They now to fight are gone;
Armor on armor shone:
Drum now to drum did groan-
To hear was wonder;

That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham!
Which did the signal aim
To our hid forces;
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,

The English archery

Struck the French horses,

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilboes drew,

And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy:

Arms were from shoulders sent;
Scalps to the teeth were rent;
Down the French peasants went;

Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it;

And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother-
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade;
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up.

Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry:
Oh, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

LOCHINVAR.

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had

none

He rode all unarm'd and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"

"I long woo'd your daughter-my suit you denied ;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine and he threw down the cup.

She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar:"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace,

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere better by far

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochin

var."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and

scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE GLOVE.

[The original of this story is in St. Foix; the date is the reign of Francis the First.]

Before his lion-court,

To see the grisly sport,

Sate the king;

Beside him grouped his princely peers,
Aud dames aloft, in circling tiers,

Wreathed round their blooming ring.

King Francis, where he sate,

Raised a finger, yawned the gate,

And, slow from his repose,

A lion goes!

Dumbly he gazed around
The foe-encircled ground;
And, with a lazy gape,
He stretched his lordly shape,
And shook his careless mane,
And-laid him down again!
A finger raised the king,
And nimbly have the guard
A second gate unbarred;
Forth with a rushing spring

A tiger sprung!

Wildly the wild one yelled
When the lion he beheld;

And, bristling at the look,
With his tail his sides he strook,
And rolled his rabid tongue;

In many a wary ring

He swept round the forest king,