Chapter XXIII: Part I (3)

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 Edgcumbe’s lofty hall;
Many a light fishing-boat 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 lillies 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.
Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair
maids:
Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants draw your blades:
Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide;
Our glorious royal battle-flag, the banner of our pride.
The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner’s massy fold;
The parting gleam of sunshine 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 e’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 shire,
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 shepherd 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.
At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires;
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires;
From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear,
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer:
And, from the furthest wards, was heard the rush of hurrying feet,
And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring
street;
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din,
As, fast from every village round, the horse came spurring in:
And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went,
And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent;
Southward from Surrey’s pleasant hills flew those bright couriers
forth;
High on bleak Hampstead’s swarthy moor they started for the north;
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still:
All night, from town to town, they sprang; they sprang from hill to
hill:
Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o’er Darwins rocky dales;
Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales;
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern’s lonely Height;
Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin’s crest of light;
Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth on Ely’s stately fane,
And tower and hamlet rose in arms, o’er all the boundless plain;
Till Belvoir’s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on, o’er the wild vale of Trent;
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt’s embattled pile,
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle;

(_End of Lord Macaulay._)

Till, from the peaks of Cheviot, the wonder-telling flames
Passed on the news from Berwick bounds to subjects of King James.

O well it was for Englishmen that, as the tidings spread,
No panic seized their stalwart hearts, no fear or craven dread.
O well it was for England then that, on her trial day,
Her sailors and her soldiers brave were ready, ready aye!
And Catholics and Protestants with equal zeal were seen
Vying who best could England serve, who best could serve the Queen.
Lord Effingham had chief command in Plymouth Sound that day,
Hawkins and Drake and Frobisher like hounds in leashes lay;
Drake and his men were playing bowls that eve, on Plymouth Hoe,
Said he, “My mates, we’ll end our game and then we’ll end the foe!”
When scarce the morning light had broke on land and sea around
The English fleet, of forty sail, put out from Plymouth Sound;
The flagship was the Raleigh Ark; beside her sailed the Bear,
The Dreadnought and the Victory had foremost places there;
And soon they saw the Spanish ships, with every sail outspread,
Come up from the Atlantic main, by the tall Pinta led;
Full six-score gallant ships sailed up, the south-west wind before,
And, like a crescent moon, they stretched for seven good miles or
more,
And on their decks and in their hulls were thirty thousand men.
Such fleet was never seen before, nor shall be seen again!
Up channel now they set their helms, King Philip ordered so,
To join the Duke of Parma’s men, ere up the Thames they go!
For he, the greatest general that Spain or Europe knew,
In Flanders long had waited them, and now impatient grew.
But well the little English ships hung on their rear that day,
And many a shot and shell flew east, to speed the Spaniard’s way!
See hindermost, with towering poop, a galleon of Biscay
Laden with gold of Mexico, full thirty weeks of pay;
And next a frigate huge sails up, with port-holes open wide,
From Andalusia is she come with piles of arms inside.
But well for England fought that day the flame and southwest wind!
The devil takes, the proverb says, the one that comes behind!
The Andalusian lost her mast, the treasure barque took fire,
While, in their wake, the English ships pressed ever nigh and nigher,
And ere had paled, that summer night, the sunset’s ruddy glow
These two, with all the spoil, were towed right up to Plymouth Hoe.
Brave Drake it was that took the gold, but not a coin kept he;
Full fifty thousand to his men he dealt, with jovial glee!
Beyond the Tamar Raleigh lay, the Lizard Head to guard,
But, when he saw the Spaniards pass, said he, “I count it hard
That I who came to lead the van thus in the rear should lag!”
He left his men, took horse and rode, and joined the Admiral’s flag!
And now from every western port the ships came more and more,
From Bristol and from Barnstaple, from all along the shore;
From Dartmouth and from Bridport town, from Weymouth, Poole, and Lyme,
And every ship spread all her sail, in haste to be in time.
’Twas off the point of Portland Bill the first great fight took
place;
The year was fifteen-eighty-eight, of our Redeemer’s grace,
Throughout a glorious summer day, July the twenty-third,
