Back roll the horses and the men,
Their plumes are on the ground;
O men of York, your doom is sealed,
Your comrades fall around;

Die nobly, with your faces set
Toward your ancient town,
Where yonder old cathedral towers
The distant ramparts crown.
O glorious fate! for England's king
And England's Church to die,
All honour to the brave who fell
That second of July!

The roses blossom white and red
On many a castle tower,
And many a maiden sighs alone
In trellised garden bower.
Hark to the distant cannonade,
Dear lady, go and pray,

Rest in the chapel's holy shade,
For it is a fearful day!

The knight thou lovest lies beside

His faithful dying steed;

Pray that before the sun goes down
His brave soul may be freed,
For Rupert's Cavaliers are gone,
And England's hope is o'er:
Thy love will die a soldier's death.
To-night on Marston Moor.

ELIZABETH H. MITCHELL.

THE SIEGE OF COLCHESTER.

1644.

DARK gloom is over Colchester,

Her citizens are dumb:

They pace the streets with haggard looks,

Their strength is overcome;

They gaze into each other's eyes

And ask if help is near;

They mutely ask and vainly hope-
Too sad are they for fear.
Eleven weeks of bitter want,
Eleven weeks of woe,

Have broken many a tender heart,

And brought the bravest low.

The church bells ring for morning prayer, They cannot crawl as far,

But, sword in hand and helm on head,

They kneel down where they are, And beg for present hope and strength, And mercy for the past:

"O Merciful!—if mercy live—

How long is this to last?"

Norwich and Capel still are firm,
And Lisle is fast and true,
Brave Lucas hath a noble heart:

These strong and faithful few

Go forth amongst the citizens,
And challenge them to show
What loyal subjects still can do
Against a rebel foe.

"Up, soldiers, up! and welcome death With calm and cheerful tone:

If all the danger too be ours,

The glory is our own.
Would ye not rather die afield,

Your standard waving high,
Than stay within these sullen walls
And hear the famine-cry?
Up, soldiers, up! and sally forth;
The rebels soon shall see

King Charles will have his own again,
And Colchester be free!"

No cheering followed Capel's words,
No gallant battle-cry;

Death or dishonour must they choose
And yet they will not die.
A hoary sergeant spoke aloud,
Leaning upon his sword:

"Thy words are like a trumpet-call,
Thy heart is steel, my lord;

But look upon these famished souls,

Partakers of our woe,

And look upon the stalwart lines

Of rebel troops below.

This trusty sword was once too light,
I cannot lift it now;

And look upon this trembling hand-
Lord Capel, tell me how

Our weakened forms can stand a shock

On yonder battle-field;

We have no strength to suffer more—
Then, brothers, let us yield!"

"Then, brothers, let us yield !" the cry
Was echoed far and fast;

In vain the trumpets called to arms,
In vain the stirring blast.
Lisle, Lucas, Norwich, strove in vain.
To stop their mad career;

In vain their chieftain raised his voiceThey would not stay to hear. "Off to the city gates!" they cried, Down to the Roundheads go: Are they not Englishmen like us? They love us still, we know!" "Remember Charles !" brave Norwich cries; "Remember honour too!"

"Remember all we have endured,

And more we will not do !"

He dashed his sword upon the ground,

He looked them in the face :

:

"Make traitor terms, unbar the gates,

Then die of your disgrace!"

The city fell; the rebels march

In triumph through the streets; The standard of the king is down, The drum no longer beats.

Woe to the brave who love King Charles, Woe to the good and true;

Woe to the soldiers of the Crown

To all who wear the blue!
Fairfax and Ireton lead the way :
Their gloomy looks portend
To some a life-long prison cell,
To some a fearful end.

O Cavaliers! O gallant souls!
How could your heart suppose
Mercy could find a dwelling-place
In fanatics like those!

The sun is sinking o'er the town,
The day is going by,—
Lucas and Lisle, the bravest there,

Are hurried forth to die!

Beneath the castle walls they stand-
That firm and dauntless pair—
A peace within their loyal hearts
Far deeper than despair;

A file of Roundhead Musqueteers
Are waiting for the word-

When Capel rushes forth and cries
"Fairfax, I will be heard!