With all his wit he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left. He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave; Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blowFoul outrage, which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never know! Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way—but this!" --With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died! When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and sank down, And hid his face some little space with the corner of his gown, Till, with white lips and blood-shot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, And stood before the judgment-scat and held the knife on high: "Oh! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain ; And even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius, and all the Claudian line!" -So spake the slayer of his child, and turned and went his way, But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay, And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, and then with steadfast feet Strode right across the market-place into the Sacred Street. Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him; alive or dead Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!" He looked upon his clients; but none would work his will: He looked upon his lictors; but they trembled and stood still; And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, And there ta'en horse to tell the Camp what deeds are done in Rome. XXI. THE FATE OF MACGREGOR. (HOGG.) James Hogg, "The Ettrick Shepherd," was born in the Vale of Ettrick, Selkirk. shire, about 1770. He died in 1835. "Macgregor, Macgregor, remember our foemen! Stern scowled the Macgregor, then, silent and sullen, We must meet them at home, else they'll quickly be here.” Or blanched at the ire or the prowess of man; "Last night in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone, I knew her, O brother, I knew her full well! As would thrill thy bold heart;-but how long she remained, I knew not, but ages seem short to the while. The present to shun and some respite to find, "She told me, and turned my chilled heart to a stone, 66 A parting embrace in one moment she gave,— When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring." Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night, Macgregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light : It faded-it darkened-he shuddered-he sighed, — "No! not for the universe!" low he replied. Away went Macgregor, but went not alone: No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill; Young Malcolm, at distance, crouched trembling the while; Few minutes had passed ere they spied on the stream Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle: As slumbering he dozed on the shelf of the rock; Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach, Though fast the red bark down the river did glide, Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side. "Macgregor! Macgregor!" the echoes replied, He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem, XXII. THE BATTLE OF NASEBY. BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLESWITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT. (LORD MACAULAY.) The battle of Naseby, in Northamptonshire, which decided the fate of Charles I., was fought on the 14th June 1645. The King's army was commanded by Lord Astley, Prince Rupert (of Bavaria, son of Frederick, King of Bohemia, and Elizabeth, daughter of James I. of England), and Sir Marmaduke Langdale, the King himself being in charge of the reserve forces. Thomas Fairfax (afterwards Lord Fairfax), Oliver Cromwell, and Henry Ireton (Cromwell's son-in-law), led the Parliamentary troops. OH! 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 which 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, |