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FAVOURITE DOG.

And the hare whom they pursue
Hath an instinct what to do ;

Her hope is near: no turn she makes ;
But like an arrow to the river takes.

Deep the river was, and crusted
Thinly by a one night's frost;
But the nimble hare hath trusted
To the ice, and safely crost;
She hath crost, and without heed
All are following at full speed,
When, lo, the ice, so thinly spread,
Breaks-and the greyhound, Dart, is overhead!

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Better fate have Prince and Swallow-
See them cleaving to the sport!
Music hath no heart to follow,
Little Music she stops short.
She hath neither wish nor heart;
Hers is now another part;
A loving creature she and brave,

And fondly strives her struggling friend to save.

From the brink her paws she stretches,
Very hands as you would say!
And afflicting moans she fetches,
As she breaks the ice away.
For herself she hath no fears,-
Him alone she sees and hears,-

Makes efforts and complainings, nor gives o'er Until her fellow sank and re-appeared no more.

WORDSWORTH.

TO THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER.

THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake!

So put thou forth thy small white rose,I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers:

For dull the eye, the heart is dull,
That cannot feel how fair,
Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are.

How delicate thy gauzy frill!
How rich thy branchy stem!
How soft thy voice, when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them!

While silent showers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!

The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn-flower is dead;
The violet by the moss'd grey stone
Hath laid her weary head.

THE ARMADA.

But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair spring
And boyhood's blossomy hour.

Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bid'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee the woodlands o'er
In freedom and in joy.

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ELLIOT.

THE ARMADA.

ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise;

I tell 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 of Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day,

There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay;

Her crew hath seen Castille's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle,

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

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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 Edgecumbe's lofty hall;

Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast;

THE ARMADA.

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;

His yeomen, round the market-cross, make clear an ample space,

For 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 stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field,

Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle-shield.

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So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay,

And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, sir knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids :

THE ARMADA.

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.

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold;

The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold;

Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea,

Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be.

From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay,

That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day;

For swift to east and swift to west the warning radiance spread;

High on St. Michael's Mount it shone-it shone on Beachy Head.

Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire,

Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire;

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