From every window beauty smiles, in faces young and old, And all the streets and all the roofs are wondrous to behold: Like bees they swarm! From every nook and corner of the land They haste to render thanks to God for His delivering hand. In all the way the densest throng at Ludgate Hill is seen, For there the player-men have wrought a wondrous arch of green; With them a youth of forehead high and eyes that pierce like flame; Mark well his face, ye passers-by, for Shakespeare is his name! So to Saint Paul’s they come, and when they reach the western door Her grace the stately chariot leaves, and kneels upon the floor. And, as a solemn silence falls upon the surging crowd, Her queenly voice gives thanks for all, in accents clear and loud. Three hundred years have passed since then, and many a change is seen; But, God save England! still we cry, and God save England’s Queen! H. C. LEONARD. ―――― THE FEAST OF LANTERNS. (_Being the original of Macaulay’s “Armada.”_) Attend, all ye who wish to hear our noble London’s praise, I sing of that great Tuesday night that saw her in a blaze, When the Archbishop’s benison had linked, in bridal chain, Young Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, and our sweet bright-eyed Dane. It was about the chilly close of a half-foggy day, When London’s myriads all came out to see the grand display; From sleepy Hammersmith, and from the Dog’s amphibious Isle, The east and west they poured along for many a muddy mile. The aristocracy for once the pageant deigned to grace, (Except a few who fled from town, and joined the sylvan chace). Each wide-awake and travelling cap was taken from the wall, Each wrap and bearskin was brought down and ready in the hall, Many a gay visitor came up from province and from coast, And on that night Sir Rowland Hill, he stopped the local post. See, mounted on his charger tall, the proud Inspector comes, For sterner work than aiding swells to get to balls and drums, His constables essay to clear in every street a space, And shout his orders with much more of Henergy than grace; And haughtily the dandies sneer, and slightly scream the belles, As round the crested carriage the plebeian torrent swells, See how the Lion of the Park attempts with half-a-crown, To bribe his way from streets his coach should never have gone down. * * * * * The rain is done, each carriage ope, and each umbrella fold, And now to see how London shines as bright as molten gold. Night sinks upon that multitude, that roaring surging sea, Night that in London never was and ne’er again shall be. From Westminster to Islington, from Lord’s to Ratcliffe Way, That time of slumber is as bright and busy as the day: