Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
The Spanish Armada
By Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay (1800–1859)A
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.
Of a warm summer day,
There came a gallant merchant-ship
Full sail to Plymouth Bay;
Her crew had 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 moon,
Had held her close in chase.
Forthwith, a guard at every gun
Was placed along the wall;
The beacon blazed upon the roof
Of Edgecombe’s lofty hall,
And many a fishing-bark put out
To pry along the coast,
And with loose rein and bloody spur
Rode inland many a post.
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 gayly dance the bells,
As slow upon the laboring wind
The royal blazon swells.
Look how the lion of the seas
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, 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 Semper eadem,—
The banner of our pride!
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 warning radiance 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.
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 farthest wards was heard
The rush of hurrying feet,
And the broad streams of flags and pikes
Dashed 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.
South ward from Surrey’s pleasant hills
Flew those bright couriers forth;
High on bleak Hempstead’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!