For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly warflame spread

High on St. Michael's Mount it shone

Beachy Head:

- it shone on

Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each south

ern 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 sun

less 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 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 furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,

And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed 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 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 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:

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt on Gaunt's em

battled pile,

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

- LORD MACAULAY.

II.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

I.

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again.

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

IV.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

12.

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.

BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR - KINGS-IN-CHAINS -AND-THEIR NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN IRETON'S

REGIMENT.

OH! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all

red?

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?

Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we

trod;

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,

Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,

That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,

And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced

hair,

And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the

Rhine.