and took care of our horses. It happened to be my lot to stop at a house where the good woman took a great deal of pains to provide for us; but I observed the good man walked about with a cap upon his head, and very much out of order. I took no great notice of it, being very sleepy, and having asked my landlady to let me have a bed, I lay down and slept heartily. When I waked I found my landlord on another bed groaning very heavily. When I came down stairs I found my cripple talking with my landlady. He was now out of his disguise, but we called him cripple still; and the other who put on the woman's clothes we called Goody Thompson. As soon as he saw me he called me out. Do you know," says he, "the man of the house you are quartered in?" "No, not I," says I. "No, so I believe, nor they you," says he. "If they did, the goodwife would not have made you a posset, and fetched a white loaf for you." What do you mean?" says I. "Have you seen the man?" says he. Seen him?" says I, "yes, and heard him too. The man is sick, and groans so heavily," says I, "that I could not lie upon the bed any longer for him." "Why, this is the poor man," says he, "that you knocked down with your fork yesterday; and I have had all the story out yonder at the next door." I confess it grieved me to have been forced to treat one so roughly who was one of our friends; but to make some amends, we contrived to give the poor man his brother's horse; and my cripple told him a formal story, that he believed the horse was taken away from the fellow by some of our men; and if he knew him again, if it was his friend's horse he should have him. The man came down upon the news, and I caused six or seven horses, which were taken at the same time, to be shown him. He immediately chose the right; so I gave him the horse, and we pretended a great deal of sorrow for the man's hurt, and that we had not knocked the fellow on the head as well as took away the horse. The man was so overjoyed at the revenge he thought was taken on the fellow, that we heard him groan no more. We ventured to stay all day at this town, and the next night; and got guides to lead us to Blackstone Edge, a ridge of mountains which parts this side of Yorkshire from Lancashire. Early in the morning we marched, and kept our scouts very carefully out every way, who brought us no news for this day. We kept on all night, and made our horses do penance for that little rest they had, and the next morning we passed the hills and got into Lancashire, to a town called

Littleborough, and from thence to Rochdale, a little market-town. And now we thought ourselves safe as to the pursuit of enemies from the side of York, our design was to get to Bolton, but all the county was full of the enemy in flying parties; and how to get to Bolton we knew not. At last we resolved to send a messenger to Bolton; but he came back and told us he had, with lurking and hiding, tried all the ways that he thought possible, but to no purpose, for he could not get into the town. We sent another, and he never returned; and some time afterward we understood he was taken by the enemy. At last one got into the town, but brought us word they were tired out with constant alarms, had been straitly blocked up, and every day expected a siege, and therefore advised us either to go northward, where Prince Rupert and the Lord Goring ranged at liberty, or to get over Warrington Bridge, and so secure our retreat to Chester. This double direction divided our opinions: I was for getting into Chester, both to recruit myself with horses and with money, both which I wanted, and to get refreshment, which we all wanted; but the major part of our men were for the north. First, they said, there was their general, and it was their duty to the cause, and the king's interest obliged us to go where we could do best service; and there were their friends, and every man might hear some news of his own regiment, for we belonged to several regiments; besides, all the towns to the left of us were possessed by Sir William Brereton; Warrington and Northwich garrisoned by the enemy, and a strong party at Manchester; so that it was very likely we should be beaten and dispersed before we could get to Chester. These reasons, and especially the last, determined us for the north, and we had resolved to march the next morning, when other intelligence brought us to more speedy resolutions. We kept our scouts continually abroad to bring us intelligence of the enemy, whom we expected on our backs, and also to keep an eye upon the country; for as we lived upon them something at large, they were ready enough to do us any ill turn as it lay in their power.

our scouts from the side of Manchester assured us Sir Thomas Middleton, with some of the Parliament forces and the country troops, making above 1200 men, were on their march to attack us, and would certainly beat up our quarters that night. Upon this advice we resolved to be gone; and getting all things in readiness, we began to march about two hours before night; and having gotten a trusty fellow for a guide-a fellow that we found was a friend to our side-he put a project into my head which saved us all for that time, and that was to give out in the village that we were marched back to Yorkshire, resolving to get into Pontefract Castle; and accordingly he leads us out of the town the same way we came in; and taking a boy with him, he sends the boy back just at night, and bade him say he saw us go up the hills at Blackstone Edge; and it happened very well, for this party were so sure of us that they had placed 400 men on the road to the northward to intercept our retreat that way, and had left no way for us, as they thought, to get away, but back again. About ten o'clock at night they assaulted our quarters, but found we were gone; and being informed which way, they followed upon the spur, and travelling all night, being moonlight, they found themselves the next day about fifteen miles east, just out of our way; for we had, by the help of our guide, turned short at the foot of the hills, and through blind untrodden paths, and with difficulty enough, by noon the next day had reached almost twenty-five miles north, near a town called Clithero. Here we halted in the open field, and sent out our people to see how things were in the country. This part of the country, almost unpassable, and walled round with hills, was indifferent quiet; and we got some refreshment for ourselves, but very little horsemeat, and so went on; but we had not marched far before we found ourselves discovered; and the 400 horse sent to lie in wait for us as before, having understood which way we went, followed us hard; and, by letters to some of their friends at Preston, we found we were beset again. Our guide began now to be out of his knowledge, and our scouts brought us word the enemy's horse was posted before us; and we knew they were in our rear. In this exigence we resolved to divide our small body, and so amusing them, at least one might get off, if the other miscarried. I took about eighty horse with me, among which were all that I had of my own regiment, amounting to about thirty-two, and took the hills towards Yorkshire. Here we met with such unpassable

