Classic Poem

BY OBADIAH BIND — THEIR — KINGS — IN — CHAINS — AND — THEIR — NOBLES — WITH — LINKS — OF — IRON; SERGEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT .

O H , WHEREFORE come ye forth, in triumph from the North,
— With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
— And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread?

Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,
— And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,
— Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,
— That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine,
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
— And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
— The General rode along us to form us for the fight;
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout
— Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
— The cry of battle rises along their charging line:
For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!
— For Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,
— His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;
They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! Close your ranks!
— For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!
— Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.
O Lord, put forth Thy might! O Lord, defend the right!
— Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last!

Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:
— Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?
Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank God! 'tis he, boys!
— Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here.

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,
— Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accursed,
— And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
— Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar;
And he, — he turns, he flies: — shame on those cruel eyes
— That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war!

Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,
— First give another stab to make your search secure;
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,
— The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,
— When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;
And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chamber in the rocks,
— Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven, and hell, and fate?
— And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades?
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,
— Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down! down! forever down, with the mitre and the crown!
— With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope!
There is woe in Oxford halls; there is wail in Durham's stalls;
— The Jesuit smites his bosom; the Bishop rends his cope.

And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn her children's ills,
— And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword;
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear
— What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word!