A cannonade both fierce and loud on either coast was heard.
The hulking Spanish galleons then were sorely put about,
The English ships sailed out and in, sailed briskly in and out.
As when a mighty baited bull the valiant dogs surround,
And all his bulk and all his strength of little use are found,
So many a great three-decker then threw wide her shot and shell;
The balls flew o’er the English masts, and in the billows fell!
But now the light and gunpowder alike were spent and gone,
And, in the night, the Spanish fleet their eastward way went on.
In Calais roads the foemen next their anchors huge let fall,
And to the Duke of Parma then they sent an urgent call:
“Send out your pinnaces in haste, your boats with all dispatch;
To fight these English devils thus is not an equal match!”
But to this plan the Hollanders, old England’s staunch Ally,
Refused consent, and would not let the pinnaces pass by.
At length the Spaniards spread their sails and took their onward way
Till off the Flemish coast, becalmed, the great Armada lay;
And still the gallant English ships kept up with their advance
Till six-score sail around them lay, and waited for their chance.
Meanwhile on land, Her Grace’s troops, as active as the fleet,
Prepared themselves with urgent haste the foreign foe to meet.
Ten thousand Londoners in arms rallied around the Queen,
A hundred thousand, hastening up from every shire, were seen;
And as they came they leapt and danced and sang, with cheerfull face,
As nimble runners gird their loins, with joy to run a race.
At Tilbury Fort Elizabeth reviewed the bright array:
O long did loyal English hearts recall that famous day!
And long shall grateful Englishmen, that know her faults no less,
Revere the gallant memory of England’s Good Queen Bess;
For, riding on her war-horse white, the serried ranks between,
A noble sight it was to see Old England’s Virgin Queen!
A helmet crowned her golden hair, and they that saw it tell
No coronet of diamonds became Her Grace so well;
A coat of mail of burnished steel the Royal Maiden wore,
And, in her fair white hand, aloft a truncheon-sceptre bore;
Then up she spoke, and reined her steed before the troops to stand,
And all could hear her accents clear beside the Essex strand:
“My loving friends, my courtiers say I run a risk this morn,
That treason lurks in martial throngs! Their cautious speech I scorn!
For rather than distrust you all, from life I’d sooner part:
Let tyrants fear! Next to my God I trust my people’s heart:
So come I in your midst to-day, the Spaniards to defy,
And for my God, and for my lands, with you to live or die.
But well I know my frame is weak; what can a woman do?
Yet mine’s the spirit of a king, a king of England too!
Full scorn I think that any King, or any prince on earth,
Should dare to set his foot within the land that gave us birth!
So I will be your general, and mark each gallant deed,
And to the victors in the fight give each their fitting meed
So o’er the enemies of my God, and of this nation free,
The valour of your arms shall win a famous victory!”
But now my Lord of Effingham had made his cautious plan,
And in the night, off Dunkirk coast, a fearful fight began;
At close of day uprose the tide, uprose a gale of wind,
And, on its wings, eight fire-ships flew the Spanish fleet behind;
With sulphur and with rosin filled, their hulls were all aflame.
And right upon the foemen’s ships, the fiery terror came;
The Spaniards then their anchors weighed, and some their cables threw,
In aimless course before the wind the ponderous galleons flew.
The morrow morn the English took full many a splendid prize,
While some, hard hit, by shot and shell, went down before eyes.
Some foul of one another fell, in Flemish shallows lost;
The rest flew north before the gale, to round the Scottish coast.
Ah! better had they yielded then, or waited for their time,
Till change of wind might speed their course back to their southern
clime;
For, up beyond the Orkney Isles, a furious tempest roared,
And many a gallant ship was lost with every soul on board.
And, on the iron northern coast, vast hosts of valiant men
Were wrecked, or drowned, or butchered there, and never saw again
The southern sun, the orange groves, the smiling Spanish shore,
Which, full of pride and hope, they left but three short months
before;
And only sixty ships came back, into Santander bay,
Of all the host that once had sailed to take their northern way.
And, ah! how changed the gallant fleet, how changed the ragged forms
Alike of ships and men, sore marred by cruel seas and storms!
All splintered were the masts and yards, the bowsprits shot away,
The sails to ribbons torn, the men all fevered, gaunt and gray!
But in old England swells the sound of mirth and joy and praise,
By day triumphal banners wave, by night the bonfires blaze,
The church-bells’ merry carillon, the cannon’s harmless roar,
Are echoed loud from shire to shire, resound from shore to shore.
At Whitehall now the Virgin Queen, on the appointed day,
In grand procession takes her place amidst the crowded way.
See, on her right, great Cecil rides: a wiser man than he
Ne’er led our glorious country on to meet his destiny:
And, on her left, in manhood’s prime, is Raleigh proud and brave,
Back from Virginia lately come, across the Atlantic Wave.
Lords Effingham and Seymour next move onward side by side,
Hawkins and Drake and Frobisher but just behind them ride;
Lord Oxford and Lord Cumberland, and Vavasor and Blount,
And more of England’s chiefest men, too numerous to recount.
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:

