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 and ample space,

For there behooves 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 stalked he when he turned 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 turned tc

bay,

And crushed 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 unfurled that banner's massy fold

The parting gleam of sunshine kissed 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

spread

High on St. 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 Tamar'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 looked 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 clashed from all her reeling

spires;

From all the batteries of the Tower pealed 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 dashed 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 unfurled 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 streamed 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

The Battle of Blenheim

T was a summer evening,

I old Kaspar's work was done;

And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found;

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, Who fell in the great victory.

I find them in the garden, for
There's many here about,
And often when I go to plough

The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men, said he,
Were slain in the great victory.

Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries,