Impetuous roll'd the pealing drum, wild rang the trumpet swell,
All round the sky our battle-cry in thundering echoes fell,

"God and the cause,"-" on, comrades, on! we own no papal sway,-
What servile band shall dare to stand before our charge to-day!"

And many a plumèd head rose high, and banners bright unroll'd,
And pennons stream and sabres gleam beneath the sun like gold;
Across the sounding plain our horse with stamping hoofs they go,—
See where they broke through flame and smoke like lightning on the foe!

We care not for their trenches, leap light their bulwarks o'er,
Each bayonet is gleaming wet, red with imperial gore,—

Sheer through their columns crashing goes our cannons' hurtling levin,
Like chaff they fly, when bursts on high the whirlwind blast of heaven!

Vain, vain their Flemish infantry, their Croats' thirsty spears,-
In vain, in vain led Wallenstein his steel-clad cuirassiers,-
We Swedes count life but little worth in the battle's stormy hour,
As meets the rock the tempest-shock we met the fiery shower.

Nor quail'd our northern bosoms, nor shook our iron rank,
When Pappenheim with spur of flame came thundering on our flank;
Firm stood our Scottish legions, stout Weimar's columns stood,
And gave like men their blows again, and paid them blood for blood.

Remember Magdeburg's foul sack and Isolani's sword,

Their fierce dragoons and wild Walloons, and Tilly's cruel word;
Remember Leipsic's gory field, and our battle's gloomy swell,

When their blood like rain dash'd o'er the plain, paid the crimson reckoning well!

Once more, once more, the king the first,-he ever leads the way,—
On every mane flies loose the rein,-what slave behind would stay!
Heavens! how we bore them through and through, while wildly o'er the slain
With headlong speed the unmaster'd steed swept through the dinted plain!

OO

THE BALLAD OF LUTZEN.

And many a stark old warrior, and youths with locks of gold,

As they reel before our steel, to the dust alike are roll'd;

Rough greeting theirs, I trow, who chance that trampling troop to meet,—
Where it dashes, how like ashes they are trod beneath our feet!

Now joy to Luther's churches through the borders of Almain!
It is the Lord, whose vengeful sword has cleft the tyrant's chain!
Let Rome upon her sevenfold hills bewail her children's trust,
For ever broke her bloody yoke, and her idols bite the dust.

But where is he, Gustavus, the Lion of the North!

The best and aye the bravest, from battle's cloud came forth!
Dead,-dead,-beneath the clanging hoof, the bulwark of our faith,-
Oh, dear will be the victory, that's bought with such a death!

One true young bosom only there of all his gallant ring,-
Oh, human pride! "Alas," he cried, "this morn I was a king!"
So pass'd the noblest heart away that beat beneath the sun,-
Thus went the fray on Lutzen's day, and thus the field was won.

GEORGE LUNT.

OOO

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THE CRUCIFIXION.

By the mourners come to weep
Where the bones of Jesus sleep:
Crucified! we know thee now-
Son of Man! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou!

Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful-who is He?

By the prayer for them that slew

"Lord! they know not what they do!"

By the spoil'd and empty grave,

By the souls he died to save,

By the conquest he hath won,

By the saints before his throne,

By the rainbow round his brow,
Son of God! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou!

MILMAN.

Champions of the Truth.

DULL thunders moan around the Temple rock,

And deep in hollow caves, far underneath,
The lonely watchman feels the sullen shock,

His footsteps timing as the low winds breathe;
Hark! from the Shrine is asked, What steadfast heart
Dares in the storm go forth? Who takes the Almighty's part?

And with a bold gleam flush'd, full many a brow

Is raised to say, "Behold me, Lord, and send." But ere the words be breathed, some broken vow Remember'd, ties the tongue; and sadly blend With faith's pure incense, clouds of conscience dim, And faltering tones of guilt mar the Confessor's hymn.

Wages