For swift to East and swift to West the glaring joy-flame spread.
High on Victoria tower it shone, on the New River Head,
In pleasant Kent, in Essex dull, and each surrounding shire
The semi-bumpkins gaped and grinned to mark each point of fire.

* * * * *

The huge sea-lanterns dimly showed on Wren’s cathedral height,
But Science rather made a mull with her electric light,
The Templars, for their brother Prince, lit up their dingy fane,
And you could see their Lamb and Flag made out uncommon plain.
Rich was the glare that Mappin’s house (the cab pervader) sent,
Fierce glowed the Store that sells the beer from Burton-upon-Trent.
And many a hundred grease-pots did their best for Barry’s pile,
But that is an Immensity――what say you, Tom Carlyle?

SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1863.

――――

THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW.

_First Prize._

Hearken, all ye who care to hear my panoramic lay;
I sing of that resplendent Show I saw last Lord Mayor’s Day,
When forth from “famous London town” to grace their chosen lord
Came shields and banners of each Guild, and men of every Ward.

It was about the gloomy noon of a dull November day,
When from the stately Guildhall’s court set out this pageant gay;
The crowds, who long had waited, cheered to see it slowly file
Down King-street and across Cheapside come winding near a mile.
Forthwith the bells of every church chimed all the “bobs” they knew,
While mounted “bobbies” led the way that they might clear it too.
Next these appear the Fire Brigade, with engines fully manned,
For here behoved that they should march ’twixt men of sea and land――
’Twixt sailor and ’twixt soldier placed, as though between two fires,
Whose ardent spirits they might quench if aught should rouse their
ires;
So Guards and Rifles in their front played stirring tunes of war,
While merrily behind them marched full many a youthful tar.
And next on prancing palfreys borne, with plume and nodding crest,
Four gallant knights with lances come, in silver armour drest;
Look how their war-steeds gracefully lift up their well-trained feet,
While underneath their iron hoofs resounds the stony street;
So stamp they when at Sanger’s Cirque, in Bosworth’s mimic fight,
They Richmond or brave Surrey bear, or some great mail-clad knight.
How can one human pen suffice to paint this varying Show,
Where Watermen with standards gay in long procession flow?
Where Lancers, true to Bacchus, the monarch of the vine,
Escort the mighty Vintners with band and strains divine;
Where proudly the “Swan-hoppers” bear the banners of the Guild,
With master and with wardens comes many a carriage filled;
While onwards without ceasing stream more banners, knights, and bands,
And louder still the people cheer, still louder clap their hands.
Ho, guildsmen, all your banners wave! ho, gaily ring, ye bells!
Ho, trumpets, sound a flourish! ho, urchins, shriek your yells!
Thou coachman, drive on furiously; ye horses swiftly stride;
Speed on that glorious coach which bears our Lord Mayor in his pride.

No sun shone on those panels decked with classic subjects old;
The mists of damp November dimmed its hammercloth of gold;
Still boys at its great Jehu stared, and their tears began to flow,
To think such coach they ne’er would see until next Lord Mayor’s Show.
From the Guildhall to Westminster, whene’er that pageant passed,
The tide of business there was slow, as on a day of fast;
Girls rushed to doors and windows, men climbed on gates and walls,
Right loud and clear the bells all day rang out from great St. Paul’s;
The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked neither left nor right,
But as he looked straight to his front he must have seen the sight.
At Westminster it paused, and then down Thames Embankment wound,
While thicker still became the throng, and louder still the sound,
Till, Guildhall reached, it halted, while the Mayor in state descends
To greet and feast great Beaconsfield, to banquet with his friends.
As grand as was the Show this year, so may it next year be;
Heaven send us such another sight, and take me there to see.

SPHINX (_Captain J. A. Barlow_, 96th Reg.)

_Second Prize._

Come hither, children, for you love your grandsires tales, I know――
I’ll tell you of the Lord Mayor’s Show I saw long years ago;
What time the gallant ’prentice band came forth with gibe and jeer
To flout the civic monarch whom they had been used to cheer.

It was a fine November day, the year of the Zulu war,
Hot-foot a little ragged boy came flying to Temple Bar;
He said he’d seen the brave array advancing to the Strand,
Preceded by the minstrelsy of all the Life Guards band;
He’d dodged beneath a horse, and ’scaped by dint of nimble feet,
Though a peeler tall, B 99, had chased him down the street.
Straightway each clerk and office boy his walnuts ceased to crack,
Forth from its hiding place was brought a hideous doll dyed black;
The dirty little boys ran out the soldiers to espy,
While in the crowd the pickpockets were faking many a cly.

* * * * *

From Westminster and Whitechapel, from Shoreditch and Vauxhall,
The idle vagrants had turned out with laughter and catcall;
From east to west the show moved on, and still the hooting spread,
It thundered through Trafalgar-square where Nelson rears his head;
From Whitehall’s topmost story the Treasury clerk might hear
Street after street re-echoing the oft-repeated jeer;
The coster left his barrow-load, careless of urchin raids;
The dapper waiters hurried forth from restaurants and shades.
All down the street of Parliament th’ assembled loafers bawl,
And rouse the warders of Millbank, the Judges in their Hall;
Right merrily with eager pen the specials took it down,
And forty counties learned next day the humours of the town.

QUANTOX (_S. H. Woodhouse._)

_The World_ Parody Competition. November 26, 1879.

――――

ON MR. GLADSTONE’S MIDLOTHIAN SPEECHES.

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble Gladstone’s praise.
I tell of the thrice famous speech he made in his old days,
When that great lord of flouts and jeers against him led in vain
The peers and those few working men that honied lies could gain.
With his white hair unbonneted the stout old chieftain comes;
No picnic in a park gives he――he bribes no local drums;
For shrewd men in the Corn Exchange have filled each vacant space.
“Now, hark!” he says, “I grant the peers till autumn’s session grace.”
And haughtily, in trumpet tones, he then the story tells,
And though he tries to calm the storm, behold you, how it swells!
Look how the hero of the fight lifts up his honoured head,
And with his magic, winged words strikes Tory falsehoods dead!
So spoke he when he put to shame, on that same Scottish field,
The Government that tried by fraud the Turkish crimes to shield.
So glared he when the Tory host he sternly brought to bay,
And crushed and shamed beneath his glance the wretched Jingoes lay.

GEORGE MALLINSON.

_The Weekly Despatch._ September 14, 1884.

――――:o:――――

Foremost amongst Lord Macaulay’s “Lays of Ancient Rome,” is _Horatius_, the popularity of which is duly attested by the number of parodies and imitations it has given rise to.

