As for the Trophies that are gone, they are things which this nation, more perhaps than any other, can afford to surrender without a sigh. If "Britannia needs no bulwarks, no towers along her steep," neither does she need tokens of her triumphant march over the mountain-wave in days gone by. Besides, as schoolboys say of birds'-eggs taken prisoners, or apples captured in orchards, "there's plenty more where these came from." It would have been something, to be sure, to have saved from the Consumer a thing so simple as the old wheel of the "Victory;" because it was no part of the vulgar spoil of war, no commonplace implement of devastation wrested from an enemy, but a precious relic associated with the dying-hour of England's favourite hero, and a symbol, in its very form, of the eternity of his fame. It is gone; but the list of losses is not half so long as fear made it; and among the trophies yet remaining, are numbers as indestructible as the great anchor taken at Camperdown, which, the day after the fire, was seen rearing its giant bulk amidst the multitude of bristling points, and masses of fused metal. [Illustration: LADY JANE GREY'S ROOM IN THE BRICK TOWER.] THE BLAZING ARMOURY--THE RAMPARTS--A CONTRAST. The lamps of the City burn dull and dead, The wintry raindrops fall, And thick mists, borne from the River's bed, Round London's hoary Tower are spread, O'erhanging, like a pall. When, suddenly--look! a red light creeps Up from the Tower on high! One shriek of "fire!"--and lo! it sweeps Through yon vast Armoury. Up, up it springs, on giant wings, That still expand and soar; Can you not hear, through outcries loud, The beaten drum, and the tramp of the crowd, The mighty furnace roar! Then trophy, and relic, and ancient spoil, One molten mass went down, And Ruin had stretch'd his red hand out To seize the sacred Crown. And faces, that else were white with fear, Gleam'd in the woful light; While perils that distant seem'd, drew near, And ghastlier grew the night. Dread rumour, outstripping the winged flame, Still spoke of powder stored, Ere deep in the moat 'twas safely roll'd, Sparing the walls of that White Tower old, Rich memory's darkest hoard. And all the while the threaten'd pile Rang with a mingled roar, And hurried feet in danger meet, And dread struck more and more. Yet all night there, within the bound Of that fortress black and stern, The appointed guard went stilly round, And on the customary ground The Soldier took his turn. High overhead the lurid blaze Afar in fright was seen, Yet there, unmoved, the Sentry paced Each time-worn tower between. Just o'er him broke the flash and smoke, Around was wild uproar; But there he trod, as there had trod His fellow the night before.