Nor cheek, nor lip, nor eye gave token
Even that he knew his chains were broken.
He spake no music, loud or clear,

Was in the voice of the grey-hair'd knight;
But a low stern sound, like that ye hear

In the march of a mail-clad host by night. "Brother of Cœur de Lion," said he,

"These chains have not dishonour'd me!" There was crushing scorn in each simple word, Mightier than battle-axe or sword.

Not long did the heart of the false king thrill
To the touch of passing shame,
For it was hard, and mean, and chill:
As breezes sweep o'er a frozen rill,
Leaving it cold and unbroken still,-
That feeling went and came.

And now to the knight he made reply,
Pleading his cause right craftily;
Skilled was his tongue in specious use
Of promise fair and of feign'd excuse,
Blended with words of strong appeal
To love of fame and to loyal zeal,
At length he ceased; and every eye
Gazed on De Courcy's wistfully.

Speak!" cried the king in that fearful pause:

"Wilt thou not champion thy monarch's cause?"

The old knight struck his foot on the ground
Like a war-horse hearing the trumpet sound;
And he spake with a voice of thunder,

Solemn and fierce in tone,

Waving his hand to the stately band

Who stood by the monarch's throne,
As a warrior might wave his flashing glaive
When cheering his squadrons on;
"I will fight for the honour of England,
Though not for false King John!"

He turned and strode from the lofty hall,

Nor seemed to hear the sudden cheer
Which burst, as he spake, from the lips of all.
And when he stood in the air without,
He paused as if in joyful doubt;

To the forests green and the wide blue sky
Stretching his arms embracingly,

With stately tread and uplifted head,
As a good steed tosses back his mane
When they loose his neck from the servile rein.
Ye know not, ye who are always free,
How precious a thing is liberty!

"O world!" he cried; "sky, river, hill!
Ye wear the garments of beauty still;
How have ye kept your youth so fair,
While age has whitened this hoary hair?"
But when the squire, who watch'd his lord,
Gave to his hand his ancient sword,
The hilt he pressed to his eager breast,
Like one who a long-lost friend hath met;
And joyously said, as he kiss'd the blade,
"Methinks there is youth in my spirit yet.
For France! for France! o'er the waters blue,
False king, dear land, adieu, adieu !"

He hath cross'd the booming ocean,
On the shore he plants his lance;
And he sends his daring challenge
Into the heart of France :
"Lo, here I stand for England,
Queen of the silver main !

To guard her fame, and to cleanse her name
From slander's darkening stain!

Advance, advance! ye knights of France,

Give answer to my call,

Lo, here I stand for England,

And I defy ye all ! "

From the east and the north came champions forth— They came in a knightly crowd;

From the south and the west each generous breast Throbbed at that summons proud.

But though brave was each lord, and keen each sword,

No warriors could withstand

The strength of the hero-spirit

Which nerved the old man's hand.

He is conqueror in the battle ;

He hath won the wreath of bay;
To the shining crown of his fair renown
He hath added another ray;

He hath drawn his sword for England :
He hath fought for her spotless name:
And the islé resounds to her farthest bounds
With her grey-haired hero's fame,

In the ears of the craven monarch
Oft must this burden ring

"Though the crown be thine, and the royal line, He is in heart thy king!”

So they gave this graceful honour
To the bold De Courcy's race,

That they ever should dare their helms to wear
Before the king's own face.

And the sons of that line of heroes

To this day their right assume ;

For, when every head is unbonneted

They walk in cap and plume.

Lays and Ballads of English History.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the

THE fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest, when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail;
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the
sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Byron.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A

WET sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-

While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

Allan Cunningham.

WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S
A WAY.

IT was a noble Roman

In Rome's imperial day,

Who heard a coward croaker,
Before the castle, say:
"They're safe in such a fortress;
There is no way to shake it!"
"On, on!" exclaimed the hero,
"I'll find a way, or make it!"