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The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves,

The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves.

O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew ;

He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu.

Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town,

And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down;

The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked forth into the night,

And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red light.

Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the deathlike silence broke,

And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke.

At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires;

At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires;

From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear;

And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer :

And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,

And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each roaring street;



And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din,

As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in:

And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went,

And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent.

Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth;

High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north ;

And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still:

All night from tower to tower they sprang—they sprang from hill to hill :

Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales

Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height

Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light

Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane,

And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain;

Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln


And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent;


Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.


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Do you ask what the Birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

The linnet, and thrush say, "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent, the wind is so

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What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud


But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,

And singing and loving-all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings


"I love my love, and my love loves me!"



THY memory as a spell
Of love comes o'er my mind,
As dew upon the purple bell,
As perfume on the wind,


As music on the sea,

As sunshine on the river; So hath it always been to me, So shall it be for ever.

I hear thy voice in dreams
Upon me softly call,

Like echo of the mountain streams
In sportive waterfall.
I see thy form as when
Thou wert a living thing,
And blossom'd in the eyes of
Like any flower of spring.


Thy soul to heaven hath fled,

From earthly thraldom free; Yet 'tis not as the dead

That thou appear'st to me: In slumber I behold

Thy form as when on earth;
Thy locks of waving gold,
Thy sapphire eye of mirth.

I hear in solitude

The prattle kind and free
Thou uttered'st in joyful mood
While seated on my knee.
So strong each vision seems,
My spirit that doth fill,
I think not they are dreams,
But that thou livest still.




To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing, startle the dull night
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the sweet-brier, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters th' rear of darkness thin;
And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before ;
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill :
Sometime walking, not unseen,
By hedgerow elms or hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great sun begins his state;
Rob'd in flames and amber bright,
The clouds in thousand liv'ries dight:
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land;
And the milkmaid singeth blithe;
And the mower whets his scythe;
And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

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