Marston Moor.

MARSTON MOOR.

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OT Rupert came spurring to Marston Moor;
Praise we the Lord!

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Came spurring hard with thousands a score:
Praise we the Lord!

Beleaguered York, that we lay before,

He knew would be ours ere a week was o'er,
So to scatter our hosts he fiercely swore.
To the Lord our God be glory!

To Newcastle's succor he swore to come;
Praise we the Lord!

And at morning we heard his march's hum;
Praise we the Lord!

And with blare of trumpet and roll of drum,
Into York, in their pride, did the scorners come;
But to-night are the cursing lips not dumb?
To the Lord our God be glory!

God gave them to drink of pride, we knew,
Praise we the Lord!

That his saints his wrath on their hosts might do;
Praise we the Lord!

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,
Praise we the Lord!

While slow hours came and passed away;
Praise we the Lord!

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,
Praise we the Lord!

When the fierce Prince bade his trumpets sound;
Praise we the Lord!

Then was spurring and running and fronts faced round.
Upon us they came, with the burst and sound
Of tempests; but ready his own they found;
To the Lord our God be glory!

Then the shot of their guns through our stilled ranks tore; Praise we the Lord!

Then a pause and a hush fell on the war;

Praise we the Lord!

Then their squadrons thickened, and down once more
Came Rupert and Hell with a rush and a roar,
More fierce and fell than they came before;
To the Lord our God be glory!

With Leslie and Fairfax the saints were few;
Praise we the Lord!

Not theirs the hearts that our God well knew;
Praise we the Lord!

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;
Praise we the Lord!

To us were thy truth and mercy shown;
Praise we the Lord!

Through our closed-up ranks were our trumpets blown;
Then no shout, but a deep psalm rose alone,

And we knew that our God would his might make known. To his holy name be glory!

And Cromwell, his servant, spoke the word;

Praise we the Lord!

"On! smite for the Lord! spare not!" we heard; Praise we the Lord!

Hotly our spirits within us stirred;

Reins were loosened and flanks were spurred,

And the heathen went down before God and his word. To his name alone be the glory!

Lo, the bow of the Lord was strung this day;
Praise we the Lord!

And the arm of our God was strong to slay;
Praise we the Lord!

He gave us the proud ones for a prey;
He chased the mighty from out our way;
He gave us the high ones low to lay.
To the Lord alone be the glory!

Where are ye, ye noble and ye proud?
Praise we the Lord!

Where are ye who cried 'gainst his saints aloud?
Praise we the Lord!

The great of the earth in death are bowed;
They who vaunted their strength his breath has cowed;
Bloody they lie, where the kite screams loud.
To the Lord our God be glory!

Lo, the Lord, our helper, hath heard our cries;
Praise we the Lord!

He hath raised the foolish and shamed the wise;
Praise we the Lord!

;

In him our rock and our sure hope lies
To him shall the cry of his servants rise;
Woe to them who his chosen dare despise!
To the Lord our God be glory!

Ho! Baal-priests, did we cry in vain?
Praise we the Lord!

He shall break ye, ye sons of Dagon, again;
Praise we the Lord!

He shall winnow the chaff from the priceless grain;
He shall skim the pot till no dross remain;
And the Lord our God and his saints shall reign!
To the Lord alone be glory!

William C. Bennett.

Matlock.

MONODY WRITTEN AT MATLOCK.

ATLOCK! amid thy hoary-hanging views,

Thy glens that smile sequestered, and thy nooks
Which yon forsaken crag all dark o'erlooks,
Once more I court the long-neglected Muse,
As erst when by the mossy brink and falls
Of solitary Wainsbeck, or the side

Of Clysdale's cliffs, where first her voice she tried,
I strayed a pensive boy. Since then, the thralls
That wait life's upland road have chilled her breast,
And much, as much they might, her wing depressed.
Wan Indolence, resigned, her deadening hand
Laid on her heart, and Fancy her cold wand
Dropped at the frown of fortune; yet once more
I call her, and once more her converse sweet,
Mid the still limits of this wild retreat,

if yet delightful as of yore

I woo;
My heart she may revisit, nor deny
The soothing aid of some sweet melody!

I hail the rugged scene that bursts around;
I mark the wreathéd roots, the saplings gray,
That bend o'er the dark Derwent's wandering way;
I mark its stream with peace-persuading sound
That steals beneath the fading foliage pale,
Or at the foot of frowning crags upreared,
Complains like one forsaken and unheard.