Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads :: :: University of Virginia Library

Swing it out from tower and steeple, now the dark crowds of the people
Press and throng as if deep gladness ruled them, as the moon the flood;
How they scream and sway about, sing and swear, and laugh and flout,
As if madness universal fevered the whole nation's blood.

Drowsy watchers on the tower start to hear the sudden hour
Shouted out from pier and jetty, o'er the river's mimic waves;
When the bells, with clash and clang, into life and motion sprang,
As to rouse the dead and buried, peaceful sleeping in their graves.

Flags from every turret hung, thousands to the chimneys clung,
Shining pennons, gay and veering, from the belfry chamber float;
Weary poets ceased to rhyme, and the student at the chime
Closed his books and joined the rabble, and with shouting strained his throat;

Every cooper left his vat—there was sympathy in that;
All the shops of 'Cheap and Ludgate were fast barred upon that day;
The red wine, that bubbled up, left the toper in his cup;
And his crutch and staff the cripple, in his gladness, threw away;

Then the bully left his dice, tailors leapt up in a trice,
The smith's fire upon the forges died and smouldered slowly out;
The Protector, in his tomb, slumbering till the crack of doom,
Might have frowned, and slowly waken'd at the thunder of that shout;

The hot brazier hushed his clamour, and threw by his ponderous hammer;
The shipwright his arm upraising, the dogshores to knock away,
Let them stand just as they were, and ran out and left his care,
Then the sailors, flocking after, helped to swell the crowd that day.

Some are watching for the gun, some hold ale up to the sun,
And the bona-robas' eyes, love-sparkling, gather lustre from the wine;
Thames is all alive with barges, gilded prows and blazoned targes;
And the matrons' hoods of satin in the sunlight glow and shine.

There were bullies, thieves and churls, from the peasant up to earls,
Noisy crowds of fluttering varlets, and lace-cover'd serving-men;
And the children, held on high, laugh to see the clear blue sky,
Shouting, as their fathers told them, “Our good king is come again!”

Still the tramp of many feet echoes through each lane and street,
Like the heaving undulation of the tempest-driven tide;
And the belfries reel and rock, with the joy-bell's sudden shock,
Pulsing out fresh roars of welcome ere the last glad sounds subside.

How the 'prentices they mustered, round each door and casement cluster'd;
At the merchant's latticed windows hung rich robings of brocade,
Cloth of gold, and Indian stuff, and in ample folds enough
All the princes of the world to have gorgeously arrayed.

And by every window stood, maidens veiled in silken hood,
Half-retreating, coy and modest, half-delighting to be seen;
Many a wild-rose you may seek, ere you match that blushing cheek;
Every 'prentice thinks his mistress beautiful as any queen.

Dark crowds, down each winding street, hurry, while the tramp of feet
Rises louder than the pealing of the massy cannons near;
Like an overflowing tide, press the people on each side,
With a din so deep and murmurous it is terrible to hear.

How the sword-blades in the sun glitter as the signal-gun
Flashes through the flags and pennons, and the masts that line the shore;
And, slow swinging from each steeple, far above the shouting people,
The joy-bells, o'er roof and gable, do their thunder-music pour.

Oh! the horns blow long and loudly, and the kettle-drums throb proudly,
Like the lark's voice 'mid the thunder, comes the shrill cry of the flute;
And the stormy acclamation of a new-deliver'd nation,
Fills the air with endless echoes, ere the Abbey bells grow mute.

As the dull throb of the drum pulses o'er the din and hum,
Slow the pike-heads gleam and glitter past the Palace and the Park;
And the Crop-heads frown and mutter, as the distant banners flutter;
While the crowd are bonfires piling, ready to light up the dark.

And the black and heaving crowds roll like tempest-driven clouds,
As from out that thunderous silence breaks the sudden shout and cheer
From the turrets and the roofs—for the sound of coming hoofs
Each one listens like a hunter waiting silent for the deer.

For indeed one common soul seems to animate the whole;
Louder than the bells or cannon give the multitude a shout;
From the Thames, alive with boats, all the rowers strain their throats;
From amid the striped awnings and the flags the wind does flout.

You should hear the thunder-claps as the royal banner flaps,
And the streams of lords and ladies file in slow procession by,
Like the clamour of a storm, when the dark clouds, without form,
Drift, in whirlwind, headlong, wildly 'cross the chasm of the sky.

And he bowed to left and right, and the sunbeam's holy light
Lit his brow, and, like a circlet, or a glory, seem'd to burn:
Graciously he bent him low, down unto his saddle-bow,
And a smile lit all his features, usually so sad and stern.

And he gazed with regal pride on the crowds on either side,
While his hat and sweeping feathers held he in his bridle-hand;
Bow'd him to his white steed's mane, where his dark locks' glossy rain
Mingled, then rose smiling, with a look of proud command.

But he shudder'd as before him rose a fountain, arching o'er him;
Dark as blood it rose, empurpled with the juice of flashing wine.
As he passed the Banquet-room came a sudden cloud of gloom,
In his eyes no longer gladness seem'd with radiance, to shine.

Then, responsive to the people, swung the joy-bells in the steeple,
And the welcome of glad thousands drove all sorrow from his mind;
And the sweet spring-gather'd flowers fall before his feet in showers,
As the sky were raining blossoms, and their perfume fill'd the wind.

From old flag-staffs, black and shatter'd, hung red standards, rent and tatter'd,
Scorch'd with fire of Cromwell's cannon, hack'd by sword, and torn with shot;
Almost lost when stately Basing, with old Fairfax' fire was blazing;
Shredded in the struggle long 'tween brave Wigan and the Scott.

And their crimson shadows fell on old faces he knew well:
Faces scarr'd, and grim, and swarthy, worn with suffering and with care;
Men who from the dungeon dim had burst forth to welcome him;
But their brows were grown more wrinkled, and their silver locks more bare.

Some deep-notch'd and broken brands waved in their feeble hands;
Others fill'd the echoing welkin with remember'd battle-cries;
Some fired off their musketoons as the pleasantest of tunes;
Others pulled their hats' broad flaps deeper o'er their moistening eyes.