and starry rows of columned lamps. It was
like coming from the thirteenth century into the
nineteenth, and I felt grateful for the change,
yet pleased with my experience.

GREAT ODDS AT SEA.

A LEAF OF ENGLISH HISTORY.

OUR ships lay under Florez. You will mind
'Twas three years after Effingham had chased
The Pope's Armada from our English side.
We had been cruising in the Western Main,
Singeing some Spanish beards; and now we lay,
Light-ballasted, with empty water-casks,
And half our crews disabled; our six sail—
Beside two pinnaces and victuallers—
Pester'd and rommaging, all out of sorts.
My ship was RICHARD GRENVILLE'S, the Revenge.
They knew Sir Richard in the Spanish seas,
And told wild stories of him; their brown dames
Frighted the babes with fancies of his deeds.
So hard-complexion'd was he (they would say)
That, when a health was drunk, he crush'd the glass
Between his teeth, and swallow'd cup and all.
And then his blood-draughts——Tush! such idle tales!
We only knew a gallant gentleman
Who never turn'd his back on friend or foe.

Well, lying by Florez—as I told you now—
The Spanish force, unlook'd for, hove in sight,
A force of fifty-three great men-of-war.
Lord Thomas, taking note of their array,
Deeming it vain to grapple with such odds,
Signall'd his company to weigh or cut:
And so all did, except our Grenville's ship.
You see, we anchor'd nearest to the town,
And half our men were sick on shore. Besides,
Sir Richard never hurried from a fight.
We got our sick on board, and safely stow'd
Upon the ballast; and, that clone, we weigh'd.
By this, the Spaniard's on our weather-bow;
And some would fain the captain should be led
To back his mainsail, cast about, and trust
Our sailing. Nothing of that mind was he.
He would not so, he said, for any fear
Disgrace his flag, his country, or himself;
But pass their squadrons through, despite of all,
Forcing the Seville ships to give him way.
And thus he did, on divers of the first.
So—as we mariners say—they sprang their luff,
And fell under our lee. But windward bore
A huge high-cargèd ship the Spaniards call'd
San Philip, took the breeze out of our sails,
And ran aboard us. Then, entangled so,
Four others, two upon our starboard bow
And two on the larboard, up and boarded us.

We helped San Philip from our lower tier,
And flung her back; the other four closed in,
Drove on us like so many hornet nests,
Thinking their multitudes could swarm us down.
We brushed them off, and brushed them off again.
The fight began at three o' the afternoon;
And all the night through we kept up the game,
Darkening the stars and the full harvest moon
With the incessant vomit of our smoke.
Ship after ship came on at our Revenge,
Ne'er less than two big galleons on her side,
Boarding her, as the tides wash up a rock,
To fall off broken and foamy 'mid the roar
Of their own thunder. They so ill approved
Our entertainment, that by break of day
They had lost appetite for new assaults;
And slunk far from us, like a ring of dogs
About a crippled lion, out of reach
Of daring that has taught them due respect,
Watching till his last agony spends itself.
Some fifteen of them grappled us in vain,
Two we had sunk, and finely maul'd the rest.
But, as day broaden'd out, it show'd our plight:
No sail in view but the foes that hemm'd us round,
Save one of the pinnaces, which had hover'd near
To mark our chance, and now, like hare with hounds,
Was hunted by the Spaniards, but escaped.

A bare one hundred men was our first count;
And each slew his fifteen. But by this time
Our powder was all used, and not a pike
Left us unbroken. All our rigging spoil'd;
Our masts gone by the side; our upper works
Shattered to pieces; and the ship herself
Began to settle slowly in the sea.
It was computed that eight hundred shot
Of great artillery had pierced through her sides.
Full forty of our men lay dead on deck;
And blood enough, be sure, the living miss'd
Sir Richard, badly hurt at the very first,
Would never stand aside till mid of dark;
When, as they dress'd his wounds, he was shot
through,
The surgeon falling on him. Still he lived,
Nor blench'd his courage when all hope was gone
But, as the morning wore, he call'd to him
The master-gunner, a most resolute man,
And bade him split and sink the unconquer'd ship,
Trusting God's mercy, leaving to the foe
Not even a plank to bear their victory.
What worth a few more hours of empty life,
To stint full-handed Death of English fame?

Brave Gentleman! I think we had no heart
To sink so rare a treasure. Some of us
Were stiffening in our pain, and faintly cared
For loftier carriage; cowards were there none;
But so it was, that we among us chose
An honourable surrender—the first time
Our captain's word refusing. I must own
The Spaniard bore him very handsomely.
Well pleased he was to give us soldier terms
Rather than tempt the touch of our last throe;
And courteously were the conditions kept.
The Spanish Admiral sent his own state barge
To fetch our dying hero—for our ship
Was marvellous unsavoury, and round
The Southern warriors reverently throng'd
To look upon the mighty in his death:
So much his worth compell'd acknowledgment.
And well-nigh a new battle had burst out
'Twixt the Biscayans and the Portugals,
Disputing which had boarded the Revenge.

For him, he bade them do even as they would
With his unvalued body. A few hours,
And Death bow'd down to crown him. Never sign
Of faintness show'd he; but in Spanish said
These words, so they might be well heard by all:

"Here, with a joyful and a quiet mind,
I, Richard Grenville, die. My life is closed
As good a soldier's should be, who hath fought
For Country's sake, and for his faith and fame.
Whereby from this body gladly parts my soul,
Leaving behind the everlasting name
Of a true soldier and right valiant man
Who did the work that duty bade him do."

When he had finish'd these and other words
Of such-like grandeur, he gave up the ghost