THE SPANISH ARMADA.

CLEAR shone the morn, the gale was fair,
When from Corunna'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 has 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 winged bark
Shall bear good tidings home.

A BALLAD, SHEWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER.

FROM A STORY RELATED BY OLAUS MAGNUS.

THE raven croak'd as she sat at her meal,
And the old woman knew what he said,
And she grew pale at the raven's tale,
And sicken'd and went to her bed.

Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,
The old woman of Berkeley said,
The monk my son, and my daughter the nun,
Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead.

The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
Their way to Berkeley went,

And they have brought with pious thought
The holy sacrament.

The old woman shriek'd as they entered her door.
'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear,

Now take the sacrament away

For mercy, my children dear!

Her lip it trembled with agony,
The sweat ran down her brow,
I have tortures in store for evermore,
Oh! spare me my children now!

Away they sent the sacrament,
The fit it left her weak,

She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes
And faintly struggled to speak.

All kind of sin I have rioted in,
And the judgment now must be,
But I secured my children's souls,
Oh! pray my children for me.

I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes,
The fiends have been my slaves,
I have nointed myself with infant's fat,
And feasted on rifled graves.

And the Devil will fetch me now in fire

My witchcrafts to atone,

And I who have rifled the dead man's grave

Shall never have rest in my own.

Bless I intreat my winding sheet,
My children I beg of you!

And with holy water sprinkle my shroud,

And sprinkle my coffin too.

And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone,
And fasten it strong I implore

With iron bars, and with three chains
Chain it to the church floor.

And bless the chains and sprinkle them,
And let fifty priests stand round,
Who night and day the mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.

And see that fifty choristers

Beside the bier attend me,

And day and night by the taper's light
With holy hymns defend me.

Let the church bells all both great and small
Be toll'd by night and day,

To drive from thence the fiends who come
To bear my body away.

And ever have the church door barr'd

After the even song,

And I beseech you, children dear,

Let the bars and bolts be strong.

And let this be three days and nights
My wretched corpse to save,
Keep me so long from the fiendish throng
And then I may rest in my grave.

The old woman of Berkeley laid her down,
And her eyes grew deadly dim,

Short came her breath and the struggle of death
Did loosen every limb

They blessed the old woman's winding sheet
With rites and prayers due,

With holy water they sprinkled her shroud
And they sprinkled her coffin too.

And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone,
And with iron barr'd it down,

And in the church with three strong chains
They chain'd it to the ground.

And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,
And fifty priests stood round,
By night and day the mass to say
Where she lay on the ground.

And fifty sacred choristers

Beside the bier attend her,
Who day and night by the taper's light
Should with holy hymns defend her.

To see the priests and choristers

It was a goodly sight

Each holding, as it were a staff,
A taper burning bright,

And the church bells all, both great and small,

Did toll so loud and long,

And they have barr'd the church door hard,

After the even song.

And the first night the tapers' light
Burnt steadily and clear,

But they without a hideous rout
Of angry fiends could hear;

A hideous roar at the church door,
Like a long thunder peal,

And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung
Louder in fearful zeal.

Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well,
The tapers they burnt bright,

The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
They told their beads all night.

The cock he crew, away they flew,
The fiends from the herald of day,
And undisturb'd the choristers sing,
And the fifty priests they pray.

The second night the tapers' light
Burnt dismally and blue,

And every one saw his neighbour's face
Like a dead man's face to view.

And yells and cries without arise

That the stoutest heart might shock,

And a deafening roar like a cataract pouring
Over a mountain rock.

The monk and nun they told their beads,

As fast as they could tell,

And aye as louder grew the noise

The faster went the bell.

Louder and louder the choristers sung
As they trembled more and more,

And the fifty priests pray'd to Heaven for aid,—
They never had pray'd so before.

T