"Stand, noble steed! this hour of need

be gentle as a lamb :

Which the first stroke of coming strife Would startle into hideous life;

master dear I am

away the bridle fling,

And plunge the rowels in his side.-My horse shall save my King!

"Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours,

And joyfully their blood shall spring, so

be it thine secures :

All horrent with projected spears,

Whose polish'd points before them shine, From flank to flank, one brilliant line, Bright as the breakers' splendors run Along the billows, to the Sun.

Opposed to these, a hovering band Contended for their native land:

scorn on my gray head?

And forged their fetters into swords, On equal terms to fight their lords :

the finger of disdain,

And say there's ONE that ran away when

our good lords were slain !—

In many a mortal fray maintain'd; Marshall'd once more at Freedom's call, They came to conquer or to fall,

father's place:

Strike, strike the spur, and never spare

God's blessing on Your Grace!"

So spake the brave Montañez, Butrago's lord was he;

And turn'd him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee;

He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill

Was deem'd a dead or living Tell!
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew,
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod
Which his awakening footstep trod,

And now the work of life and death Hung on the passing of a breath;

(From the Spanish.) JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

MAKE WAY FOR LIBERTY. "MAKE way for liberty!"-he cried; Made way for liberty, and died!

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
A wall, where every conscious stone
Seem'd to its kindred thousands grown;
A rampart all assaults to bear,

Till time to dust their frames should wear;
A wood, like that enchanted grove
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possess'd
A spirit prison'd in its breast,

The battle trembled to begin :

Yet while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found.
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 'twere suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet,—

How could they rest within their graves,
And leave their homes the homes of slaves?
Would they not feel their children tread
With clanging chains above their head?

It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the oppressor's power;
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield-
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.

Few were the number she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he
On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on one, indeed;
Behold him-Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmark'd, he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,

Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face,
And by the motion of his form
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And by the uplifting of his brow

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 'twas no sooner thought than done,
The field was in a moment won:-

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried:
Their keen points met from side to side;
He bow'd amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for Liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly;
"Make way for Liberty!" they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rush'd the spears through Arnold's

heart;

While, instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic scatter'd all:
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free:
Thus death made way for liberty!

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.
FAIR stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort,
March'd toward Agincourt
In happy hour-
Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopp'd his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power,

Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide

To the king sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet, with an angry smile,

Their fall portending.

And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then: Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed;

Yet have we well begun-
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

And for myself, quoth he,
This my full rest shall be;
England, ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,

Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

Poitiers and Cressy tell,

When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell;

No less our skill is

Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat

Lopp'd the French lilies.

The duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped,

Amongst his henchmen.
Excester had the rear-
A braver man not there:

O Lord! how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone;
Armor on armor shone;
Drum now to drum did groan-

To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham!
Which did the signal aim

To our hid forces;
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Struck the French horses,

With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy:
Arms were from shoulders sent;
Scalps to the teeth were rent;
Down the French peasants went;
Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,

As to o'erwhelm it;

And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brotherClarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade;
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay

To England to carry; Oh, when shall Englishmen. With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

THE BALLAD OF CHEVY-CHACE.
GOD prosper long our noble king,
Our lives and safetyes all;

A woefull hunting once there did
In Chevy-Chace befall;

To drive the deere with hound and horne,
Erle Percy took his way,

The child may rue that is unborne,
The hunting of that day.

The stout Erle of Northumberland
A vow to God did make,
His pleasure in the Scottish woods
Three summers days to take;

The cheefest harts in Chevy-Chace
To kill and beare away.
These tydings to Erle Douglas came,
In Scottland where he lay :

Who sent Erle Percy present word,
He would prevent his sport.
The English Erle, not fearing that,
Did to the woods resort,

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold;
All chosen men of might,
Who knew full well in time of neede
To ayme their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran,
To chase the fallow deere:
On Munday they began to hunt,
Ere daylight did appeare;

Two captaines moved with mickle might Their speares to shivers went.

Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound: But still our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground:

And throwing strait their bows away, They grasp'd their swords so bright: And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,

On shields and helmets light.]

They closed full fast on everye side,
Noe slacknes there was found;
And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gasping on the ground.

O Christ! it was a griefe to see,

And likewise for to heare, The cries of men lying in their gore, And scatter'd here and there.

At last these two stout erles did meet, Like captaines of great might: Like lyons wood, they layd on lode, And made a cruell fight:

They fought untill they both did sweat,
With swords of temper'd steele;
Until the blood, like drops of rain,
They trickling downe did feele.

Yeeld thee, Lord Percy, Douglas sayd;
In faith I will thee bringe,
Where thou shalt high advanced bee
By James our Scottish king:

Thy ransome I will freely give,

And this report of thee, Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see.

Noe, Douglas, quoth Erle Percy then,
Thy proffer I doe scorne;

I will not yeelde to any Scott,
That ever yett was borne.

With that, there came an arrow keene
Out of an English bow,
Which struck Erle Douglas to the heart,
A deepe and deadlye blow:

Fight on, my merry men all; For why, my life is at an end;

Lord Percy sees my fall.

Then leaving liffe, Erle Percy tooke
The dead man by the hand;
And said, Erle Douglas, for thy life
Wold I had lost my land.

O Christ! my verry hert doth bleed
With sorrow for thy sake;
For sure, a more redoubted knight
Mischance cold never take.

A knight amongst the Scotts there was,
Which saw Erle Douglas dye,
Who streight in wrath did vow revenge
Upon the Lord Percye:

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he call'd,
Who with a speare most bright,
Well-mounted on a gallant steed,
Ran fiercely through the fight;

And past the English archers all,

Without all dread or feare; And through Erle Percyes body then He thrust his hatefull speare;

With such a vehement force and might
He did his body gore,

The staff ran through the other side
A large cloth-yard, and more.

So thus did both these nobles dye,

Whose courage none could staine⚫ An English archer then perceived The noble erle was slaine;

He had a bow bent in his hand,
Made of a trusty tree;
An arrow of a cloth-yard long
Up to the head drew hee:

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomerye,
So right the shaft he sett,
The gray goose-wing that was thereon,
In his harts blood was wett.

This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun,

For when they rung the evening bell, The battle scarce was done.