. The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed. with a careful revision of the text. ? — in tumult tost. Our leaders fell, our ranks were lost. A thousand men who drew the sword For both the Houses and the Word, Preached forth from hamlet, grange, and curb the crosier and the , stark and stiff, lie stretched in gore,And neer shall rail at mitre more. —Thus fared it when I left the fightWith the sood Cause and Commons rig-ht.— Disastrous news ! dark Wycliffe said ;Assumed despondence bent his troubled joy was in his eye,The well-feigned sorrow to belie. — Disa
. The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, baronet; ed. with a careful revision of the text. ? — in tumult tost. Our leaders fell, our ranks were lost. A thousand men who drew the sword For both the Houses and the Word, Preached forth from hamlet, grange, and curb the crosier and the , stark and stiff, lie stretched in gore,And neer shall rail at mitre more. —Thus fared it when I left the fightWith the sood Cause and Commons rig-ht.— Disastrous news ! dark Wycliffe said ;Assumed despondence bent his troubled joy was in his eye,The well-feigned sorrow to belie. — Disastrous news ! — when needed ye not that your chiefs were lost ?Complete the woful tale and sayWho fell upon that fatal leaders of repute and nameBought by their death a deathless such my direst foemans doom,My tears shall dew his honored tomb. —No answer? — Friend, of all our host,Thou knowst whom I should hate the thou too once wert wont to hate,Yet leavest me doubtful of his fate. —With look unmoved — Of friend or foe, ROKEBY. 277. Aught, answered Bertram, wouldst thou know,Demand in simple terms and plain,A soldiers answer shalt thou gain:For question dark or riddle highI have nor judgment nor reply. The wrath his art and fear suppressedNow blazed at once in Wycliffes breast, And brave from man so meanly bornRoused his hereditary Wretch ! hast thou paid thy bloody debt ?Philip of Mortham, lives he *False to thy patron or thine or perjured, one or ! hast thou kept thy promise slay thy leader in the from his seat the soldier Wycliffes hand he strongly wrung ; 2/8 SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. His grasp, as hard as glove of mail,Forced the red blood-drop from the nail — . A health ! he cried : and ere he quaffedFlung from him Wycliffes hand and laughed — Now, Oswald Wycliffe, speaks thy heart!Now playst thou well thy genuine part!Worthy, but for thy craven
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