Some of the most striking verses of the original are given below, for the convenience of comparison with the parodies.

HORATIUS.

I.

Lars Porsena of Clusium
By the Nine Gods he swore
That the great house of Tarquin
Should suffer wrong no more.
By the Nine Gods he swore it,
And named a trysting day,
And bade his messengers ride forth,
East and west and south and north,
To summon his array.

II.

East and west and south and north
The messengers ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage
Have heard the trumpet’s blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan
Who lingers in his home,
When Porsena of Clusium
Is on the march for Rome.

(_The Tuscan Army arrives before the River-Gate of the Tiber, the Roman Fathers deliberate how to save the city._)

XIX.

They held a council standing
Before the River-Gate;
Short time was there, ye well may guess,
For musing or debate.
Outspake the Consul roundly:
“The bridge must straight go down;
For, since Janiculum is lost,
Nought else can save the town.”

XXVI.

But the Consul’s brow was sad,
And the Consul’s speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall,
And darkly at the foe.
“Their van will be upon us
Before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge,
What hope to save the town?”

XXVII.

Then outspake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the Gate:
“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Then facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his Gods.

XXIX.

“Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?”

XXX.

Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
A Ramnian proud was he:
“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee.”
And out spake strong Herminius;
Of Titian blood was he:
“I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee.”

XXXI.

“Horatius,” quoth the Consul,
“As thou sayest, so let it be.”
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.
For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,
In the brave days of old.

XXXII.

Then none was for a party;
Then all were for the state;
Then the great man helped the poor,
And the poor man loved the great:
Then the lands were fairly portioned;
Then spoils were fairly sold:
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.

XXXV.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
Right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright
Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded
A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head,
Where stood the dauntless Three.

(_Horatius and his companions slay several of the bravest Tuscan chiefs who advance towards the bridge._)

LIII.

But meanwhile axe and lever
Have manfully been plied;
And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.
“Come back, come back, Horatius!”
Loud cried the fathers all.
“Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
Back, ere the ruin fall.”

LIV.

Back darted Spurius Lartius;
Herminius darted back:
And, as they passed, beneath their feet
They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces,
And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone;
They would have crossed once more.

LVII.

Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
And the broad flood behind.
* * * * *
But he saw on Palatinus
The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome.

LIX.

“Oh, Tiber! father Tiber!
To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,
Take thou in charge this day!”
So he spake, and speaking sheathed
The good sword by his side,
And with his harness on his back,
Plunged headlong in the tide.

LX.

No sound of joy or sorrow
Was heard from either bank;
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With parted lips and straining eyes,
Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges
They saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany
Could scarce forbear to cheer.

LXI.

But fiercely ran the current,
Swollen high by months of rain:
And fast his blood was flowing;
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armour,
And spent with changing blows:
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.

LXIV.

And now he feels the bottom;
Now on dry earth he stands;
Now round him throng the Fathers
To press his gory hands;
And now, with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River-Gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.

LXV.

They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen
Could plough from morn till night;
And they made a molten image,
And set it upon high,
And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.

LXVIII.

And in the nights of winter,
When the cold north winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest’s din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within;

LXIX.

When the oldest cask is opened,
And the largest lamp is lit;
When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the kid turns on the spit;
When young and old in circle
Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;

LXX.

When the goodman mends his armour,
And trims his helmet’s plume;
When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

T. B. MACAULAY.

――――

THE FIGHT OF THE CRESCENT.
_A Lay of Modern Cambridge._

The sturdy undergraduates
Are pouring in amain,
Up thro’ the fair Rose Crescent,
The Market-place to gain――
From many a wild wine-party,
From many a sober tea,
From the distant halls of Downing,
And the Courts of Trinity.

From lowly Queen’s Quadrangle,
Where muffins are the go;
From Magd’lene, famed for fast men,
From Cath’rine, famed for slow;
From Caius, where anxious proctors
To keep the gates shut try;
From Clare, where Dons chivalrous
Unlock them on the sly.

There be twenty chosen gownsmen,
The foremost of the band,
Pupils of SAMBO SUTTON,
To keep the Crescent stand:
They can’t run if they wish’d it;
Perforce they bear the brunt,
For the gownsmen in the rear-rank
Push the gownsmen in the front.

And all within the Market-place,
And Market-Hill along,
The townsmen, far as words can go,
Come it uncommon strong,
But as yet no nose is bleeding,
As yet no man is down;
For the gownsmen funk the townsmen,
And the townsmen funk the gown.

When, lo! a cad comes brimful
Of bravery and beer――
“To arms! to arms! The Borough
Police will soon be here!”
Thro’ Market Street to eastward,
Each townsman turn’d his eye,
And saw the hats and truncheons
Rise fast along the sky.

And plainly and more plainly,
Now may each gownsman know,
By form and face, by port and pace,
Each big blue-coated foe.
There, in the front, fierce FREESTONE,
Be-whisker’d may be seen,
And stalwart SERGEANT SEABROOK,
With buttons bright and sheen;

And BUGGINS, of the mutton fist;
And MUGGINS, with the fearful twist;
And HOBBS, famed for his waving curls;
And DOBBS, adored by servant girls,
And gruff INSPECTOR GREENE!

