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.

His body was placed in a leaden coffin and buried off Nombre de 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!

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 retreat. 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

66

far away:

Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fiftythree!"

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?"

II

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;

You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.

I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,

To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."

III

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,

Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer

heaven;

But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from

the land

Very carefully and slow,

Men of Biddeford in Devon,

And we laid them on the ballast down below;

For we brought them all aboard,

And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,

To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

IV

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and

to fight,

And he sail'd away from Flores till the Spaniard came

in sight,

With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather

bow.

"Shall we fight or shall we fly?

Good Sir Richard, let us know,

For to fight is but to die!

There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English

men.

Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the

devil,

For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet.'

V

Sir Richard spoke, and he laugh'd, and we roared a hurrah, and so

The little "Revenge" ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,

With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;

For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,

And the little "Revenge" ran on thro' the long sealane between.

VI

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd,

Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft

Running on and on, till delay'd