The moral of all this is, that ship-building,
like all other human things—except Toryism—
has changed, is changing, and will continue to
change. Everything, from star to star-fish,
while it lives, grows and changes. Death is
only change. Our ships are changed things;
they are now great machines—no longer the
slow ships of Nelson’s time. They require new
fittings, new manœuvres, new handling.
Admirals and captains will no longer be the men
they once were. Mere dogged bravery and
reckless bull-dog courage will not do now; we shall
want science, and more comprehensive schemes
of combination. The next war will show us
that all sorts of new elements are introduced
into fighting, by the use of iron steam-ships;
and woe to those who are the slowest to learn
the new lessons which Time, the great school-
master of us all, has set them.

HOW LADY BLANCHE ARUNDEL HELD
     WARDOUR FOR KING CHARLES.

THE first of May, the garland day, that ushers in
    the spring,
Saw Wardour Castle fair and strong in arms for
    Charles the king;
The elms were black with noisy rooks, the meadows
    gilt with flowers,
With rosary of blossoms, Time counts the dying
    hours.

The butler moved his casks about, the chaplain was
    at bowls,
The grooms were hissing in the stalls, the boys
    played with the foals,
The Lady Blanche among her maids was busy as
     the best,
Unconscious that the carrion-crow was hovering o’er
    her nest.

All suddenly a group of us, upon an outer wall,
Was startled by a warning shout from those within
    the hall,
And through the wind-tossed avenue, from out a
    storm of dust,
Galloped a wounded serving-man, whose helmet was
   all rust.

One—two—then three, poor frightened knaves, with
   faces gashed and torn,
One with a broken sword red-wet, who screamed
   upon a horn;
And then a rout of flying men groaning and very
   white,
Each swearing, as he hoped for grace, Cromwell
   would come that night.

That night our scouts were pouring in, each paler
   than the last,
The shepherds brought us news of Strode, and every
   troop they’d passed;
A moment Lady Blanche turned pale, but soon
   flushed angry red,
To think old England’s golden crown should deck a
   brewer’s head.

All night the melting lead was poured into our
   bullet-moulds,
The trusty pikes were lifted down from the long
   ratched-holds,
Great stones were piled upon each ledge, the guns
    were duly scoured,
  Upon the highest tower, our flag of angry challenge
    lowered.

The falconets were double charged on every bartizan,
Ready to shower their fiery lead on frowning
  Puritan;
And every one got out his scarf and plume to ready
  be,
For gallant face brave men should wear when
  danger’s on the lee.

The chaplain on his cassock’d knees a rusty breast-
  plate scoured;
The butler in a plumèd hat, above all others towered;
The very turnspit marched about, with gun and
  partizan,
As noisy with his threats and oaths as any serving-
  man.

                               II.

O never daisy wore a frill more trim or yet more
  white,
No primrose of the early spring was purer to the
  sight:
The fleecy clouds of summer dawn move with such
  stately grace,
Unchanging morning sunshine shone from out her
  pretty face.

No fawn trips so, no mountain roe a lighter foot-
  print leaves;
The violet loved to have her tread upon its purple
  leaves;
Before her gentle presence birds ceased not their
  carolling;
She shed a tranquil joy on all, as does the early
  spring.

She never chid her serving maids about their
  tapestry;
And yet, of all that busy hive she was the fair
  Queen Bee.
For idleness, or ribaldry, or drunken revelling sport,
Dared never e’en to set a foot within the inner
  court.

She was as gentle as a dove brooding upon its
  nest,
Yet when that evil news with shrieks came swooping
  from the west,
And pale-faced fools were pouring in with news of
  deadly harm,
She changed at once—a sudden storm broke flashing
  from that calm.

Her husband and her lord was gone unto the tented
  field,
To wring from stone-faced Puritans what Puritans
  would yield;
She was alone without a friend, yet never thought
  of fear,
For gathered in her castle-walls was food for seven
   year.

                              III.

That sullen night, just at the dusk, from out those
  garden trees
A muffled drum, with mournful throb, sounded upon
  the breeze;
And dark and slow the Puritans began their leaguer
  then,
Not in the open manly way of honest gentlemen.