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THE ARMADA. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's gitter
ing 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; 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 looked forth into
the night, And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of
blood-red light. 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 answer
ing fires ; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reel
ing 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 furthest wards was heard the rush
of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed
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 errand went, 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 still : All night from tower to tower they sprang—they
sprang from hill to hill : Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o’er Darwin's
rocky dalesTill like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy
hills of Wales Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Mal
vern's lonely heightTill streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's
crest of lightTill broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's
stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the
boundless plain ; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln
sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide
vale of Trent ;
22 REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's
embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the Birds say? The sparrow,
the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, “I love and I love !" In the winter they're silent, — the wind is so
strongWhat it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud
song. But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm
weather, And singing and loving-all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings
he— “I love my love, and my love loves me !"
S. T. COLERIDGE.
REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD.
The memory as a spell
Of love comes o'er my mind,
As perfume on the wind,
REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD.
As music on the sea,
As sunshine on the river ;
So shall it be for ever.
Upon me softly call,
In sportive waterfall.
Thou wert a living thing,
Like any flower of spring.
From earthly thraldom free; Yet 'tis not as the dead
That thou appear'st to me: In slumber I behold
Thy form as when on earth ; Thy locks of waving gold,
Thy sapphire eye of mirth. I hear in solitude
The prattle kind and free Thou uttered'st in joyful mood
While seated on my knee.
My spirit that doth fill,
MORNING IN THE COUNTRY. To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing, startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine : While the cock, with lively din, Scatters th’ rear of darkness thin ; And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before ; Oft listning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill : Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedgerow elms or hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great sun begins his state ; Rob’d in flames and amber bright, The clouds in thousand liv'ries dight: While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o’er the furrow'd land; And the milkmaid singeth blithe ; And the mower whets his scythe ; And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale,