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THE NEW FOREST.

THERE moves a sad procession

Across the silent vale,
With backward-glancing eyes of grief,

And tearful cheeks all pale.
Scatter'd and slow, without array,

With wavering feet they go; Yet with a kind of solemn pace,

The measur'd tread of woe. There women pause and tremble,

And weep with breaking heart;
While men, with deeply knitted brows,

Stride mutely on apart.
There infants cling upon the breast,

Their own accustom’d place;
And children look up askingly

Into each darken'd face.
For the king has sent his soldiers,

Who strike, and pity not :
They have razed to the earth each smiling home,

They have burnt each lowly cot.
It was the ruthless Conqueror

By whom this deed was done ;
And yet more fierce and hard of heart

Was Rufus, his stern son.
So they leave each humble cottage

Where they so long have dwelt,

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THE NEW FOREST.

Where morn and eve to simple prayer,

With thankful hearts, they knelt; Places all brighten’d with the joy

Of sweet domestic years,
And spots made holy by the flow

Of unforgotten tears.
And the gardens are uprooted,

And the walls cast down around;
It is all a spacious wilderness-

The king's great hunting-ground ! While hopeless, homeless, shelterless,

Those exiles wander on;
And most of them lie down to die

Ere many days are gone.
O Forest! green New Forest !

Home of the bird and breeze,
With all thy soft and sweeping glades,

And long dim aisles of trees ; Like some ancestral palace,

Thou standest proud and fair ; Yet is each tree a monument

To Death and lone Despair ! And thou, relentless tyrant !

Ride forth and chase the deer,
With a heart that never melted yet

To pity or to fear.
But for all these broken spirits,

And for all these wasted homes,
God will avenge the fatherless-

The day of reckoning comes !

THE NEW FOREST.

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To hunt rode fierce King Rufus

Upon a holy morn ;
The Church had summon’d him to pray,

But he held the Church in scorn.
Sir Walter Tyrrel rode with him,

And drew his good bow-string ; He drew the string to smite a deer,

But his arrow smote the king. Down from his startled charger

The death-struck monarch falls ;
Sir Walter fled afar for fear,

And turn’d not at his calls.
On the spot where his strong hand had made

So many desolate,
He died with none to pity him—

Such was the tyrant's fate.
None mourn’d for cruel Rufus :

With pomp they buried him,
But no heart grieved beside his bier,

No kindly eye grew dim;
But poor men lifted up their heads,

And clasp'd their hands and said,
“ Thank God, the ruthless Conqueror

And his stern son are dead !"
Remember, oh, remember,

Ye who shudder at my lay,
These cruel men were children once,

As ye are now were they :
They sported round a mother's seat,

They prayed beside her knee ;

72

HOHENLINDEN.

She gazed into their cloudless eyes,

And ask'd, “What will they be?'
Alas, unhappy mothers !

If ye could then have known
How crime would make each soft young

heart As cold and hard as stone ; Ye would have wish'd them in their graves,

Ere life had pass'd its spring.
Ah, friends, keep watch upon your hearts ;-

Sin is a fearful thing.

8. M.

HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd

To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven

Far flash'd the red artillery.

THE HOME OF THE SPIRIT.

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But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's bills of stainèd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn,—but scarce yon

level sun Car pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave !
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

CAMPBELL.

THE HOME OF THE SPIRIT.

ANSWER me, burning stars of night,

Where is the spirit gone,
That past the reach of human sight,

As a swift breeze hath flown ?
And the stars answer'd me : We roll

In light and power on high,
But of the never-dying soul

Ask that which cannot die."

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