MENELLA SMEDLEY. 1820-1877
An Angel came and cried to him by night:
"God needs a Martyr from your little band;
Name me the purest Soul, which, closely scanned,
Still overflows with sweetness and with light
That find no limit till they reach the Land
Whence they first sprang!" Weeping for what must be,
He named them all, with love adorning each;
And still that Angel smiled upon his speech,
And, smiling still, went upward silently,
Not marking any name. Amazed he knelt,
Pondering the silent choice. But when the stroke
Fell, not an Angel, but the Master, spoke,
With voice so strong that nothing else was felt :
"Thou art the man! Belovèd, come to Me!"
No one failed him! He is keeping
Royal state and semblance still;
Knight and noble lie around him,
Cold on Flodden's fatal hill.
Of the brave and gallant-hearted,
Whom you sent with prayers away,
Not a single man departed
From his Monarch yesterday.
Had you seen them, O my masters!
When the night began to fall,
And the English spearmen gathered
Round a grim and ghastly wall!
As the wolves in winter circle
Round the leaguer on the heath,
So the greedy foe glared upward,
Panting still for blood and death.
But a rampart rose before them,
Which the boldest dared not scale;
Every stone a Scottish body,
Every step a corpse in mail!
And behind it lay our Monarch,
Clenching still his shivered sword;
By his side Montrose and Athole,
At his feet a Southron lord.
All so thick they lay together,
When the stars lit up the sky,
That I knew not who were stricken,
Or who yet remained to die.
Few there were when Surrey halted,
And his wearied host withdrew;
None but dying men around me,
When the English trumpet blew.
Then I stooped, and took the banner,
As you see it, from his breast,
And I closed our hero's eyelids,
And I left him to his rest.
LOCKER-LAMPSON. 1821-1895
TO MY GRANDMOTHER
This Relative of mine,
Was she seventy-and-nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she look'd at seventeen,
As a Bride.
Beneath a summer tree
Her maiden reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste;
What an arm! and what a waist
With her bridal wreath, bouquet,
Lace farthingale, and gay
Falbala,-
If Romney's touch be true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
Her lips are sweet as love;
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, "Come!"
What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Fair sorceress in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
That good-for-nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this Lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Her locks, as white as snow, Once shamed the swarthy crow ;
That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cruel foot for spite
Near her eye.
Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine;
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,— Would she not?
Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropt away
One by one:
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, "Thy
In travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
In mercy she was borne
Where the weary and the worn
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