At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace;
And the tall Pinta, 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 Edgecombe's lofty hall;
Many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast;
And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.

With his white hair, unbonnetted, the stout old sheriff comes,
Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums:
The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample space,
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, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle shield:
So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turn'd to bay,
And crush'd and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay.
Ho! strike the flagstaff 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 wide! Our glorious semper eadem! the banner of our pride!

The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurl'd that banner's massy foldThe parting gleam of sunshine kiss'd that haughty scroll of gold: Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea; Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford bay, That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day; For swift to east, and swift to west, the warning radiance spreadHigh on S. Michael's Mount it shone-it shone on Beachy Head: Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamer's glittering waves, The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves: O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew,

And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge-the rangers of Beaulieu

Right sharp and quick the bells rang out, all night 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, that streak of blood-red light:

The 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 cheer:
And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,
And the broad streams of flags and pikes dash'd down each
rousing 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, for wild Blackheath, the warlike errand

went;

And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent: Southward, for Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright coursers forth;

High on black Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north;

And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang, all night from hill to

hill;

Till the proud peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Derwent'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 height; Till stream'd in crimson, on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light; Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly towers the sign to Lincoln sent,

And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

LORD MACAULAY.

113. THE GLORY OF GOD.

PRAISED the earth, in beauty seen,
With garlands gay of various green;
I praised the sea, whose ample field
Shone glorious as a silver shield :
But earth and ocean seem'd to say,
"Our beauties are but for a day."

I praised the sun, whose chariot roll'd
On wheels of amber and of gold;
I praised the moon, whose softer eye
Smiled sweetly through the summer sky:
But moon and sun in answer said,
"Our days of light are numbered."

O God! O good beyond compare,
If these thy meaner works are fair,
If these thy bounties gild the span
Of ruin'd earth and sinful man,
How glorious must those mansions be
Where thy redeem'd ones dwell with Thee!

BISHOP HEBER.

114. DEATH'S SEASONS.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set- but all,

Thou bast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth and song and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine!

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee! but thou art not of those That wait the ripening bloom to seize their prey!

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain;
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our path grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam;

Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home;

And the world calls us forth-and thou art there!

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

MRS. HEMANS.

115. CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO T. CROMWELL.

YROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear,

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman..
Let's dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard; say then, I taught thee—
Say Wolsey, that once trod the ways to glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure, and safe one-though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee.
Corruption wins not more than honesty.