That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the

day;

For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war

flame 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 poured 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 looked forth into the

night,

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

The bugle's note and cannon's roar the deathlike 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 clashed from all her reeling

spires;

From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear;

And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer:

And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,

And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed 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;

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

still;

All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill;

Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales,

Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills

of Wales,

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's

lonely height,

Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's

crest of light,

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

And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the bound

less 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 burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

DRAKE'S DRUM

HENRY NEWBOLT

SIR FRANCIS DRAKE was the most famous of the sea-captains who won the glorious victory over the Armada and brought to naught the designs of Philip II. against England. Eight years before, Drake had sailed round the globe, provisioning his vessels on the way by plunder from the Spanish colonies. His enemies denounced him on his return as "the master-thief of the unknown world," but Queen Elizabeth went aboard his ship, the "Golden Hind," and there dubbed him knight. In anticipation of the war with Spain, Drake held the Spanish galleons to be lawful prey and captured treasure-ships and men-of-war on the high seas, in West Indian waters, in Cadiz harbor, wherever they might be found. Death overtook this most valiant of pirates on an expedition

to the Spanish Main.

buried off Nombre de

His body was placed in a leaden coffin and Dios, the treasure port of Spanish America.

Drake, he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He sees it arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas

come,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;

Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin', They shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago!.

retreat.

THE REVENGE

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET

LORD TENNYSON

IN 1591, a squadron of royal men-of-war and privateers was sent out to the Azores in search of treasure-ships from the West Indies. Lord Thomas Howard was in command, and Sir Richard Grenville, viceadmiral. A Spanish fleet followed in hot pursuit. It was so far superior in numbers and equipment that Lord Howard ordered a Grenville delayed the sailing of his ship, the "Revenge," till he could get his sick men aboard. He then undertook to sail through instead of round about the Spanish galleons. A desperate fight followed- - one vessel against fifteen, one hundred men against five thousand. For fifteen hours the English sailors held their own against overwhelming odds, only yielding when their guns were silenced. Sir Richard's exploit has been condemned as foolhardy by most historians, but it served to impress the Spaniards with the unquenchable valor of British seamen and so emphasized the impression wrought by the wreck of the Armada.

I

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:

66

Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty- · three!"

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward!

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out

of gear,

And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow

quick.

We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fiftythree?"