THE GRANDAME.

113

Old times were changed, old manners gone;
A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne;
The bigots of the iron time

Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door.
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.

SCOTT.

The Grandame.

On the green hill top,

Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof,
And not distinguish'd from its neighbour barn,
Save by a slender tapering length of spire,
The grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells
The name and date to the chance passenger.
For lowly born was she, and long had eat,
Well earn'd, the bread of service; hers was else
A mounting spirit, one that entertain'd
Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable,
Or aught unseemly. I remember well
Her reverend image: I remember, too,

With what a zeal she served her master's house;

And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age
Delighted to recount the oft-told tale
Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was
And wondrous skill'd in genealogies,

And could in apt and voluble terms discourse
Of births, of titles, and alliances;
Of marriages, and intermarriages;
Relationship remote, or near of kin ;
Of friends offended, family disgraced-
Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying
Parental strict injunction, and regardless

THE GRANDAME.

115

Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote,
Stooping to wed with one of low degree.
But these are not thy praises; and I wrong
Thy honour'd memory, recording chiefly
Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell
How, with a nobler zeal, and warmer love,
She served her heavenly Master. I have seen
That reverend form bent down with age and pain,
And rankling malady. Yet not for this
Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew
Her trust in Him, her faith and humble hope-
So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross-
For she had studied patience in the school
Of Christ, much comfort she had thence derived,
And was a follower of the Nazarene.

The Spanish Armada.

TTEND, all ye who list to hear our
noble England's praise:

I sing of the thrice famous deeds
she wrought in ancient days,
When that great fleet invincible,
against her bore, in vain,
The richest spoils of Mexico, the
stoutest hearts in Spain.

It was about the lovely close of

a warm summer's day,

There came a gallant merchant ship, full

sail to Plymouth Bay;

The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's

isle,

At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a

mile.

At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in

chase.

Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall,

The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall;

[THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY is better known as the great historian, the acute biographer, the brilliant essayist, than as a poet. The poems he has written are few, but they are of a high order. "The Lays of Ancient Rome" have the true heroic clang, and most vividly portray the scenes they chronicle. Lord Macaulay was born in 1800, and died in 1859.]

THE SPANISH ARMADA.

117

Many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast; And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many

a post.

With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the

drums.

The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an ample

space,

And there behoves him to set up the standard of her Grace:

And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow, upon the labouring wind, the royal blazon swells. Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! So stalk'd he when he turn'd to fight, on that famed Picard field;

Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle shield:

So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turn'd to

bay,

And crush'd and torn beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! ho! scatter flowers, fair maids!

Ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, gallants! draw your blades!

Thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide!

Our glorious semper eadem! the banner of our pride!