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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529111" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Battle of Naseby</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, <br>With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? <br>And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? <br>And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, <br>And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; <br>For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, <br>Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, <br>That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine, <br>And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair, <br>And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, <br>The General rode along us to form us to the fight, <br>When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a shout, <br>Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, <br>The cry of battle rises along their charging line! <br>For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! <br>For Charles King of England and Rupert of the Rhine! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, <br>His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; <br>They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks; <br>For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! <br>Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. <br>O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! <br>Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Stout Skippon has a wound; the centre hath given ground: <br>Hark! hark!--What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? <br>Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, boys, <br>Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide <br>Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar; <br>And he--he turns, he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes <br>That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ho! comrades scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, <br>First give another stab to make your search secure, <br>Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets, <br>The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, <br>When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; <br>And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks, <br>Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, <br>And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, <br>Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, <br>Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown, <br>With the Belial of the Court and the Mammon of the Pope; <br>There is woe in Oxford halls: there is wail in Durham's Stalls: <br>The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, <br>And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword; <br>And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear <br>What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Babbington+Macaulay">Thomas Babbington Macaulay</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529111" data-title="The Battle of Naseby de Thomas Babbington Macaulay" data-description="Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, 
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? 
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? 
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread? 

Oh, evil was ..."></div>
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