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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 shepherds 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 tower to tower they sprang;
They sprang from hill to hill:

Till the proud peak unfurled the flag
O'er Darwin's 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 wide 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.

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To horse! to horse! brave cavaliers !

To horse for church and crown!

Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears!
And ho for London town!

The imperial harlot, doomed a prey

To our avenging fires,

Sends up the voice of her dismay

From all her hundred spires.

The Strand resounds with maiden's shrieks

The 'Change with merchant's sighs,

And blushes stand on brazen cheeks,

And tears in iron eyes;

And, pale with fasting and with fright,

Each Puritan committee

Hath summoned forth to prayer and fight
The Roundheads of the city.

And soon shall London's sentries hear
The thunder of our drum,

And London's dames, in wilder fear,
Shall cry, Alack! They come !

Fling the fascines ;-tear up the spikes;

And forward, one and all.

Down, down with all their train-band pikes,
Down with their mud-built wall.

Quarter ?-Foul fall your whining noise,
Ye recreant spawn of fraud !

No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys.
No quarter! Think on Laud.

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What ho! The craven slaves retire.
On! Trample them to mud,
No quarter! Charge.-No quarter!
No quarter! Blood! blood! blood!

Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch,

Brave lads, to tell us where,

Sure London's sons be passing rich,

Her daughters wondrous fair:
And let that dastard be the theme
Of many a board's derision,
Who quails for sermon, cuff, or scream
Of any sweet precisian.

Their lean divines, of solemn brow,

Sworn foes to throne and steeple,

From an unwonted pulpit now

Shall edify the people:

Till the tired hangman, in despair,

Shall curse his blunted shears,

And vainly pinch, and scrape, and tear,
Around their leathern ears.

We'll hang, above his own Guildhall,
The city's grave Recorder,
And on the den of thieves we'll fall,
Though Pym should speak to order.
In vain the lank-haired gang shall try
To cheat our martial law;

In vain shall Lenthall trembling cry
That strangers must withdraw.

Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair,
We'll build a glorious pyre,
And tons of rebel parchment there
Shall crackle in the fire.
With them shall perish, cheek by jowl,
Petition, psalm, and libel,

The colonel's canting muster-roll

The chaplain's dog-eared Bible.

We'll tread a measure round the blaze
Where England's pest expires,
And lead along the dance's maze

The beauties of the friars:

Then smiles in every face shall shine,
And joy in every soul.

Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine,
And crown the largest bowl.

And as with nod and laugh ye sip
The goblet's rich carnation,
Whose bursting bubbles seem to tip

The wink of invitation;

Drink to those names,-those glorious names,-
Those names no time shall sever,-
Drink, in a draught as deep as Thames,
Our church and king for ever!


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