That

hills, vast moors, rocks, and stony ways, as lamed all our horses and tired our men; and sometimes I was ready to think we should never be able to get over them, till our horses failing, and jack-boots being but indifferent things to travel in, we might be starved before we should find any road or towns, for guide we had none but a boy who knew but little, and would cry when we asked him any questions. I believe neither men nor horses ever passed in some places where we went, and for twenty hours we saw not a town nor a house, excepting sometimes from the top of the moun tains, at a vast distance. I am persuaded we might have encamped here, if we had had provisions, till the war had been over, and have met with no disturbance; and I have often wondered since how we got into such horrible places, as much as how we got out. which was worse to us than all the rest was, that we knew not where we were going, nor what part of the country we should come into when we came out of those desolate crags. At last, after a terrible fatigue, we began to see the western parts of Yorkshire, some few villages, and the country at a distance looked a little like England; for I thought before looked like old Brenn us hill, which the Grisons call the grandfather of the Alps. We got some relief in the villages, which indeed some of us had so much need of that they were hardly able to sit their horses, and others were forced to help them off, they were so faint. I never felt so much of the power of hunger in my life, for having not eaten in thirty hours, I was as ravenous as a hound; and if I had had a piece of horseflesh, I believe I should not have had patience to have stayed dressing it, but have fallen upon it raw, and have eaten it as greedily as a Tartar.

However, I ate very cautiously, having often seen the danger of men's eating heartily after long fasting. Our next care was to inquire our way. Halifax, they told us, was on our right; there we durst not think of going. Skipton was before us, and there we knew not how it was; for a body of 3000 horse, sent out by the enemy in pursuit of Prince Rupert, had been there but two days before, and the country people could not tell us whether they were gone or no; and Manchester's horse, which were sent out after our party, were then at Halifax in quest of us, and afterwards marched into Cheshire. In this distress we would have hired a guide, but none of the country people would go with us, for the Roundheads would hang them, they said, when they came there. Upon this I called a fellow to me:

Hark ye,

friend," says I, dost thee know the way so as to bring us into Westmoreland, and not keep the great road from York?" "Ay, marry," says he, "I ken the ways weel enou.' "And you would go and guide us," said I, "but that you are afraid the Roundheads will hang you?" "Indeed would I," says the fellow. Why then," says I, "thou hadst as good be hanged by a Roundhead as a Cavalier; for if thou wilt not go, I'll hang thee just now." Na, and ye serve me soa," says the fellow, I'se ene gang with ye; for I care not for hanging; and ye'll get me a good horse, I'se gang and be one of ye, for I'll nere come heame more." This pleased us still better; and we mounted the fellow, for three of our men died that night with the extreme fatigue of the last service.

Next morning, when our new trooper was mounted and clothed, we hardly knew him; and this fellow led us by such ways, such wildernesses, and yet with such prudence, keeping the hills to the left that we might have the villages to refresh ourselves, that without him we had certainly either perished in those mountains, or fallen into the enemy's hands. We passed the great road from York so critically as to time, that from one of the hills he showed us a party of the enemy's horse, who were then marching into Westmoreland. lay still that day, finding we were not discovered by them; and our guide proved the best scout that we could have had, for he would go out ten miles at a time, and bring us in all the news of the country. Here he brought us word that York was surrendered upon articles, and that Newcastle, which had been surprised by the king's party, was besieged by another army of Scots, advanced to help their brethren.

We

Along the edges of those vast mountains we passed, with the help of our guide, till we came into the forest of Swale; and finding ourselves perfectly concealed here for no soldier had ever been here all the war, nor perhaps would not if it had lasted seven years-we thought we wanted a few days' rest, at least for our horses; so we resolved to halt, and while we did so we made some disguises, and sent out some spies into the country; but as here were no great towns nor no post-road, we got very little intelligence. We rested four days, and then marched again: and indeed, having no great stock of money about us, and not very free of that we had, four days was enough for those poor places to be able to maintain us.

