The Sun.
London, England, 1857-04-21 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

"RUPERT'S MARCH.
" Carabine slung, stirrup well hung,
Flagon at saddle-bow merrily swung;
Toss up the ale, for our flag, like a sail,
Struggles and swells in the hot July gale.
Colours fling out, and then give them a shout—
We are the gallants to put them to rout.
" Flash all your swords, like Tartarian hordes,
And scare the prim ladies of Puritan lords ;
Our steel caps shall blaze through the long summer
days,
As we, galloping, sing our man Cavalier lays.
Then banners advance ! By the lilies of France,
We are the gallants to lead them a dance.
" Ring the bells back, though the sexton look black,
Defiance to knaves who are hot on our track.
' Murder and fire !' shout louder and higher ;
Remember Edge-hill and the red-dabbled mire,
When our steeds we shall stall in the Parliament hall,
And shake the old nest till the roof-tree shall fall.
" Froth it up, girl, till it splash every curl,
October's the liquor for trooper and earl ;
Bubble it up, merry gold in the cup,
We never may taste of to-morrow night's sup.
(Those red ribbons glow on thy bosom below
Like apple-tree bloom on a hillock of snow.)
" No, by my word, there never shook sword
Better than this in the clatch of e lord ;
The blue streaks that run are as bright in the sun , ,
As the veins on the brow of that loveliest one ;
No deep light of the sky, when the twilight is nigh,
Glitters, more bright than this blade to the eye.
•

" Well, whatever may hap, this rusty steel-cap
Will keep out full many a pestilent rap ;
This buff, though it's old and not larded with gold,
Will guard me from rapier as well as from cold ;
This scarf, rent and torn, though its colour is worn,
Shone gay as a page's but yesterday morn.
" Here is a dint from the jagg of a flint,
Thrown by a Puritan just as a hint;
But this stab through the buff was a warning more
rough,
When Coventry city arose in a huff ;
And I met with this gash, as we rode with a crash
Into Noll's pikes on the banks of the Ad).
" No jockey or groom wears so draggled a plume
As this that's just drenched in the swift-flowing
Froom.
Red grew the tide era we reached the steep side,
And steaming the air of old Barbary's hide ;
But for branch of that oak that saved me a stroke,
I had sunk there like herring in pickle to soak.
" Pistolet crack flashed bright on our track,
And even the foam of the water turned black.
They wore twenty to one, our poor rapier to gnn,
Bat we charged up the bank, and we lost only otse ;
So I saved the old flag, though it was but a rag,
And the sword in my hand was snapped off to a jagg.
" The water was churned as we wheeled and we turned,
And the dry brake to scare out the vermin we burned.
We gave our halloo, and our trumpet we blow ;
Of all their stout fifty we left them but two;
With a mock and a laugh, won their banner and staff,
And trod down the comets as thrashers do chaff.
" Saddle my roan, his back is a throne,
Better than velvet or gold, you will! own.
Look to your match, or some harm you may catch,
For treason has always some mischief to hatch ;
And Oliver's out with all Haslerigg's rout,
So I'm told by this shivering white-livered scout."
•

