ENGLAND! where the sacred flame Burns before the inmost shrine, Where the lips that love thy name Consecrate their hopes and thine, Where the banners of thy dead Weave their shadows overhead, Watch beside thine arms to-night, Pray that God defend the Right.

Think that when to-morrow comes

War shall claim command of all;
Thou must hear the roll of drums,

Thou must hear the trumpet's call.
Now, before they silence ruth,
Commune with the voice of truth;
England! on thy knees to-night
Pray that God defend the Right.

Hast thou counted up the cost,

What to foeman, what to friend?

Glory sought is Honour lost,

How should this be knighthood's end?

See also ADMIRALS ALL

SAN STEFANO

SERINGAPATAM

Know'st thou what is Hatred's meed? What the surest gain of Greed? England! wilt thou dare to-night Pray that God defend the Right?

Single-hearted, unafraid,

Hither all thy heroes came,
On this altar's steps were laid
Gordon's life and Outram's fame.
England! if thy will be yet
By their great examples set,
Here beside thine arms to-night
Pray that God defend the Right.

So shalt thou when morning comes
Rise to conquer or to fall,
Joyful hear the rolling drums,
Joyful hear the trumpets call.
Then let Memory tell thy heart;
England! what thou wert, thou art!'
Gird thee with thine ancient might,
Forth! and God defend the Right!

And the silken, sad, uncertain
Rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic

Terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating Of my heart, I stood repeating-"Tis some visitor entreating

Entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating
Entrance at my chamber door, -
This it is, and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger;
Hesitating then no longer,
'Sir!' said I-'or Madam! truly
Your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping,
And so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping,

Tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you;'-
Here I opened wide the door:

Darkness there, and nothing more!

Deep into that darkness peering,
Long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal
Ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken,
And the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken
Was the whispered word-Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo

Murmured back the word- Lenore!'
Merely this, and nothing more.

Then into the chamber turning,
All my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping

Somewhat louder than before:
'Surely'-said I-'surely that is
Something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is,
And this mystery explore,-
Let my heart be still a moment,
And this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind, and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter,
When, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven

Of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he;
Not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady,

Perched above my chamber door --
Perched upon a bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat,-and nothing more.

Then, this ebony bird beguiling
My sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum

Of the countenance it wore,

'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, Thou' I said-'art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven Wandering from the nightly shore! Tell me what thy lordly name is

On the night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the Raven-'Nevermore!'
Much I marvelled this ungainly
Fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning,

Little relevancy bore:
For we cannot help agreeing
That no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing

Bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured
Bust above his chamber door-
With such name as 'Nevermore.'

But the Raven, sitting lonely
On the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in

That one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered,
Not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered—

'Other friends have flown before; On the morrow he will leave me

As my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said-'Nevermore!'

Startled at the stillness broken
By reply so aptly spoken,
'Doubtless'-said I-'what it utters
Is its only stock and store,-
Caught from some unhappy master
Whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster.

Till his songs one burden bore,
Till the dirges of his hope the
Melancholy burden bore

Of Nevermore!-of Nevermore!'

But, the Raven still beguiling
All my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in
Front of bird and bust and doo;
Then, upon the velvet sinking,
I betook myself to linking
Fancy into fancy, thinking

What this ominous bird of yore,What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, Gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing,
But no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now
Burned into my bosom's core;
This, and more, I sat divining,
With my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining

140

That the lamplight gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining,

With the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press-ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, Perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls
Tinkled on the tufted floor:

'Wretch!' I cried-' thy God hath lent thee, By these angels He hath sent thee,

150 Respite--respite and nepenthe

From thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe,
And forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the Raven-'Nevermore!'

'Prophet!' said I-'thing of evil!—
Prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether

Tempest tossed thee here ashore,—
Desolate, yet all undaunted,
160 On this desert land enchanted,
On this home by horror haunted-
Tell me truly, I implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead?
Tell me tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the Raven-'Nevermore!'
'Prophet!' said I-' thing of evil—
Prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us—

By that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden
If within the distant Aidenn
It shall clasp a sainted maiden
Whom the angels name Lenore,-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden
Whom the angels name Lenore?'
Quoth the Raven-'Nevermore!'

'Be that word our sign of parting,
Bird or fiend!' I shrieked, upstarting-
'Get thee back into the tempest

And the night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token Of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—

Quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart,
And take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the Raven-Nevermore!'

And the Raven, never flitting,
Still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamplight, o'er him streaming,
Throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow
That lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!

ΙΟ

WINDSOR FOREST, 159-234.

LET old Arcadia boast her ample plain,
Th' immortal huntress, and her virgin train;
Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seen
As bright a Goddess, and as chaste a Queen;
Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan
reign,

The earth's fair light, and Empress of the main.
Here too, 'tis sung, of old, Diana strayed,
And Cynthus' top forsook for Windsor shade;
Here was she seen o'er airy wastes to rove,
Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless
grove;

Here, armed with silver bows, in early dawn, Her buskined virgins traced the dewy lawn.

Above the rest a rural nymph was famed, Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona named, (Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast,

The Muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last).

