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At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Puita, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall. Many a light fishing-bark put out to spy along the coast, And with loose rein and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.
With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums;
His yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample
For there behoves him to set up the standard of her Grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. So stalk'd he, when he turn'd to flight, on that famed Picard field,
Bohemia's plume, Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's silver shield: So glared he, when at Agincourt in wrath he turn'd to bay, And crush'd and torn beneath his claws the princely hunter lay.
Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, sir knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids;
Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades:
Thou sun, shine on her joyously,-ye breezes waft her
Our glorious Semper Eadem,-the banner of our pride.
The freshening breeze of eve unfurl'd that banner's massy
The parting gleam of sunshine kiss'd that haughty scroll of
Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple seaSuch night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford
That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; For swift to East, and swift to West, the warning radiance
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone-it shone on Beachy
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire;
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves, The rugged miners pour'd to war from Mendip's sunless
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew ;
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu.
Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town,
And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.
The sentinel on Whitehall Gate look'd forth into the night; And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood
Then bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke,
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke: At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clash'd from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower peal'd loud the voice of fear;
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder
And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying
And the broad streams of flags and pikes dash'd down each roaring street:
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in: And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent.
Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriers forth,
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the North;
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded
All night from tower to tower they spring,-they sprang from hill to hill,
Till the proud Peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely
Till stream'd in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of
Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burn'd on Gaunt's embattled
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.
A passage of luxurious description from a poem entitled Epipsychidion, by SHELLEY.
It is an isle under Ionian skies,
And, for the harbours are not safe and good,
There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide ;
And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond,
Or serene morning air; and far beyond,
The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer
It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and Sea
The winged storms, chanting their thunder-psalm
An atom of the Eternal, whose own smile
'Tis not a tower of strength, though with its height
Of Earth having assumed its form, then grown
The lampless halls, and when they fade, the sky
And, day and night, aloof, from the high towers
To sleep in one another's arms, and dream
Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that we Read in their smiles, and call reality.
By BARRY CORNWALL.
Ask me not how much I love thee!
Do not question why!
I have told thee the tale
In the evening pale,
With a tear,—and a sigh!