The Rose of Ashurst. By the author of "Emilia
Wyndham," "Evelyn Marston," &e. 3 vols.
Hurst and Blackett.
In the works of this authoress there is always
something more than mere display of talent, or
the sole purpose of creating an amusing narrative.
To be appreciated they must be considered in their
true light ; audit will be seen that, in a simple man-
ner, some of life's sternest lessons are disclosed, and
the hardest struggles, the most bitter trials, are
not those that meet the eye of lookers-on, but the
bidden conflicts the spirit at war wages within
itself, the bitterness of its own that only the heart
knoweth of. In the present instance, one of the
most painful phases of society is shown—that of an
idle and unprincipled individual, marring and de-
stroying the peace and prosperity of a worthy
family. Paul Lewis is an apt illustration of that
class of intellectual idlers who consider their talents
to exempt them from exertion, instead of being an
additional inducement to labour, and who commit
the still greater error of believing they have a claim
on all who belong to them. "nstable as water,
thou shalt not excel," is the doom of their lives,
and its evil influence extends to others. There
could not have been a greater contrast than that
between the brothers Walter and Paul. It is a
question whether the former was justified in sacri-
ficing the prospects of his son to the claims of his
brother, if it had been a matter of per-
sonal advantage it would have been diffe-
rent, but the future welfare of a promising
child was beyond the idle requirements of one like
Paul, who did not even yield gratitude for the ser-
vices of his brother. Kate Lewis, the wife of
Walter, is a noble character, generous and kind-
hearted; without the least trace of weakness in her
disposition, she was always firm and resolute in her
manner when occasion required. It is a touching
scene, in which Walter Lewis is called away to
attend his last patient in a contagious fever, at a
time when the young surgeon was sinking under
exhaustion of body and mind, having returned
home worn out with attending upon the fever-
stricken village. Just as he was on the point of
retiring to rest, a fresh summons arrived hem one
lying in the last stage of illness. By that intuitive
perception often visible at such critical junctures
both husband and wife felt that the voice of the
messenger was as the destroying angel's trumpet.
Walter Lewis was ready at the call ; t o the agonised
entreaties of his wife that be would first take rest,
he replied, " Nothing can authorise the honourable
soldier to forsake his post. This is my mounting
of the breach. It is here that I command the for-
lorn hope." In this spirit he set forth—to soften
the horrors of hie return, he could only say,
"Blessed are the dead Nebo die in the Lord."
After the death of Walter Lewis, the interest of
the story is centred in the heroine, Amy Grant,
the Rose of Ashurst, and Fabian Lewis, the son of
Walter and Kate, and whose early years of high
promise had caused such delight to his father and
mother. The sudden death of Walter, in the prime
of life, cut short the means of continuing the youth's
education ; but at the last hour the father thought
of the idle brother to whom he had advanced so
many sums, and wrote to him, imploring him to
refund by degrees, as best suited him, the money
owed, in order that Fabian might not lose what no
after advantage could replace, the benefit of early
study. To this rightful claim, coming as
it were
from another world, Paul made answer to the
his
own. and fatherless in a manner peculiarly s
own. He repudiated the idea. of loans, except as
regarded the sum of two hundred pounds once ad-
vanced by Walter to free him from Pr's". He
proposed to invest this sum in procuring Fabian a
H
situation at Mr.
owish's, a mercer in the City,
where he had been himself once employed, and in
procuring necessaries,
his ot, mitfit. The
tionlihererin affliction,
in-
dignation of a high spjlireit"lif.koer Kate s
jauyst beanigmear-.
gAimneyd,Gnroarntw, aswhsohehaurup hastened
dd
was awaiting with her, alike the answer from Paul
and the arrival of Fabian. The failure of the one
made them tremble for the appearance of the other.
They need not have done, fig Fabian's talent was

Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundivads. By
George W. Thornbury, author of "Nature and
Art. Hurst and Blackett."
We have from time to time admir-cl Mr. Thorn-
bury's animated effusions as they appeared in the
Magazines, m the form of eollickinv, fighting,
drinking songs and ballads of the Cavalier and
Puritan epoch, when long pikes, and longer
prayers, headlong battles, and hyrocrit'cal cun-
ning, pottle-deep revelry, and fanatical ven-
geance, curiously and wildly amalgrernat!d in car-
rying on the contest for ambitious rule. The sub-
jects afford more scope for dashing, daring, happy-
go-lucky sort of outpourings than for deep pietlc
thought or elevated sentiment ; and our auth r,
thoroughly ideniifying himself with the sprit of
the cause, has presented us with a characteristic
and valuable collection of stirring compositions.
There is a freedom and exuberance of expression
in most of them, which evince a highly perceptive
mind, and rich descriptive powers. The clasph of
the sword-blades, the rattle of the bullets
- , the
flaunt of the helm-plume, the reeking wine flagon,
' the roaring jollity, and the exciting scenes our-
rcunding " Old Noll" and his doings, are vividly
and graphically set forth ire these chauntings ; and
we are borne into the thick of the " troublous
times," whether we will or no. We as cordially
congratulate Mr. Thornbury on his exhibition of
verse as we did on his specimens of prose. His
lately published volumes, "Art and Nature," are
doubtless by this time in many a well-selected
library, and his present production may be worthily
placed on the same shelf. We would ventura to
suggest to the author a degree more attention to
the measure of his rhythm. He has been a little
careless in the construction of such a verse as the
following :
" And I seem to myself alone with the dead,
In a twilight purgatory,
Till I sit and croon the merry old tune,
That I made for Margery."
Mr. Thornbury is too soundly gifted.,to permit him-
self to be indifferent to the melodious "scanning"
of his songs ; and, like all starlit-1g and sensible
writers, he will take our hint in kindly feeling.
We shall expect to see more poetry from his hand,
for his talent promises largely, and we believe will
not d'sappoint the public. We cannot resistgiviug
a portion of "Rupert's March " to our readers.
Numerous temptations present themselves in his
miscellaneous poems, and we would fain make ex-
tracts of " The King of Champagne," " Regrets,"
" Harvest Rhymes," and many other sweet and
glowing lyrics, but we must content ourselves with
the following, referring our readers to the volume
itself for the ample verification of our high estimate
of its author :