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 ne'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, 35 That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; For, swift to east, and swift to west, the ghastly war-fame

spreadHigh on St. Michael's Mount it shone--it shone on Beachy

Head : Far on the deep the Spaniards saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire.

40 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 rang out all night from Bristol town;

At once,

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The sentinel on Whitehall gate look'd forth into the night,
And saw, oerhanging 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; 50
At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires;

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,

55 And the broad streams of pikes and flags dash'd 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; Androused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent:60 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 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 town and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain ; 70 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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CHARLES DICKENS.-Born, 1812; Died, 1870. Charles Dickens, the most popular novelist of this generation, was the son of an under official in the Navy Pay Department. Dickens began life as a parliamentary reporter, which his father had become, but at the age of twerty-four had made himself famous by the appearance of the first parts of “ The Pickwick Papers.” His industry, kindheartedness, and high motives in his subsequent writings, as well as their exquisite genius, found a fitting recognition by his burial in Westminster Abbey, among the great ones of our raco.

THE IVY GREEN.
Ori, a dainty plant is the ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a staunch old heart has he; How closely he twineth, how tightly he clings

To his friend, the huge oak tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves :

Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations have scattered been ; But the stout old ivy shall never fade

Hrom its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days

Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last:

Creeping on where time has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

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BOBERT BROWNING.-Born, 1812; still alive.

Robert Browning was born at Camberwell in 1812, and educated at the London University. He has written numerous dramas and poems of high merit. The following verses allude to an incident in the great war of Dutch Independence, fought against Philip II. of Spain, which ended in the triumph of the “ Seven United Provinces," in 1579.

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS

FROM GHENTI TO AIX.2

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
“Good-speed!” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
“Speed !” echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind, shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the piquet right,
Re-buckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but, while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;

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i Ghent was a great commercial

city of the Low Countries in those years.

2 Aix-la-Chapelle. postern, gate. 4 pique, the bow of the saddle. 6 Lokeren, This and the other

places named are towns or villages on the road between Ghent and Aix. Some of them are hardly on the straight line, but there was no doubt a reason for any circuit taken.

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