Whose sovereign wept,
Yea, wept, to wear a crown.

God bless thee, weeping Queen,
With blessing more divine!
And fill with happier love than earth's
That tender heart of thine!

That when the thrones of earth shall be
As low as graves brought down,
A piercéd hand may give to thee
The crown, which angels shout to see!
Thou wilt not weep

To wear that heavenly crown.

SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR.

W. M. Praed.

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion's note is high;

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the huge drum makes reply:

Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our

ears.

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas ! White Guy is at the door,

And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor.

Up rose the lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer, And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret stair.

Oh, many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed,

As she worked the bright word 'Glory' in the gay and glancing thread;

And mournful was the smile that o'er those beauteous features ran,

As she said, ‘It is your lady's gift; unfurl it in the van.'

'It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest

ride, Through the steel-clad files of Skippon and the black dragoons of Pride;

The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm, And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm, When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt bravely on their wing,

And hear her loyal soldiers' shout, . . For God and for the King!'

'Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the royal line; They fly, the braggarts of the Court, the bullies of the Rhine:

Stout Langley's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down,

And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a

frown;

And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in the flight, 'The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.'

The knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in twain,

His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain;

But still he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout— 'For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur on and fight it out!'

And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave,

And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he fells a knave.

Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;

Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here.

The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust,

'Down, down,' they cry, 'with Belial, down with him to the dust!'

'I would,' quoth grim old Oliver, 'that Belial's trusty sword

This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!'

The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower;
The gray-haired warden watches on the castle's highest

tower.

'What news, what news, old Anthony?'-'The field is lost and won :

The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the

sun;

And a wounded man speeds hither,—I am old and can

not see,

Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step should be.'

'I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray,

As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for min

strel's lay.

Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff.;*

I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff;

Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life,

And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!

Sweet! we will fill our money-bags and freight a ship for France,

And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's mischance;

Or, if the worst betide me, why, better axe or rope,

Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope! Alas, alas, my gallant Guy!-out on the crop-eared boor,

That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!'

Quantum sufficit, a sufficient quantity.

THE SLEEP.-Mrs. Browning.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace surpassing this-
'He giveth His beloved, sleep?'

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown to light the brows?—
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?

A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake:

He giveth His beloved, sleep.

Sleep soft, beloved!' we sometimes say,
Who have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His beloved, sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delvéd gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His beloved, sleep,

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap:
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,

He giveth His beloved, sleep.

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard—
'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose
Who giveth His beloved, sleep.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let One, most loving of you all,
Say, 'Not a tear must o'er her fall!
'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.-Sir F. H. Doyle.

During the last Chinese war the following passage occurred in a letter of the correspondent of The Times: Some Šeiks, and a private of the Buffs, having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning, they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the Kotou. The Seiks obeyed; but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill.'

Last night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs,

Who never looked before.
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown
And type of all his race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,

A heart, with English instinct fraught
He yet can call his own.