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 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 ghastly war-flame 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, or Cranbourne’s oaks, the fiery herald flew,
And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge—­the rangers of Beaulieu. 
Right sharp and quick the bells all night 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:  The 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 pikes and flags rushed 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:  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 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.