. MONODY WRITTEN AT MATLOCK. MATLOCK! amid thy hoary-hanging views, Thy glens that smile sequestered, and thy nooks Of Clysdale's cliffs, where first her voice she tried, I woo; - if yet delightful as of yore I hail the rugged scene that bursts around; |