Scarce could the goddess from her nymph le known,

But by the crescent, and the golden zone.
She scorned the praise of beauty, and the care:
A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair:
A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds,
And with her dart the flying deer she wounds.
It chanced, as, eager of the chace, the maid
Beyond the forest's verdant limits strayed,
Pan saw and loved; and, burning with desire,
Pursued her flight: her flight increased his fire.
Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
When through the clouds he drives the trem-
bling doves;

As from the god she flew with furious pace,
Or as the god, more furious, urged the chace.
Now fainting, sinking, pale, the nymph appears;
Now, close behind, his sounding steps she
hears;

And now his shadow reached her as she run,
His shadow lengthened by the setting sun;
And now his shorter breath, with sultry air,
Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
In vain on father Thames she calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injured maid.
Faint, breathless, thus she prayed, nor prayed
in vain-

'Ah, Cynthia! ah-tho' banished from thy train,
Let me, O let me, to the shades repair,
My native shades-there weep, and murmur
there.'

She said, and melting as in tears she lay,
In a soft silver stream dissolved away.
The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
And bathes the forest where she ranged before.
In her chaste current oft the goddess laves,
And with celestial tears augments the waves.
Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies
The headlong mountains and the downward
skies,

The wat❜ry landscape of the pendent woods,
And absent trees that tremble in the floods;

A wealthier tribute than to thine he gives.
No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear.
No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear;
Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays,
While led along the skies his current strays,
As thine, which visits Windsor's famed abodes,
To grace the mansion of our earthly gods:
Nor all his stars above his lustre show,
Like the bright beauties on the banks below;
Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.]

WINDSOR FOREST, 259-922.

Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,
Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless,
Bear me, oh bear me to sequestered scenes,
The bow'ry mazes, and surrounding greens;
To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper's Hill.
(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow,
While lasts the mountain, or while Thames
shall flow)

I seem through consecrated walks to rove,
I hear soft music die along the grove:
Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade,
By godlike Poets venerable made:

Here his first lays majestic Denham sung; There the last numbers flowed from Cowley's tongue.

O early lost! what tears the river shed,
When the sad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping swans on ev'ry note expire,
And on his willows hung each Muse s lyre.

O wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore, What kings first breathed upon her winding shore;

Or raise old warriors, whose adored remains
In weeping vaults her hallowed earth contains;
With Edward's acts adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down through ev'ry
age;

Draw monarchs chained, and Cressi's glorious field,

The lilies blazing on the regal shield!

Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn, And palms eternal flourish round his urn. Here o'er the Martyr-King the marble weeps, And, fast beside him, once-feared Edward sleeps: Whom not th' extended Albion could contain, From old Belerium to the northern main, The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest,

And blended lie th' oppressor and th' opprest!

Make sacred Charles's tomb for ever known, (Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone) Oh fact accurst! what tears has Albion shed! Heavens, what new wounds! and how her old have bled!

She saw her sons with purple death expire,
Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars,

Inglorious triumphs, and dishonest scars.
At length great Anna said—‘Let discord cease!'
She said, the world obeyed, and all was peace!

The time shall come, when, free as seas or wind,

Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind; Whole nations enter with each swelling tide, And seas but join the regions they divide; Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold, And the new world launch forth to seek the old.

Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,

And feathered people crowd my wealthy side; And naked youths and painted chiefs admire Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire! O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore,

Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more;

See also DESCEND, YE NINE

Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves;
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roofed with gold.
Exiled by thee from earth to deepest hell,
In brazen bonds shall barb'rous Discord dwell;
Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care,
And mad Ambition, shall attend her there;
There purple Vengeance bathed in gore
retires,

Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires;
There hateful Envy her own snakes shall feel,
And Persecution mourn her broken wheel;
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain.

TWELVE years ago I made a mock

Of filthy trades and traffics:

I wondered what they meant by stock; I wrote delightful sapphics;

I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, I supped with Fates and Furies,— Twelve years ago I was a boy,

A happy boy, at Drury's.

Twelve years ago!-how many a thought
Of faded pains and pleasures
Those whispered syllables have brought
From Memory's hoarded treasures!
The fields, the farms, the bats, the books,
The glories and disgraces,
The voices of dear friends, the looks
"Of all familiar faces.

Kind Mater smiles again to me,

As bright as when we parted;

I seem again the frank, the free,
Stout-limbed, and simple-hearted!

Pursuing every idle dream,

And shunning every warning;

With no hard work but Boveney stream,

No chill except Long Morning:

Now stopping Harry Vernon's ball
That rattled like a rocket;

Now hearing Wentworth's 'Fourteen all!'
And striking for the pocket;
Now feasting on a cheese and flitch,—
Now drinking from the pewter;
Now leaping over Chalvey ditch,
Now laughing at my tutor.

Where are my friends? I am alone;
No playmate shares my beaker:
Some lie beneath the churchyard stone,
And some-before the Speaker;
And some compose a tragedy,

And some compose a rondeau;
And some draw sword for Liberty,
And some draw pleas for John Doe.

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes
Without the fear of sessions;
Charles Medlar loathed false quantities
As much as false professions;
Now Mill keeps order in the land,
A magistrate pedantic;

And Medlar's feet repose unscanned
Beneath the wide Atlantic.