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Yes, they can meet his eye,
Defenceless now and bound.
And that eye did not shrink,
When the last moment came.
What though suspended sense
To feel protracted death ;
What though the hangman's hand
Wallace had comfort still.
He called to mind his deeds
And it was joy in death.
Go, Edward ! triumph now!
The fowls of heaven have fed.
Go, Edward, to thy God!
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 passed.
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 reared
Around her coast those silvery cliffs ;
To guard his favorite 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,
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.
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! they sleep.
Go to the palace, wouldst 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,
Awaits the midnight bell.
Oh! he has hell within him now !
God, always art thou just!
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 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 thronged around his midnight couch,
The phantoms of the slain ;
Righteous art thou, O God!