Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,

45

50

I learnt at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own.
Shortlived possession! But the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made

55

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid. Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

60

The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd :

All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

65

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,

That humour interposed too often makes;

All this still legible in memory's page,

And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay

70

Such honours to thee as my numbers may;

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 75 The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile),
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here

80

I would not trust my heart;—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.—
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

85

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd, and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, 90 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;

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So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to obtain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distress'd—
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 105
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,—
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell!-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; 115
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,

And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft,—
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

ΠΙΟ

COWPER.

120

63

THE SPANISH ARMADA.

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise :

I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,

When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in

Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer

day,

5

There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth bay ;

The crew had seen Castile's' black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle,

2

At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile.

At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial

grace;

And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase.

ΙΟ

Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along

the wall;

The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's3 lofty hall;

Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the

coast,

And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post.

With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old 15

sheriff comes;

Behind him march the halberdiers; before him

sound the drums;

1 Castile-a part of Spain, here used for Spain.

2 Aurigny's isle-Alderney.

3 Edgecombe's hall-the mansion of the family of Edgecombe, near Plymouth,

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.

20

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,1

Bohemia's2 plume, and Genoa's3 bow, and Cæsar's1 eagle shield.

So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turn'd

to bay,

25 And crush'd and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flagstaff 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.

30

The fresh'ning breeze of eve unfurl'd that banner's

massy fold

The parting gleam of sunshine kiss'd that haughty scroll of gold;

1 Picard field-this refers to the battle-field of Cressy, in Picardy.

2 Bohemia's plume-plume of the King of Bohemia.

3 Genoa's bow-Genoese bowmen in the French army.

4 Cæsar-Emperor elect of Germany, son of the King of Bohemia.

5 Semper eadem—always the same; the Queen's motto.

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, 35 That time of slumber was as bright as busy as the day; For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly warflame spread

High on St. Michael's Mount1 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.

40

The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's2 glittering waves;

The rugged miners pour'd to war from Mendip's 3 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,

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And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down ;7

The sentinel on Whitehall gate look'd forth into the night,

And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill that streak of blood-red light.

1 St. Michael's Mount—a rock in Mount's Bay, Cornwall.

2 Tamar-a river flowing between Devonshire and Cornwall.

3 Mendip the Mendip Hills in Somersetshire.

4 Longleat-in Wiltshire, now the seat of the Marquis of Bath.

5 Cranbourne Chace or Forest in Dorsetshire.

6 Beaulieu-Beaulieu, in the New Forest, Hampshire.

7 A down near Bristol.

8 Whitehall gate-the gate of Whitehall Palace, London.

E