The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
As when a thunderstorm the valley fills,
The rapid rivers tumble from the hills,
Falling impetuous from each rocky height,
So rushed the host of Cromwell to the fight.
The Royalists, though few, like ramparts stood;
Or, as the sea-beat rock defies the flood,
From their close-serried files no warriors fled—
Their firmness struck proud Cromwell's host with dread:
His legions shout, then swift the ramparts scale,
And meet the Royalists with shot like hail;
But when the brave young Rupert spurred his horse,
The royal army burst with such a force,
Their foes gave way—but Fairfax quick as thought,
Wheeled round his steed, and man with man they fought.
As when young lions some fierce tigers meet,
With fiery eye-balls, and with gory feet,
Which strive at once the royal beast to slay,
And, unmolested, plunder for their prey,
So came the Scots;—but Rupert, like a flood,
O'erwhelmed the bold, and stained their flags with blood.
As when on seas two rolling channels fight,
And furious waves are turned to foaming white,
Thus did they meet, swords clashing 'gainst the spears,
Till Major Fairfax in the slain appears;
Till not a weapon but with gore was red—
So fought both wings, till great Sir Thomas fled.
When Pompey fled on famed Pharsalia's plain,
In such a space were fewer warriors slain.
The noble Prince, whose loyalty was warm,
O'erwhelmed the sons of Scotland like a storm!
But see Lord Goring the firm centre lead,
While firm they follow his dark prancing steed;
Deep are their lines, their spears stand thick as corn,
And Cromwell's musketry they meet with scorn;
Close are their ranks, so thick the warriors stand,
And hard the spears are grasped in ev'ry hand,
Rushing like fire, or, as the lightning red,
They met their foes, and Cromwell's centre fled!
Again the brave Sir Thomas Fairfax turns,
Meets Rupert's columns, and the battle burns.
The lines are broken—muskets useless lie,
Swords clash on swords, the balls no longer fly—
Rage, horror, death, revenge, and wounds and blood
Swelled the confusion of the battle's flood!
With more determined rage no armies met,
Nor earth with nobler gore was ever wet.
At length, o'ercome, brave Fairfax flies again,
Wounded himself, and his brave brother slain:
Thus Rupert fought, though loth to take the field,
Yet, when once warmed, his heart would never yield.
Now victory seemed the Royalists to crown—
The banners of their foes were trampled down;
The noble files whom valiant Porter led,
O'erwhelmed all force, and every general fled.
But as the thunderstorm, when once 'tis past,
Turns with a ten-fold fury on the blast,
While quiv'ring in the cloud the flashes blaze,
And make the boldest that they dare not gaze,
So came proud Cromwell, leading on the horse,
Dark as the storm—what could withstand his force?
The Trojan warriors never better stood,
The Grecian phalanx never was as good,
As those brave men, who for their sov'reign bled,
And conquered oft, when great Newcastle led!
The heaviest charges of their foes they met,
And each succeeding charge their foes were beat;
Nor would they fly, nor would a warrior yield,
Till half their numbers fell upon the field.
Then, let not Cromwell of the victory boast—
He need not glory that his foes had lost;
For had the Prince been there, he ne'er had fled
Ere Cromwell's self and half his host had bled.
Methinks I hear him, when the armies cease,
Speaking, deceitful, in such words as these:
“Oh! why should war, why should the sword and spear,
And hostile armies in the field appear?
Why should the haughty pride of man destroy
Youth, strength, and beauty, and a parent's joy?
Has not disease itself a rapid way
To turn the greatest mortals into clay,
But rage, and armour, battle-axe, and fire,
Against the race of mortals must conspire?
The soldier at the front of battle smiles,
Steps o'er the slain, to close the broken files;
His fame, his honour, then his chiefest care,
And little leisure has he left for prayer:
A spear may pierce him, or a bullet flies
Swift to his heart—the warrior falls and dies.
When shall the lovely days of peace appear,
That sheathes the falchion, and that breaks the spear?
