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That palsy shook, grasping the yellow earth
To make it sure. Of all God made upright,
And in their nostrils breathed a living soul,
Most fallen, most prone, most earthy, most debased.
Of all that sold Eternity for Time,
None bargained on so easy terms with death.
Illustrious fool! Nay, most inhuman wretch !
He sat among his bags, and, with a look
Which hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor
Away unalmsed ; and 'midst abundance died-
Sorest of evils ! died of utter want!
CCCXLIV. THOMAS HOOD, 1799–1845.

1. MASKS OF RELIGION.
I do confess that I abhor and shrink

From schemes with a religious willy-nilly,
That frown upon St Giles's sins, but blink

The peccadillos of all Piccadilly.
My soul revolts at such base hypocrisy,

And will not, dare not, fancy in accord

The Lord of Hosts with an exclusive lord
Of this world's aristocracy.
It will not own a nation so unholy,

As thinking that the rich by easy trips
May go to heaven, whereas the poor and lowly

Must work their passage, as they do in ships.
One place there is—beneath the burial sod-

Where all mankind are equalized by death : Another place there is—the fane of God

Where all are equal who draw living breath.
Juggle who will, elsewhere, with his own soul,
Playing the Judas with a temporal dole-

He who can come beneath that awful cope,
In the dread presence of a Maker just,
Who metes to ev'ry pinch of human dust

One even measure of immortal hope-
He who can stand within that holy door,

With soul unbowed by that pure Spirit-level,
And frame unequal laws for rich and poor-

Might sit for bell and represent the Devil !

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2. BOYISH DAYB.
I remember, I remember,

The house where I was born,
The little window, where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a week too soon,

Nor brought too long a day;-
But now I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,

The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups-

Those flowers made of light;
The lilacs where the robins built,

And where my brother set
The laburnum, on his birth-day-

The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air would rush as fresh

As swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers, then,

That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly coo!

The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,

The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops,

Were close against the sky !
It was a childish ignorance,-

But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven

Than when I was a boy.
CCCXLV. LORD MACAULAY, 1800--1860.

1. THE BEACON. Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple

— Such night in England ne'er had been, nor o'er again From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to

sea,

shall be.

Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and 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 on the deep the Spaniards 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 Cranbourn's oaks, the fiery

herald flew ; He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of

Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick tie 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; 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 hur

rying 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 spur

ring in : And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the war

like 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 Darwen's

rocky dalesTill like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of

WalesTill twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern'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 bound

less 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 burned on Gaunt's em

battled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of

Carlisle.

2. THE BATTLE OF THE LEAGUE. The King is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern

crest,

and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rollid from wing to

wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, “God save our

Lord the King !" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the

ranks of war, And be your Oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah ! the foes are coming. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring

culverin! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St Andre’s plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the Golden Lilies, upon them with the

lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears

in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow

white crest; And in they burst, and on they rush’d, while, like a

guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of

Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath

turn’d his rein. D’Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count

is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a

Biscay gale; The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and

cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our

van, “ Remember St Bartholomew !" was passed from man

to man :

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