That palsy shook, grasping the yellow earth None bargained on so easy terms with death. CCCXLIV. THOMAS HOOD, 1799-1845. I do confess that I abhor and shrink My soul revolts at such base hypocrisy, It will not own a nation so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips Where all are equal who draw living breath. He who can come beneath that awful cope, One even measure of immortal hope— 2. BOYISH DAYS. I remember, I remember, I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And summer pools could hardly coo! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops, 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 sea, Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to 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 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 bloodred 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 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 Darwen'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 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 embattled 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 crest. eye; He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd 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 life, 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 snowwhite 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 mau to man: |