Then out spake a fellow-commoner,
In voice both sad and low,
And darkly look’d he on his friends,
And darkly on his foe:
“They’ll be too many for us;
Ten to one against the gown:
Unless we get to Trinity
We’ll be wollop’d by the town.”

Then out spake brave FITZ-WIGGINS,
Though a small college man:
“To keep the Crescent ’gainst the cads,
I’ll do the best I can!
And if none will stand beside me,
Alone I’ll face the snobs,
Despite fierce FREESTONE’S truncheon
And the staves of HOBBS or DOBBS!”

Then out spake SIR TOM NODDY,
A son of Trinity,
“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And the Crescent keep with thee.”
And out spake MERRYPEBBLES――
A Johnian was he――
“I will abide at thy left side,
And the Crescent keep with thee.”

A great shout of defiance
From all the snobs arose,
But the three stand calm and silent――
A thumb to every nose!
And forth three Peelers rushing,
Attempt to storm the Pass;
Truncheons are thick, but fists are quick,
And down they go to grass!

FITZ-WIGGINS floor’d fierce FREESTONE,
TOM NODDY levell’d HOBBS,
And cheerful MERRYPEBBLES
Black’d both the eyes of DOBBS;
And the aggravated townsmen
Stand all appall’d to see
On the flags the unconscious Peelers――
In the Pass the dauntless Three!
And on the leaguer’d Crescent
Was none would brave attack;
But those behind cried “Forward!”
And those in front cried “Back!”

Meanwhile their legs the gownsmen
Right manfully have plied;
And now they’ve got to Trinity,
And the gates are open’d wide.
“Come back, come back, FITZ-WIGGINS,”
Loud cried they from the gate
“Back NODDY, MERRYPEBBLES,
Back, or you’ll be too late!”

But the police are on them,
And their truncheons fierce they ply;
Now the fates save brave FITZ-WIGGINS――
What a terrible black eye!――
Though MERRYPEBBLES’ head be
The thickest in the ring,
It scarce can ’scape unbroken;
Such staves must make it sing.

Alone stood SIR TOM NODDY,
But constant still in mind,
Policemen pitching in before
And Trinity behind.
“Down with him!” cried false SEABROOK,
As he mopped his bloody face;
“Now yield thee,” cried the Inspector,
“Now yield thee, to our grace!”

But brave TOM NODDY never deigned
An answer; no not he;
But he floor’d the Inspector neatly
As a man could wish to see:
And through the storming townsmen
And the irate police,
He fights his passage manfully,
And he wins the gate in peace.

And now, his gown in ribbands,
In the crowded court he stands,
And “to call upon him the next day,”
Receives the Dean’s commands.
And then with shouts and clapping,
And hip, hip, hurrah, loud,
He passes on unto his rooms,
Borne by the admiring crowd.

But he was rusticated
By the Dons that very night;
And when he show’d them his black eye,
They said, “It served him right.”
But long at our wine-parties,
We’ll remember how, like bricks,
Stout NODDY kept the Crescent,
In Eighteen-forty-six!

_Punch._ April 11, 1846.

――――

MARCUS CURTIUS, THE HONEST LAWYER.
(_A Lay of Ancient Rome._)

Wilt hear how Marcus Curtius, that lawyer true and hold,
Did bravely for his country in the brave days of old?
How by Justinian’s Institutes and his green baize bag he swore,
That the only honest lawyer could live in Rome no more?
Oh, none could be more honest in life and death, than he
Who cheated but the sexton, and saved the burial fee.

The lawyers in the Forum are squabbling loud and long,
To the wonder of their clients, confounding right and wrong;
Begowned, bewigged, bewildered, each judge the clamour hears,
And Justice, blind already, would fain have stopped her ears.

As now the wordy contest grew hotter still and hotter,
The desks, the books, the benches, began to quake and totter;
And they heard a sound like thunder, a horrid, dreary sound,
As though all the powers of evil danced the polka underground.

The lawyers through their spectacles looked with a stony glare,
And the crier stammered out, “O Yes,” and whispered through a prayer:
Some of the judges fainted, and there for dead they lay;
And the jury snatched their solidi, and fleetly ran away.

And now――O, sight of wonder!――with a stifling smell of sulph-
Er, in the Middle Forum, there gaped a hideous gulf:
A gulf as black as midnight, or “best Japan,” I trow;
And a voice came howling, hissing up, like a thousand whirlwinds now:

“This gulf will close――no, never! till in Rome the rarest thing,
The rarest and most wondrous, a sacrifice you bring.”
O! great was the lamenting, when these fearful facts were known,
The mothers weep and wring their hands, the grandames groan “Ochone;”
And the little boys no longer their flying hoops pursue,
Nor chaunt of “Ole Virginny,” as they were wont to do.
And the men in moody silence pace slowly to and fro,
With pallid lip, and frowning brow, and countenance of woe;
And the Fathers of the City――the Aldermen and Mayor――
Are met in solemn council, with a grave and puzzled air.

Then uprises Lucius Cimber, a grocer proud was he,
Who traded first with China, in Twankay and Bohea;
And in accents slow and solemn, thus the meeting he advised:――
“Let’s try and fill the hole up with stones macadamised.”