We thought ourselves pretty secure now; but our chief care was how to get over those terrible mountains; for having passed the great

road that leads from York to Lancaster, the crags, the farther northward we looked, looked still the worse, and our business was all on the other side. Our guide told us he would bring us out if we would have patience, which we were obliged to, and kept on this slow march till he brought us to Stanhope, in the county of Durham, where some of Goring's horse and two regiments of foot had their quarters. This was nineteen days from the battle of Marston Moor. The prince, who was then at Kendal in Westmoreland, and who had given me over as lost, when he had news of our arrival sent an express to me to meet him at Appleby. I went thither accordingly, and gave him an account of our journey; and there I heard the short history of the other part of our men, whom we parted from in Lancashire. They made the best of their way north. They had two resolute gentlemen who commanded; and being so closely pursued by the enemy that they found themselves under the necessity of fighting, they halted and faced about, expecting the charge. The boldness of the action made the officer who led the enemy's horse (which it seems were the county horse only) afraid of them; which they perceiving, taking the advantage of his fears, bravely advance and charge them; and though they were above 200 horse, they routed them, killed about thirty or forty, got some horses and some money, and pushed on their march night and day; but coming near Lancaster, they were so waylaid and pursued that they agreed to separate, and shift every man for himself. Many of them fell into the enemy's hands, some were killed attempting to pass through the river Lune, some went back again, six or seven got to Bolton, and about eighteen got safe to Prince Rupert.

HOAR-FROST.

What dream of beauty ever equall'd this!
What bands from Faeryland have sallied forth,
With snowy foliage from the abundant North,
With imagery from the realms of bliss!
What visions of my boyhood do I miss
That here are not restored! All splendours pure,
All loveliness, all graces that allure;
Shapes that amaze; a paradise that is,—
Yet was not,-will not in few moments be:
Glory from nakedness, that playfully
Mimics with passing life each summer boon;
Clothing the ground-replenishing the tree;
Weaving arch, bower, and delicate festoon;
Still as a dream,-and like a dream to flee!

WILLIAM HOWITT.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

[Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Hemans, born in Liverpool, 25th September, 1794; died in Dublin, 12th May, 1835. She began to write verses before she was nine years of age, and her first volume of poems, Early Blossoms, appeared in 1808. Four years afterwards she became the wife of Captain Hemans, from whom she separated about the period of the birth of her fifth son. Her principal works are: England and Spain, or Valour and Patriotism; The Domestic Affections: Restoration of the Works of Art in Italy; Modern Greece; Wallace and Bruce: Tales and Historic Scenes; Vespers of Palermo, a tragedy; The Sceptic: The Forest Sanctuary; Records of Women; Hymns for Childhood; Scenes and Hymns of Life, &c. She also contributed to the Edinburgh Review, and edited and compiled many miscellaneous volumes. Sir Archibald Alison said: "Mrs. Hemans was imbued with the very soul of lyric poetry; she only required to have written a little less to have been one of the greatest in that branch that England ever produced." In the Noctes the Shepherd says: "It's no in that woman's power, sir, to write ill; for when a feeling heart and a fine genius forgather in the bosom o' a young matron, every line o' poetry is like a sad or cheerful smile frae her een, and every poem, whatever be the subject, in ae sense a picture o' hersel' - sae that a' she writes has an affecting and an endearing mannerism and moralism about it, that inspires the thochtful reader to say in to himsel'-that's Mrs. Hemans."]

I come, I come! ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest bowers;
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains.
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky.
From the night-birds' lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main,

They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, They are flinging spray on the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay!

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen,
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth,
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains

But yeye are changed since ye met me last;
A shade of earth has been round you cast!
There is that come over your brow and eye
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die!
Ye smile-but your smile hath a dimness yet-
-O! what have ye look'd on since last we met?

Ye are changed, ye are cltanged!--and I see not here
All whom I saw in the vanish'd year!
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light;
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay.

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky
And had not a sound of mortality!

-Are they gone?-is their mirth from the

green

hills

pass'd? -Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last!

I know whence the shadow comes o'er ye now,
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to the earth's embrace,
She hath taken the fairest of Beauty's race!
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown,
They are gone from amongst you in silence down.

They are gone from amongst you, the bright and fair.
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!
-But I know of a world where there falls no blight,
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light!
Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer,-farewell, farewell!

The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne,
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore,

Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more.

I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not Death's;-fare ye well! fare-

well!