For chain, nor judge, nor dastard king, Can make disgrace around them cling.

Their dry bones rattle in the wind, That sweeps the land they died in freeing; But the brave heroes rest enshrined, In cenotaphs of G.o.d's decreeing: Embalmed in every n.o.ble breast, Inscribed on each brave heart their story, All honoured shall the heroes rest, Their country's boast--their race's glory.

On every tongue shall be their name; In every land shall live their fame.

But fouler than the noisome dust, That reeks your rotting bones encasing, Shall be your fame, ye sons of l.u.s.t, And sloth, and every vice debasing!

Insulters of the glorious dead, While honour in our land is dwelling, Above your tombs shall Britons tread, And cry, while scorn each breast is swelling-- "HERE LIE THE DASTARD, CAITIFF SLAVES, WHO DRAGGED OUR HEROES FROM THEIR GRAVES."

BOW-MEETING SONG.

BY REGINALD HEBER.

Ye spirits of our fathers, The hardy, bold, and free, Who chased o'er Cressy's gory field A fourfold enemy!

From us who love your sylvan game, To you the song shall flow, To the fame of your name Who so bravely bent the bow.

'Twas merry then in England (Our ancient records tell), With Robin Hood and Little John Who dwelt by down and dell; And yet we love the bold outlaw Who braved a tyrant foe, Whose cheer was the deer, And his only friend the bow.

'Twas merry then in England In autumn's dewy morn, When echo started from her hill To hear the bugle-horn.

And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth In garb of green did go The shade to invade With the arrow and the bow.

Ye spirits of our fathers!

Extend to us your care, Among your children yet are found The valiant and the fair, 'Tis merry yet in Old England, Full well her archers know, And shame on their name Who despise the British bow!

THE BALLAD OF ROU.

BY LORD LYTTON.

From Blois to Senlis, wave by wave, rolled on the Norman flood, And Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering tide of blood; There was not left in all the land a castle wall to fire, And not a wife but wailed a lord, a child but mourned a sire.

To Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailed barons flew, While, shaking earth, behind them strode, the thunder march of Rou.

"O king," then cried those barons bold, "in vain are mace and mail, We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the flail."

"And vainly," cry the pious monks, "by Mary's shrine we kneel, For prayers, like arrows glance aside, against the Norman steel."

The barons groaned, the shavelings wept, while near and nearer drew, As death-birds round their scented feast, the raven flags of Rou.

Then said King Charles, "Where thousands fail, what king can stand alone?

The strength of kings is in the men that gather round the throne.

When war dismays my barons bold, 'tis time for war to cease; When Heaven forsakes my pious monks the will of Heaven is peace.

Go forth, my monks, with ma.s.s and rood the Norman camp unto, And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this grisly Rou.

"I'll give him all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him fast and sure; Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe the heathen sword, And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles his lord."

Forth went the pastors of the Church, the Shepherd's work to do, And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins of Rou.

Psalm-chanting came the shaven monks, within the camp of dread; Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by a head.

Out spoke the Frank archbishop then, a priest devout and sage, "When peace and plenty wait thy word, what need of war and rage?

Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue, Which might be thine to sow and reap?--Thus saith the king to Rou:

"'I'll give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee fast and sure; If thou but kneel to Christ our G.o.d, and sheathe thy paynim sword, And hold thy land, the Church's son, a fief from Charles thy lord.'"

The Norman on his warriors looked--to counsel they withdrew; The Saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou.

So back he strode, and thus he spoke, to that archbishop meek, "I take the land thy king bestows, from Eure to Michael-peak, I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the coast, And for thy creed,--a sea-king's G.o.ds are those that give the most.

So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer true, And he shall find a docile son, and ye a saint in Rou."

So o'er the border stream of Epte came Rou the Norman, where, Begirt with barons, sat the king, enthroned at green St. Clair; He placed his hand in Charles's hand,--loud shouted all the throng, But tears were in King Charles's eyes--the grip of Rou was strong.

"Now kiss the foot," the bishop said, "that homage still is due;"

Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert Rou.

He takes the foot, as if the foot to slavish lips to bring; The Normans scowl; he tilts the throne and backward falls the king.

Loud laugh the joyous Norman men.--pale stare the Franks aghast; And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs up the mast: "I said I would adore a G.o.d, but not a mortal too; The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss!" said Rou.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers-- There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my Brothers and Companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground.

That we fought the battle bravely--and, when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.

And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,-- The death-wound on their gallant b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the last of many scars!

But some were young,--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,-- And one there came from Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my Mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty h.o.a.rd, I let them take whate'er they would--but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen,--calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my Sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too,--and not afraid to die.

And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honour of old Bingen,--dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another--not a Sister,--in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye: Too innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;-- Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!

Tell her, the last night of my life--(for, ere this moon be risen, My body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with _her_, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along--I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear!

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we pa.s.sed with friendly talk, Down many a path belov'd of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine...

But we'll meet no more at Bingen,--loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoa.r.s.er,--his grasp was childish weak,-- His eyes put on a dying look,--he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, ... but the spark of life had fled!

The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead!

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with b.l.o.o.d.y corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!