And they listened to his counsel, and with shovel and with spade,
They adjourned unto the Forum, and aside their togas laid.
And then all in their shirt sleeves they worked with might and main,
Patrician and Plebeian, alike they worked in vain.
For though a thousand cart-loads into the gulf they threw,
Instead of getting shallower it deep and deeper grew.

And now a frenzied client who had lost his all that day,
Seized “Selwyn’s Nisi Prius” from the bookshelf where it lay,
And in the hole he dashed it, with a howl of maniac glee,
And wished all law and lawyers at the bottom of the sea.
And, fired by his example, the crowd seized, one by one,
On “Chitty,” and on “Starkey,” and on “Coke and Lyttleton”
On Bacon’s Whole Abridgement, with tooth and nail they fell,
But where they wished those authors, ’twere not polite to tell.

In vain the poor librarian, while tears ran down his cheek,
Strove to bend them from their purpose――not a word they’d hear him speak.
And the venerable Chief Justice, like Lord Mansfield at the fire,
Not caring to remonstrate, thought it prudent to retire.
So they rifled all the library of every book they saw,
Yet the gulf but yawned the wider for all that dose of law.

Then from that mixed assembly a seedy-looking gent
(He pays not much for mending who cannot pay his _rent_),
With an old coat all in tatters, and a hat without a brim,
Stalked proudly from the multitude, who, curious, gazed on him.

“My name is Marcus Curtius! a Roman knight am I,――
And eke a learned counsellor, but, alas! I cannot lie!
I’ve gone upon the Circuit,――there came no briefs to me;
I ne’er addressed a jury, ne’er pocketed a fee.
Alas! mistaken parents, to bind me to the law!
I have no natural cunning to make or find a flaw.
He who’d sit upon a woolsack must be ne’er with conscience cursed,
And, for _wool_ to fill the cushion, he must take to _fleecing_ first.
Then behold in me, O Romans! what the oracle demands,
The thing in Rome that’s rarest, a lawyer with clean hands.
A truly honest lawyer, with a feeling, tender soul,
Which, witness this nay garment――a tongue’s in ev’ry hole.
For the good of thee, my country, I die a true-blue Tory,
For _Dulce et decorum, est pro patria mori_!”

He said, and on the lawyers he turned a kindling eye,
As away on all sides slinking, no one dared make reply.
Then smiling sad but calmly, he cried “Good Charon, hark!
I’m too poor to pay the obolus for crossing in your bark,
But I know that you will trust me; so now, my friends, good bye,
I’ll trouble not the coroner, a natural death I die:
A natural death for Curtius, who might have been so rich,
But he was an _honest_ lawyer, so he perished in a ditch.”

He said, and threw a summersault into that dreary vat――
Head foremost, like a thunder-bolt down went the brimless hat;
Down went the brimless beaver, fall many a fathom deep,
And the women took hysterics, and the men began to weep.
When they dashed away the tear drops, and looked ahead again,
Where that gulf had late been yawning, there lay a level plain.

And they reared a marble tombstone on the spot where he had died,
And in letters carved and gilded, was inscribed on either side

Here Marcus Curtius lyes,
Ye onlye honeste lawyere, hee
Who neverre pocketedde a fee.
Anno aetatis XXXIII.
Hee felle withe muche philosophie,
Forre Rome a sacrifice.

And with weeping and lamenting still is the story told, How Curtius kicked the bucket in the brave old days of old.

EDGAR ALLEN.

This parody originally appeared in a United States newspaper, the _Salem Herald_, about forty years ago.

――――:o:――――

GUSTAVUS.[99]
_A Lay of Drury Lane._

Great Smithius of Drury Lane,
By cape and truncheon swore,
That Bold Gustavus Brookius
Should _perdu_ lie no more.
By staff and cape he swore it,
And named his opening night,
And sent his messengers abroad,
Each with a pile of orders stored,
To summon all they might.

East and west, and south and north,
The messengers repair;
Some hie them to the Regal Oak,
Some to the Arms of Eyre.
Shame on the false theatrical
Who would refuse to come,
When bold Gustavus Brookius
Enters the “Drama’s Home!”

The gallery-boys and pittites
Are pouring in amain,
And struggling in a turbid mass,
The theatre doors they gain.
From many a noisome alley,
From many a crowded court,
Great G. V. B’s supporters
Have hastened to the sport.

From Kingsland’s leafy quarters,
From Camden’s noble town,
From where Belgravia’s daughters
On humble men look down;
From Islington the merry,
From Kensington the slow,
To meet the great Gustavus
The many-headed go.

The patrons of the Surrey,
Who e’er in shirt sleeves sit.
While the refreshing foaming stout
Is handed round the pit,
Yield up their old allegiance,
And join the swelling train,
Crossing the Bridge of Waterloo,
To meet at Drury Lane.

Ho! fiddlers, scrape your catgut!
Ho! drummers, use your strength!
HE comes, whose name on every wall
Measures six feet in length!
Who, though perchance he cannot
With Shakespeare move your souls,
Will gain your heartiest plaudits
By gifts of soup and coals!

Come, Phelps, come crouch unto him;
Come, Kean, and do the same;
You, famous by your own good deeds,
You, by your father’s name!
Crouch to the great Gustavus,
Who has become the rage,
And proved himself, by feats of alms,
King of the British Stage.

