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At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace ; And the tall Puita, 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 Èdgecumbe's lofty hall. Many a light fishing-bark put out to spy along the coast, And with loose rein and bloody spur, rode inland many a

post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes, Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the

drums; His yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample

space, For there behoves 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 stalk'd he, when he turn'd to flight, on that famed

Picard field, Bohemia’s plume, Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's silver shield : So glared he, when at Agincourt in wrath he turn’d to bay, And crush'd and torn beneath his claws the princely hunter

lay.

Ho! strike the flag-staff 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 freshening breeze of eve unfurld that banner's massy

fold, The parting gleam of sunshine kiss'd that haughty scroll of

gold; Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple seaSuch 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 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 pour'd 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 look'd 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 answering fires; At once the wild alarum clash'd from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower peald loud the voice

of fear; And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying

feet, And the broad streams of flags and pikes dash'd 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 ;

cheer.

And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded

still, All night from tower to tower they spring,--they sprang

from hill to hill, Till the proud Peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky

dalesTill like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of

WalesTill twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely

heightTill stream'd 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; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burn'd on Gaunt's embattled

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

Carlisle.

AN ISLAND. A passage of luxurious description from a poem entitled Epipsychidion, by SHELLEY.

It is an isle under Ionian skies,
Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise,
And, for the harbours are not safe and good,
This land would have remain'd a solitude
But for some pastoral people native there,
Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden air
Draw the last spirit of the age of gold,
Simple and spirited ; innocent and bold.
The blue Ægean girds this chosen home,
With ever-changing sound and light and foam,
Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar;
And all the winds wandering along the shore
Undulate with the undulating tide :
There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide;

And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond,
As clear as elemental diamond,
Or serene morning air; and far beyond,
The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer
(Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year,)
Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and halls
Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls
Illumining, with sound that never fails,
Accompany the noon-day nightingales;
And all the place is peopled with sweet airs;
The light clear element which the isle wears
Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers,
Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers,
And falls upon the eye-lids like faint sleep;
And from the moss violets and jonquils peep,
And dart their arrowy odour through the brain
Till you might faint with that delicious pain.
And every motion, odour, beam, and tone,
With that deep music is in unison :
Which is a soul within a soul-they seem
Like echoes of an antenatal dream.
It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and Sea
Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity ;
Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer,
Wash'd by the soft blue Oceans of young air.
It is a favour'd place. Famine or Blight,
Pestilence, War, and Earthquake, never light
Upon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, they
Sail onward far upon their fatal way:
The winged storms, chanting their thunder-psalm
To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm
Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew,
From which its fields and woods ever renew
Their green and golden immortality.
And from the sea there rise, and from the sky
There fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright,
Veil after veil, each hiding some delight.
Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw aside,
Till the işle's beauty, like a naked bride
Glowing at once with love and loveliness,
Blushes and trembles at its own excess :
Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less
Burns in the heart of this delicious isle,

An atom of the Eternal, whose own smile
Unfolds itself, and may be felt not seen
O'er the grey rocks, blue waves, and forests green,
Filling their bare and void interstices.
But the chief marvel of the wilderness
Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or how
None of the rustic island-people know;
'Tis not a tower of strength, though with its height
It overtops the woods; but, for delight,
Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere crime
Had been invented, in the world's young prime,
Rear'd it, a wonder of that simple time,
An envy of the isles, a pleasure-house
Made sacred to his sister and his spouse.
It scarce seems now a wreck of human art,
But, as it were, Titanic; in the heart
Of Earth having assumed its form, then grown
Out of the mountains, from the living stone,
Lifting itself in caverns light and high :
For all the antique and learned imagery
Has been erased, and in the place of it
The ivy and the wild vine inierknit
The volumes of their many-twining stems;
Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems
The lampless halls, and when they fade, the sky
Peeps through their winter-woof of tracery
With moon-light patches, or star atoms keen,
Or fragments of the day's intense serene;
Working mosaic on their Parian floors.
And, day and night, aloof, from the high towers
And terraces, the Earth and Ocean seem
To sleep in one another's arms, and dream
Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that we
Read in their smiles, and call reality.

LYRIC.

By BARRY CORNWALL.
Ask me not how much I love thee!

Do not question why!
I have told thee the tale
In the evening pale,

With a tear,-and a sigh!

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