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 pomp,

And raise the votive prayer.

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

Around her coast those silvery cliffs ;
For not in vain old Ocean spreads his waves

To guard his favourite isle !

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

The dreams of innocence; They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths,

They sleep, .. alas I they sleep!

Go to the palace, would'st thou know

How hideous night can be;
Eye is not closed in those accursed walls,

Nor heart at quiet there.

The Monarch from the window leans,

He listens to the night,
And with a horrible and eager hope

Awaits the midnight bell.

Oh he has Hell within him now!

God, always art thou just !
For innocence can never know such pangs

As pierce successful guilt.

He looks abroad, and all is still.

Hark ).. now the midnight bell Sounds through the silence of the night alone, ..

And now the signal gun!

Thy hand is on him, righteous God!

He hears the frantic shrieks,
He hears the glorying yells of massacre,

And he repents, . . too late.

He hears the murderer's savage shout,

He hears the groan of death ; In vain they fly, .. soldiers defenceless now,

Women, old men, and babes.

Righteous and just art thou, O God !

For at his dying hour Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear,

He heard that murderous yell !

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

For freedom and for faith, Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke,

Her faith and freedom crush'd.

And like a giant from his sleep

Ye saw when France awoke; Ye saw the people burst their double chain,

And ye had joy in Heaven i

Westbury, 1798.

THE HOLLY TREE,

1.
O READER ! hast thou ever stood to see

The Holly Tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives

Its glossy leaves
Order'd by an intelligence so wise,
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

2.
Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen

Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round

Can reach to wound;
But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarm’d the pointless leaves appear.

3.
I love to view these things with curious eyes,

And moralize :
And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree

Can emblems see
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rbyme,
One which may profit in the after time.