But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone,-- There slumber England’s dead. Loud rush the torrent floods The western wilds among, And free in green Columbia’s woods The hunter’s bow is strung;-- But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow’s flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?-- There slumber England’s dead. The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky Like rose-leaves on the breeze;-- But let the storm rage on! Let the fresh wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,-- There slumber England’s dead. On the frozen deep’s repose ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern night-clouds lour;-- But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done,-- Even there sleep England’s dead. The war-like of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and shores their grave? Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead. _Felicia Hemans._ MACAULAY LV 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 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 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, 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. So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay.