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OT Rupert came spurring to Marston Moor;
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; 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
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 ;
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 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;
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;
William C. Bennett.
MONODY WRITTEN AT MATLOCK.
ATLOCK! amid thy hoary-hanging views,
Thy glens that smile sequestered, and thy nooks
Of Clysdale's cliffs, where first her voice she tried,
if yet delightful as of yore
I hail the rugged scene that bursts around;