They march with Dudley at their head,

And in seven days' space will to York be led!
Can such a mighty host be raised

Thus suddenly, and brought so near?
The earls upon each other gazed ;
And Neville was oppressed with fear;
For, though he bore a valiant name,
His heart was of a timid frame,
And bold if both had been, yet they
Against so many may not stay.
And therefore will retreat to seize
A stronghold on the banks of Tees;
There wait a favourable hour
Until Lord Dacre with his power

From Haworth comes, and Howard's aid
Be with them, openly displayed.

While through the host, from man to man,
A rumour of this purpose ran,
The standard giving to the care
Of him who heretofore did bear
That charge, impatient Norton1 sought
The chieftains to unfold his thought,
And thus abruptly spake: "We yield
(And can it be?) an unfought field!
How often hath the strength of Heaven
To few triumphantly been given !

1 Sir Christopher Norton, who had joined the rising with his four

sons.

Still do our very children boast

Of mitred Thurstan,' what a host

He conquered! Saw we not the plain

(And flying shall behold again)

Where faith was proved? while to battle moved

The standard on the sacred wain

On which the gray-haired barons stood,
And the infant heir of Mowbray's blood,
Beneath the saintly ensigns three,
Stood confident of victory!

Shall Percy blush, then, for his name?
Must Westmoreland be asked with shame,
Whose were the numbers, where the loss,
In that other day of Neville's Cross?
When, as the vision gave command,
The Prior of Durham with holy hand
Saint Cuthbert's relic did uprear
Upon the point of a lofty spear,
And God descended in His power,

While the monks prayed in maiden's bower.

Less would not at our need be due
To us, who war against the untrue;—
The delegates of heaven we rise,
Convoked the impious to chastise;
We, we the sanctities of old

Would re-establish and uphold."-WORDSWORTII.

1 The Bishop of Durham, who had met David of Scotland at the battle of Neville's Cross on the Sunday.

This is given as Norton's feeling in the rebellion to restore Romanism. The rebels were defeated and many put to death.

THE SPANISH ARMADA.

1588.

CLEAR shone the morn, the gale was fair,
When from Coruna'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 blessed 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 spread 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 winged bark Shall bear good tidings home.

SOUTHEY.

LINES WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER
RALEIGH IN HIS BIBLE IN
HIS LAST HOURS.

1618.

WHEN such is time that takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust ;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;

But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

S