From all the batteries of the Tower peal'd 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 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 rous'd 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, untir'd they bounded still,

Till the proud Peak1 unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales.

Till like volcanoes flar'd to heaven the stormy hills of Wales

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's 2 lovely height

Till stream'd in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's 3

crest of light

Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane 4,

And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain;

1 The castle built by Peveril in the reign of the Conqueror: is now a ruin on the verge of the rocky precipice which forms the roof of the Peak cavern.

• Worcestershire.


4 The Cathedral.


Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln


And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wild vale of Trent;

Till Skiddaw 2 saw the fire that burn'd on Gaunt's embattled pile 3,

And the red glare of Skiddaw rous'd the burghers of Carlisle.



In the pride

Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried,

We talk of death as something which 'twere sweet, In glory's arms, exultingly to meet;

A closing triumph, a majestic scene,

Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien,
As, undismay'd, amidst the tears of all,
He folds his mantle, regally to fall-
Hush, fond enthusiast! still obscure and lone,
Yet not less terrible because unknown,
Is the last hour of thousands: they retire
From life's throng'd path, unnotic'd to expire.
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears
Some trembling insect's little world of cares,
Descends in silence, while around heaves on
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone!
Such is man's doom- and ere an hour be flown,
Start not, thou trifler; such may be thine own!

1 Leicestershire.

* Cumberland.

The castle (now the county gaol) of Lancaster, was partly built by John of Gaunt, to whom the duchy was given by his father.


"Tis hard to say who greater ills endure,
The listless rich, or the o'erlabouring poor.
Indolence sits a night-mare on the breast;
And night or day her victims cannot rest.
Since man was never born to live alone,
How can he be that wretched thing

a drone! LEIGH.


I LOVE to rise ere gleams the tardy light,
Winter's pale dawn; and as warm fires illume,
And cheerful tapers shine around the room,
Through misty windows bend my musing sight,
Where round the dusky lawn, the mansions white,
With shutters clos'd, peer faintly through the

That slow recedes; while yon gray spires assume,
Rising from their dark pile, an added height
By indistinctness given. Then to decree

The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee Wisdom's rich page.


O hours more worth than

By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free
From drear decays of age, outlive the old.



THE Poetry of Earth is never dead!

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the grasshopper's! He takes the lead In summer luxury; he has never done

With his delights; for when tir'd out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The Poetry of Earth is ceasing never!

On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence


from the stove there

The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost

The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.



SHE was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.





And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.

This story is, I believe, founded on fact; though the time and place are uncertain. Many old houses in England lay claim to it, and it is the subject of a pretty ballad, called “The Misseltoe Bough."

But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd,
But that she was not!-Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

[ocr errors]

Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remain'd awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was notic'd; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,


Why not remove it from its lurking place?"
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden-clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

Engraven with a name, the name of both,

[ocr errors]

Ginevra.". -There then had she found a grave!

« VorigeDoorgaan »