The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 12

Is this mine own countree?

"Since then, at an uncertain hour, My agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns.

"I pa.s.s, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.

"What loud uproar bursts from that door!

The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer!

"O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!

"To walk together to the kirk, And altogether pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay!

"Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!

He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

"He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear G.o.d who loveth us, He made and loveth all."

_S. T. Coleridge_

x.x.xIX

_SONG OF ARIEL_

Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands,-- Curtsied when you have and kiss'd; (The wild waves whist)-- Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.

Hark, hark!

Bough wough, The watch dogs bark, Bough wough, Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer, Cry, c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo.

_W. Shakespeare_

XL

_HOW'S MY BOY?_

Ho, sailor of the sea!

How's my boy--my boy?

'What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good s.h.i.+p sail'd he?'

My boy John-- He that went to sea-- What care I for the s.h.i.+p, sailor?

My boy's my boy to me.

You come back from sea And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town.

There's not an a.s.s in all the parish But he knows my John.

How's my boy--my boy?

And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Bra.s.s b.u.t.ton or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no!

Sure his s.h.i.+p was the _Jolly Briton_-- 'Speak low, woman, speak low!'

And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town!

Why should I speak low, sailor?

'That good s.h.i.+p went down.'

How's my boy--my boy?

What care I for the s.h.i.+p, sailor, I never was aboard her.

Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound.

Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John?

'Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her.'

How's my boy--my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

I'm not their mother-- How's my boy--my boy?

Tell me of him and no other!

How's my boy--my boy?

_S. Dobell_

XLI

_THE SPANISH ARMADA_

Attend all ye who list to hear our n.o.ble 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-s.h.i.+p full sail to Plymouth Bay; Her crew hath 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 G.o.d'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 Edgc.u.mbe's lofty hall; Many a light fis.h.i.+ng-bark put out to pry along the coast; And with loose rein and b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 Caesar's eagle s.h.i.+eld: So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn beneath his paws the princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight; ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: Ho! gunners fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades; Thou sun, s.h.i.+ne 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 ma.s.sy fold, The parting gleam of suns.h.i.+ne 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 ne'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 ghastly war-flame spread; High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head.

Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern s.h.i.+re, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire; 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 death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke.