A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH of the Spanish Armada

Κι

ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims;

He had sworn for a year he would sack us,

With an army of heathenish names

He was coming to fagot and stack us;

Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main ;

But we had bold Neptune to back us,→ And where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,

And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,

For where are the galleons of Spain?

Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us;
He must play at some lustier games

Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us

To tug at his bullet and chain;

Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!But where are the galleons of Spain?

ENVOY.

GLORIANA! the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain;

He must reach us before he can rack us,

And where are the galleons of Spain?

A BALLAD OF HEROES

"Now all your victories are in vain."

-MARY F. ROBINSON.

BECAUSE you passed, and now are not,—

Because, in some remoter day,

Your sacred dust from doubtful spot
Was blown of ancient airs away,—
Because you perished,-must men say
Your deeds were naught, and so profane
Your lives with that cold burden? Nay,
The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

Though, it may be, above the plot
That hid your once imperial clay,
No greener than o'er men forgot

The unregarding grasses sway ;-
Though there no sweeter is the lay
From careless bird,-though you remain
Without distinction of decay,—
The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

No. For while yet in tower or cot
Your story stirs the pulses' play;
And men forget the sordid lot—

The sordid care, of cities gray;—
While yet, beset in homelier fray,

They learn from you the lesson plain That Life may go, so Honour stay,The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

ENVOY.

HEROES of old! I humbly lay
The laurel on your graves again;
Whatever men have done, men may,—
The deeds you wrought are not in vain.

THE BALLAD OF THE THRUSH

ACROSS the noisy street

I hear him careless throw

One warning utterance sweet;
Then faint at first, and low,
The full notes closer grow;
Hark! what a torrent gush!
They pour, they overflow-
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush!

What trick, what dream's deceit
Has fooled his fancy so
To scorn of dust and heat?
I, prisoned here below,
Feel the fresh breezes blow;
And see, thro' flag and rush,
Cool water sliding slow-
Sing on, sing on, O Thrush!

Sing on. What though thou bea!
On that dull bar, thy foe!
Somewhere the green boughs meet
Beyond the roofs a-row ;

Somewhere the blue skies show,
Somewhere no black walls crush

Poor hearts with hopeless woe—Sing on, sing on, O Thrush!