EDMUND H. YATES.

From _Mirth and Metre_. G. Routledge and Co. 1855.

This little volume was written by Mr. E. H. Yates in conjunction with Frank E. Smedley, and in 1856 a similar, but far more amusing work was published by Messrs. Routledge and Co., entitled “_Our Miscellany_” (which ought to have come out, but didn’t,) edited by E. H. Yates and R. B. Brough. This contains parodies and imitations of Harrison Ainsworth, G. P. R. James, T. B. Macaulay, Alfred Tennyson, Albert Smith, Martin Tupper, Charles Dickens, Edgar Poe, Samuel Warren, H. W. Longfellow, J. G. Lockhart, Mrs. Browning, Douglas Jerrold, and other popular authors of the day. Many of these imitations are in prose.

In conveying his permission for the insertion of the following in _Parodies_, Mr. Edmund Yates courteously added the information that the parodies in “Our Miscellany” which were written by Mr. Brough were signed B, the others being by Mr. Yates. The latter are not only the most numerous, but by far the most humorous and clever.

JOHNSON.
(_A Lay of Modern London._)
By Thomas Blabbington Macawley.

Stout Johnson, of Saint Thomas,
By George and Jingo swore
That the street door of Watkins
Should hold its own no more,
By George and Jingo swore he,
And named a trysting day,
For all his trusty friends on town
To meet to tear the knocker down,
And bear the bell away.

From East-end and from West-end,
His missives prompt entreat,
Assistance (at his rooms resolv’d
On making both ends meet),
Shame on the craven spirit
Who sends a poor excuse,
And smokes his pipe at home or strolls
Ignobly on the loose!

The staunch allies in clusters
Are dropping in apace,
From many a lofty “chambers,”
From many a lowly “place,”
From “cribs,” and “dens,” and “quarters.”
And vague mysterious “rooms,”
Whose whereabouts to specify,
No daring mind presumes.

From Guy’s across the water,
From Strand adjacent Kings’,
From Charing (which a shadow o’er
The mourn’d Casino flings!)
From Bartlemy’s in Smithfield,
Of accidents bereft!
And Middlesex, whose course we trace
From Oxford Street up Rathbone Place,
By turning to the left.

From wall-encircled Temple,
Shut out from London’s noise.
Where apron’d porters guard the way,
And keep in awe the boys;
From Gray’s and dingy Clement’s
(Where rents so mod’rate run!)
And Lincoln’s Inn, where stands, alas!
Th’ Insolvent Court,――besides a mass
Of others of a noisome class
(Requiring far more nerve to pass),
Where _no_ whitewashing’s done.

Rich are the chops whose gravy
Exudes o’er Rhodes’s[100] bars;
And sweet, at Evans’s, the notes
That issue from the singers’ throats
In spite of the cigars.
Beyond all bands the waltzer
Loves Laurent’s (when in tune);
Best of all grounds the bowler loves
The American Saloon.

But now no chop or kidney
Emits its soft perfume;
No voice is heard suggesting that
“The waiter’s in the room.”
In vain the sylphs at Laurent’s
Their palms in kid have dressed;
The bowls may wait, and Rhodes’s grate
Enjoy a few bars rest.

The comic songs of Cowell,
To-night old men shall hear,――
To-night young boys and greenhorns
Shall have the Argyle clear;
And parsons from the country,
To-night sole audience be,
To hear Sam Hall or Baldwin’s call,
“Attention for a glee!”

A score of chosen spirits
In Johnson’s rooms are met,
And Johnson sees his birdseye
Diminish with regret;
And from the round stone bottles
Too fast the liquids flow;――
He sees (and feels) his spirits sink,
And inwardly begins to think――
’Tis time for them to go.

“Ho! friends and fellow students,
’Tis fit we should prepare
For action (Fibbetson, you brute,
Don’t interrupt the Chair!)
The enterprise before us
Must fraught with danger be;
Will you go in through thick and thin
To win the spoil with me?

“For Watkins the plebeian,
Whose door we go to spoil
(By past unskilled attempts enraged)
A private watchman has engaged,
Our cherished schemes to foil.
Therefore let no man join us
Who fears to break the peace
And go the undivided hog,
E’en to (should they our footsteps dog)
Assaulting the police.”

Then up spake Robert Simpson,
Of Middlesex was he:
“Lo! I’ll go in through thick and thin,
To win the spoil with thee!”
And up spake Brown of Charing,
(Plucked but last week was he):
“No man am I for saying die――
Lul-liet-iet-y!

“That accidents will happen,
It stands a fact confest,
In families which, by their heads,
Are regulated best;
And if to-night’s adventures
Result in fines and quods,
So long as you are happy,
Inform me where’s the odds?”

And now the dauntless phalanx
Stand ’neath the gas-light’s glare,
And many a pipe and ancient hat
Hurl’d at a scared and flying cat,
Goes whizzing through the air.
With Ethiopia’s music
They rend the welkin now,
Telling of Blane and Tucker’s fate,
Till stern policeman “Twenty-eight”
Steps forward to expostulate
’Gainst such a jolly row.

