Classic Poem

The windows flash in Taunton town
With hurrying lights and muffled lamps,
And torches wander up and down
The streets, alive like scattered camps:
Far goes the word o'er field and fen,—
Monmouth is here with all his men!

Follow the Duke! and fife and drum
Startle the nightmared country round.
Hither in flocks the lads are come,
The gallant lads so staunch and sound;
Hither in troops they march all night,
And wives and mothers mourn their flight.

The whisper warns that close on dawn,
Before the village cock crows thrice,
He leads his merry people on,
And bravely flings the battle dice.
Look to your arms, lads; temper them well.
Lest that the unflesh'd steel rebel!

Auburn heads and grey are here,
Who grasp the pike from door to door;
Their sires who followed Oliver,
And work'd at Worcester, and the Moor.
Again the cheering of the town
They hear denounce a faithless crown.

They hear again the admiral's name
With his great master's coupled high,
And drink, in brown October, shame
To Papists, till the cup is dry.
March, merry men! and shoulder blithe
Pike and musket, bill and scythe.

Over the main street floats a flag,
The toil of twenty noble maids;
Soon will it stream a blushing rag,
But now 'tis bright with symbol'd braids;
And as the young men march beneath,
Its long folds wave and flattering breathe.

Swings the banner from the hall
Where Monmouth holds his night carouse,
And views his eager followers fall
On bended knee, with loyal vows.
Sweet women blossom in the throng,
And pledge success in cup and song.

They pledge him deep, and to reply
He rises from his cushion'd chair;
The monarch's joy is in his eye;
He bows and drains the goblet there.
The kingly wine that crowns his brain
Runs royally through every vein.

He feels the purple warmth, the weight
Of golden glory on him shed:
He wins the battle lost by Fate,
He mounts the height that claims his head;
He mounts the height so many moan
Who find a scaffold for a throne.

“To horse!—to horse!” The war-steeds prance;
High vaults he with a chieftain's grace,
And many a lovely lady's glance
Dwells fondly on his fated face.
With warmer red their red cheeks bloom
While he waves round his princely plume.

And tears and sighs, and wild adieus,
Bubble beneath his bounding bliss;
Sad dreams of the past night refuse
Consoling by the soldier's kiss.
The mother and the bosom wife
Have dreamt dark issue to the strife.

The cheerless wife, the mother, clings
To him she loves, and will not part.
The young son up the stirrup springs,
To feel once more his father's heart.
The townsmen mount the grey church-tower,
All glorious in the morning hour.

“God speed to Monmouth! Speed and aid!”
They shout, as through the gate defiles
The gallant, glistening cavalcade;
And round the fresh-eyed pasture smiles,
Among the shining streams and shaws,—
“God speed to Monmouth and his cause!”

“Speed!” And the mimic echoes run
From hill to hill, and wail the word:
Over his head to greet the sun
Quivers the ever-cheerful bird.
The people shout, the clear chimes ring,
And the calm heavens receive their king.

Grandly to take what none contest
He rises, by all earth desired;
And the liege-limits of the west
With his effulgent eye are fired.
Duke Monmouth to his saddle-bow
Baring his lustrous head, bows low.

Low to the rising sun he bends,
And at the sight all heads are bare:
“Victorious we shall be, my friends!”
The host put up a hasty prayer.
“Speed the good youth,” sigh distant dames,
“And rid the land of Papist James.”

Again Duke Monmouth waves on high
His bonnet, to the Orient arch:
“See, gentlemen, our augury!”
And with fresh heart the men all march.
Loud, loud, the exulting music plays,
As broader spread the mounting rays.

And cries are yell'd, and caps are flung,
And up the ranks gay pass-words skim;
And oaths are sworn, and songs are sung,
And stories told in praise of him:
The darling son of English home!
The Cavalier of Christendom!

So lithe of limb, so fleet of foot,
'Tis he can throw, and leap, and laugh;
What marksman with his aim can shoot,
Or play the steel, or ply the staff?
And some have sisters whom he dower'd;
On all his kindly smiles have shower'd.

For luck, for luck, the boy was born;
He claims, and he shall have, his own!
And, hopeful as the springing morn,
They glisten down the curves of Tone.
That he'll be king, his life one stakes:
When he is king, a wife one takes.

King?—It is night, the dream is done,
And darkness snatches back the crown
That, golden, rose with morning's sun,
And dropp'd in blood o'er Taunton town.
King of a day, said tidings quick,
While expectation falters sick!

Rumour, with omens in her train,
Rustles and hums from hedge to hedge:
The battle's fought!—they lose! they gain!
Alas! delay, that dulls the edge
Of keenest blades! Nay, here rides one
To tell us if 't be lost or won.

And one rides in as one rides out;
And, when the wretched truth is told
At Taunton gates, who does not doubt,
And in the teeth of fate grow bold,
As if he held, to aid his chief,
A citadel in unbelief?

Drop down the veil on blood and tears,
Muffle the ear from women's wail;
Courage still sits with worthiest peers,
However basely fortune fail:
But cowards, in the battle's heat,
Carry in their own hearts defeat.

And he that rode Ambition's chace,
To shine with Europe's highest prize,
Now the most abject of his race,
Fawns to the hands that most despise.
He hath a love: in her embrace
To live, the man can bear disgrace.

And, though they bleed in Taunton town,
And round the Blood Assize crouch pale;
On no man's forehead comes a frown,
Nor women's curses when they wail,
Point the betrayer out for blame,
At mention of Duke Monmouth's name!