Whose pride lay quench'd and prostrate

In blood, before its close.

In vain impetuous Rupert

Broke wounded Ireton's wing;

And vain all loyal valour

In presence of the king.

For outraged men had gather'd
Round England's boldest son--
The somewhat more than monarch,
The man of Huntingdon !

The son, an English mother

Might well be proud to bear,
Who fought the fight of freedom,

And conquer'd every where.

It was on this high moor-ground, in the centre of England, that King Charles on the 14th of June, 1645, fought his last battle; dashed fiercely against the New-Model army, which he had despised, till then; and saw himself shivered to ruin thereby. Prince Rupert, on the King's right, charged up the hill, and carried all before him ;' but Lieutenant-General Cromwell charged down-hill on the other wing, likewise carrying all before him,—and did not gallop off the field to plunder. Cromwell, ordered thither by the Parliament, had arrived from the Association two days before, amid shouts from the whole army :' he had the ordering of the Horse this morning. Prince Rupert, on returning from his plunder, finds the King's Infantry a ruin; prepares to charge again with the rallied Cavalry; but the Cavalry teo, when it came to the point, broke all

asunder,' never to re-assemble more. The chase went through Harborough; where the King had already been that morning, when in an evil hour he turned back, to revenge some surprise of an outpost at Naseby the night before,' and gave the Roundheads battle.

The Parliamentary Army stood ranged on the height still partly called Mill Hill, as in Rushworth's time, a mile and a half from Naseby; the King's Army on a parallel Hill, its back to Harborough, with the wide table of upland now named Broad Moor between them; where indeed the main brunt of the action still clearly enough shows itself to have been. There are hollow spots, of a rank vegetation, scattered over that Broad Moor; which are understood to have once been burial mounds; some of which have been (with more or less of sacrilege) verified as such. A friend of mine has in his cabinet two ancient grinder-teeth, dug lately from that ground, and waits for an opportunity to re-bury them there. Sound effectual grinders, one of them very large, which ate their breakfast on the fourteenth morning of June two hundred years ago, and, except to be clenched once in grim battle, had never work to do more in this world !-THOMAS CARLYLE.

TREES.

ANONYMOUS.

YE bless the earth with beauty. Laughs not spring
To see your emerald leaves peep from the night
Of their dark wintry cells, into the light

Of the warm gleaming sunshine? Trees, you bring,
Over the deserts of far seas, the wing

Of many a sweet-voiced bird, whose weary flight
From you, was taken ere the snow lay white
Upon your leafless branches. How they sing!
What gushes of delight they pour around,
When once again, within their summer home,
They smooth their ruffled plumage! Oft the sound
Of your green, murmuring boughs, the winds, that roam
The wide earth, love to wake My blessing be
On him who plants upon the earth a tree.

THE MAN OF HEREAFTER.

PIERRE-JEAN DE BERANGER.

TRANSLATED BY HENRY

GLASSFORD BELL. BERANGER WAS BORN IN PARIS,

AUGUST 19, 1780.

THEY'LL talk of his glory for many a day,

Our children will name him when we are away;
No story but his will the cottage contain,

And the peasant will tell it again and again.

At night, round their grandame the young will be found— "Speak of him," they will say, "for there's joy in the sound:

Speak of him, for you lived ere his bright star had set,

And, mother, his country is proud of him yet."

"My children, he pass'd, many long years ago,
Through this village of ours :-twas a beautiful show
To see him surrounded by princes and kings,
Who were glad in those days to come under his wings;
He wore a small hat and a mantle of gray,
And, seeing me gazing, he bade me 'good day ;'—
I trembled 'good day, my dear,' said he again.
He spoke to you, mother-he spoke to you, then?"

"Next year 'twas my fortune at Paris to see
For him the whole nation hold gay jubilee ;
Heaven gave him a son, and he came forth elate
To pledge at the altar his son to the state;
His queen, and his court, and all Europe were there,
And shouts of 'God bless him!' made joyful the air;
He bow'd to the people, and smiled to his queen"
"We envy you, mother, that day and that scene !"

"But war came again, and our troops seem'd to yield,
Although he at their head, as of old, took the field;
One night some one knock'd, and I open'd the door-
Holy saints! 'twas himself who walk'd over the floor:
His escort was small-he seem'd troubled and worn,
But still on his brow there was triumph and scorn;
He sat himself down in that old oaken chair".
"Ha! mother, say on! did the hero sit there?"

"I am hungry!" he cried; "so the table I spread,
And gave all I had, some weak wine and brown bread;
He dried his wet clothes, then grew drowsy and slept-
I sat in a corner the whole night and wept :
Starting up at the dawning, he call'd out -- ‘Advance !
Under Paris we yet shall seek vengeance for France!'
The cup that he drank from was homely and old’—
"You still have it, mother-a relic worth gold!"

"A relic, indeed! But he went to his ruin. That crown Which a pope had thrice bless'd, from his proud head fell down:

Far away on a rock it was said that he died,

But France on her love and his greatness relied;