The restless Strand behind them
They leave, and quickly gain
The corner where Saint Martin’s Church
Frowns grandly up his lane.
Through danger-fraught Cranbournia
Unscath’d they make their way
(Protected by the evening’s shade,
For syrens in the bonnet trade
That spell-bound district long have made
Unsafe to pass by day).

Up through the Court of Ryder!
Nor idly pause to sigh
O’er the crush’d Valentino’s fate,
Nor Wharton’s bills investigate
Above the lamps hard by.
On! through the Cretan mazes
Of Newport Market go.
They’re past, and now the warlike train
A yell of joy can scarce restrain
As bursts in sight the proud domain
Of Watkins of Soho!

“Back, Simpson! back, Carruthers!
Back, Blatherwick!――be cool;
_Be_ quiet Brown; keep Davis down;
And Jones!――don’t be a fool.
Wait till the private watchman
Shall round the corner wind;
He will directly, to inspect
The premises behind.

“There, now, you see,――I told you;
He’s hidden by the wall,
Haste, Jones!――engage him in a chat,――
Insult his capes, or chaff his hat,
Or treat him to some coffee at
The early breakfast stall:
Anything to engage him
For minutes two or three,
By which time he, I dare be bound,
Shall see what he shall see.”

Like telegraphic message
Jones on his errand flies;
And Blatherwick and Simpson
Go with him as allies.
(And, of those last-named heroes
’Tis whisper’d since on town,
They thought the watchman-chaffing game
A less precarious road to fame
Than pulling knockers down).

But Johnson of St. Thomas,
No craven droopings knew;
Up to the frowning knocker,
With tiger spring he flew;
And mirthful e’en in danger,
Said, with a joyous grin,
“Walk up!――the exhibition’s just
A-going to begin!”

Then thrust he through the knocker
His stick of British oak;
But Brown of Charing, from the throng,
Quoting a Social Progress song,
Thus, with a purpose, spoke:
“Just wait a little longer,
There’s work for me as well;
You from its clamps the knocker tear――
I from the door, your fame to share,
Will please to wring the bell.”

But of that gang the stoutest
Felt their hearts sink to see
In progress what, in planning,
Had merely seem’d a “spree;”
And from the dread adventure,
So rashly underta’en,
All shrank, like boys who, ere they strip,
Intend to plunge o’er head and hip
In Father Thames, but when they dip
In his cold flood a toe-nail’s tip,
Scared――dress themselves again.

But meanwhile Jones and Simpson,
And Blatherwick have tried,
In vain, to keep the watchman
Round on the other side.
“Run, Davis! run, Carruthers!”
Loud cried the students all;
“Slope! and to him who hindmost lags,
The usual fate befal!”

Back darted Brown of Charing,
Letting the bell-pull go,
With startling clang, and all the gang
Retreated from the foe;
But when they saw brave Johnson
Still tugging at the door,
Under the very watchman’s nose,
They would have turn’d once more.

But, with a crash like thunder
(Such thunder as one hears
At minor theatres, when the ghost
Or maniac appears),
Round on its well-used pivot
The watchman’s rattle sprung;
The band set up a frighten’d cry,
And (Jones in front) began to fly,
E’en Brown, averse to saying die,
Scorn’d not to cut and run.

Yet, like himself in practice
(“Teeth drawn for half-a-crown,”
Stands graven on his bus’ness card),
The furious Johnson struggled hard
To wrench the knocker down.
And with Herculean prowess,
At length perform’d the feat;
And oaken splint, and nut and screw,
With bits of paint and dried-up glue,
Flew scatter’d o’er the street.

With one huge stride he bounded
Adown the steps in glee,
Waving his hard-earned prize on high,
But stopp’d――he was compell’d to――by
Policeman “Twenty-three.”
“Off with him!” cried the watchman,
With a smile on his pale face;
“Now blow me!” “Twenty-three” exclaimed;
“This here’s a Brixton case.”

Round turn’d he somewhat stagger’d,
These myrmidons to see,
But he took the watchman’s measure,
And the weight of “Twenty-three.”
And ere “Robinson” you’d summon
He had laid the former low,
By tripping up his heels, and dealt
To “Twenty-three” (above the belt)
A firm left handed blow.

Bereft of speech and breathing,
Awhile was “Twenty-three,”
(For, thanks to kitchen maidens fair,
Who bought his love with viands rare,
Of habit full was he);
And Johnson, by his valour
Freed from judicial grab,
In safety gain’d the neighb’ring stand,
And with the knocker in his hand,
Plung’d headlong in a cab!

Never, I ween, did driver
With such a style of horse,
Urge o’er the stones at such a rate,
To save a patron from the hate
And fury of the Force.
But his sympathies went greatly
With the large heart within,
Who half-a-crown beyond his fare
Had promis’d――and some gin.

And now they near his chambers,
Where, waiting his return,
Stand his false-hearted comrades
Joy’d his escape to learn;
Whom, for their craven conduct,
As from the cab he leaps,
The high-soul’d Johnson scruples not
To stigmatize as “sweeps.”

And now they press around him,
And now they soap him down;
And with emollient sawder
His just reproaches drown;
Now on the back they slap him,
Thumbs in his ribs they stick,
And now they dub him “Trojan,”
And now proclaim him “Brick.”