The armour shook tremendous:-On a couch Plac'd in the Oriel, * sunk the church-man down:

For who, alone, at the dread hour of night, Could bear portentous prodigy?

I hear it, cries the proudly gilded casque (Fill'd by the soul of one who erst took joy In slaught'rous deeds) I hear amidst the gale, The hostile spirit shouting-once-once

more

In the thick harvest of the spears we'll shine, There will be work anon..

I'm waken'd too,

(Replied the sable helmet tenanted

By a like innate) Hark! I hear the voice Of the impatient ghosts, who straggling

range

Yon summit crown'd with ruin'd battlements The fruits of civil discord to the din

The spirits wand'ring round this gothic pile, All join their yell-the song is war and death!. There will be work anon.

Oriel, a projecting window.

Furbish

Call armourers, ho!

my vizor-close my rivets up

I brook no dallying

Soft my hasty friend,

Said the black beaver, neither of us twain
Shall share the bloody toil-war-worn am I,
Bor'd by a happier mace, I let in fate
To my once master-since unsought, unus'd
Pensile I'm fix'd-yet too your gaudy pride
Has nought to boast-the fashion of the fight
Has thrown your gilt, and shady plumes aside
For modern foppery;-still do not frown,
Nor lour indignantly your steely brows,
We've comfort left enough-The bookman's
lore

Shall trace our sometime merit-in the eye
Of antiquary taste we long shall shine:
And as the scholar marks our rugged front,
He'll say, this Cressy saw, that Agincourt:
Thus dwelling on the prowess of his fathers,
He'll venerate their shell-yet, more than this,
From our inactive station, we shall hear
The groans of butcher'd brothers' shrieking.
plaints

Of ravish'd maids, and matrons' frantic

howls,

Already hov'ring o'er the threaten'd lands, The famish'd raven snuffs the promis'd feast, And hoarslier croaks for blood-'twill flow.

-Forbid it, Heaven!

O shield my suffering country !-shield it

pray'd

The agonizing priest.

FINIS.

C. Stower, Printer, Charles-Street, Hatton Garden.

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