I praise Thee!” and much more the usurper said,
Which never reached ten fathoms o'er his head;
For God delights not in His creatures' pain,
Nor will He hear His praise sung o'er the slain.
The rapid rivers tumble from the hills,
Falling impetuous from each rocky height,
So rushed the host of Cromwell to the fight.
The Royalists, though few, like ramparts stood;
Or, as the sea-beat rock defies the flood,
From their close-serried files no warriors fled—
Their firmness struck proud Cromwell's host with dread:
His legions shout, then swift the ramparts scale,
And meet the Royalists with shot like hail;
But when the brave young Rupert spurred his horse,
The royal army burst with such a force,
64
Wheeled round his steed, and man with man they fought.
As when young lions some fierce tigers meet,
With fiery eye-balls, and with gory feet,
Which strive at once the royal beast to slay,
And, unmolested, plunder for their prey,
So came the Scots;—but Rupert, like a flood,
O'erwhelmed the bold, and stained their flags with blood.
As when on seas two rolling channels fight,
And furious waves are turned to foaming white,
Thus did they meet, swords clashing 'gainst the spears,
Till Major Fairfax in the slain appears;
Till not a weapon but with gore was red—
So fought both wings, till great Sir Thomas fled.
When Pompey fled on famed Pharsalia's plain,
In such a space were fewer warriors slain.
The noble Prince, whose loyalty was warm,
O'erwhelmed the sons of Scotland like a storm!
But see Lord Goring the firm centre lead,
While firm they follow his dark prancing steed;
Deep are their lines, their spears stand thick as corn,
And Cromwell's musketry they meet with scorn;
Close are their ranks, so thick the warriors stand,
And hard the spears are grasped in ev'ry hand,
Rushing like fire, or, as the lightning red,
They met their foes, and Cromwell's centre fled!
65
Meets Rupert's columns, and the battle burns.
The lines are broken—muskets useless lie,
Swords clash on swords, the balls no longer fly—
Rage, horror, death, revenge, and wounds and blood
Swelled the confusion of the battle's flood!
With more determined rage no armies met,
Nor earth with nobler gore was ever wet.
At length, o'ercome, brave Fairfax flies again,
Wounded himself, and his brave brother slain:
Thus Rupert fought, though loth to take the field,
Yet, when once warmed, his heart would never yield.
Now victory seemed the Royalists to crown—
The banners of their foes were trampled down;
The noble files whom valiant Porter led,
O'erwhelmed all force, and every general fled.
But as the thunderstorm, when once 'tis past,
Turns with a ten-fold fury on the blast,
While quiv'ring in the cloud the flashes blaze,
And make the boldest that they dare not gaze,
So came proud Cromwell, leading on the horse,
Dark as the storm—what could withstand his force?
The Trojan warriors never better stood,
The Grecian phalanx never was as good,
As those brave men, who for their sov'reign bled,
And conquered oft, when great Newcastle led!
The heaviest charges of their foes they met,
And each succeeding charge their foes were beat;
66
Till half their numbers fell upon the field.
Then, let not Cromwell of the victory boast—
He need not glory that his foes had lost;
For had the Prince been there, he ne'er had fled
Ere Cromwell's self and half his host had bled.
Methinks I hear him, when the armies cease,
Speaking, deceitful, in such words as these:
“Oh! why should war, why should the sword and spear,
And hostile armies in the field appear?
Why should the haughty pride of man destroy
Youth, strength, and beauty, and a parent's joy?
Has not disease itself a rapid way
To turn the greatest mortals into clay,
But rage, and armour, battle-axe, and fire,
Against the race of mortals must conspire?
The soldier at the front of battle smiles,
Steps o'er the slain, to close the broken files;
His fame, his honour, then his chiefest care,
And little leisure has he left for prayer:
A spear may pierce him, or a bullet flies
Swift to his heart—the warrior falls and dies.
When shall the lovely days of peace appear,
That sheathes the falchion, and that breaks the spear?
I praise Thee!” and much more the usurper said,
Which never reached ten fathoms o'er his head;
For God delights not in His creatures' pain,
Nor will He hear His praise sung o'er the slain.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |