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 Peak 1 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 Mal vern'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. 3 Shropshire. 4 The Cathedral. Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, 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, 3, And the red glare of Skiddaw rous'd the burghers of Carlisle. DEATH. MACAULAY. 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 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. INDOLENCE. 'Tis hard to say who greater ills endure, LEIGH. DECEMBER MORNING. 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 gold, By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free MISS SEWARD. 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, 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 shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, KEATS. GINEVRA.' 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 66 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, Engraven with a name, the name of both, Ginevra."-There then had she found a grave! |