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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.
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,
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,
a drone! LEIGH.
I LOVE to rise ere gleams the tardy light,
That slow recedes; while yon gray spires assume,
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
THE POETRY OF EARTH.
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,
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
from the stove there
The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
SHE was an only child; from infancy
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
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;
And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have seen
That mouldering chest was notic'd; and 'twas said
Why not remove it from its lurking place?"
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
Ginevra.". -There then had she found a grave!