THE SPANISH ARMADA. CLEAR shone the morn, the gale was fair, When from Coruña's crowded port With many a cheerful shout and loud acclaim The huge Armada past. To England's shores their streamers point, To England's shores their sails are spread. They go to triumph o'er the sea-girt land, And Rome hath blest their arms. Along the ocean's echoing verge, Along the mountain range of rocks, The clustering multitudes behold their And raise the votive prayer. pomp, Commingling with the ocean's roar Ceaseless and hoarse their murmurs rise, And soon they trust to see the winged bark That bears good tidings home. The watch-tower now in distance sinks, And now Galicia's mountain rocks Faint as the far-off clouds of evening lie, And now they fade away. Each like some moving citadel, On through the waves they sail sublime; And now the Spaniards see the silvery cliffs, Behold the sea-girt land! O fools! to think that ever foe Should triumph o'er that sea-girt land! O fools! to think that ever Britain's sons Should wear the stranger's yoke! For not in vain hath Nature rear'd On come her gallant mariners! What now avail Rome's boasted charms? Where are the Spaniard's vaunts of eager wrath? His hopes of conquest now? And hark! the angry Winds arise, Old Ocean heaves his angry Waves; The Winds and Waves, against the invaders fight To guard the sea-girt land. Howling around his palace-towers The Spanish despot hears the storm ; He thinks upon his navies far away, And boding doubts arise. Long, over Biscay's boisterous surge The watchman's aching eye shall strain ! Long shall he gaze, but never wing'd bark Shall bear good tidings home. Westbury, 1798. ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY. THE night is come, no fears disturb They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths, Go to the palace, would'st thou know Eye is not closed in those accursed walls, The Monarch from the window leans, And with a horrible and eager hope Oh he has Hell within him now! For innocence can never know such pangs He looks abroad, and all is still. Sounds through the silence of the night alone,. Thy hand is on him, righteous God! He hears the glorying yells of massacre, He hears the murderer's savage shout, In vain they fly,.. soldiers defenceless now, Righteous and just art thou, O God! Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear, They throng'd around his midnight couch, The phantoms of the slain ; . It prey'd like poison on his powers of life;. Righteous art thou, O God! Spirits! who suffer'd at that hour Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke, And like a giant from his sleep Ye saw the people burst their double chain, ye had joy in Heaven! And Westbury, 1798. THE HOLLY TREE. 1. O READER! hast thou ever stood to see The eye that contemplates it well perceives Order'd by an intelligence so wise, As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. 2. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen No grazing cattle through their prickly round But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 3. I love to view these things with curious eyes, And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rbyme, |