Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone— But we left him alone with his glory.

Wolfe.



LXXX

THE OLD NAVY

The captain stood on the carronade: 'First lieutenant,' says he, 'Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me; I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons—because I'm bred to the sea; That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we. And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds—but I've gained the victory!

That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take she, 'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture we; I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun; If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son. For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds—and I've gained the victory!'

We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enough; 'I little thought,' said he, 'that your men were of such stuff'; Our captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made to he; 'I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I wish to be. And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds—and I've gained the victory!'

Our captain sent for all of us: 'My merry men,' said he, 'I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be. You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun; If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged each mother's son. For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm at sea, I'll fight 'gainst every odds—and I'll gain the victory!'

Marryat.



LXXXI

CASABIANCA

The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm: A creature of heroic blood, A proud though child-like form.

The flames rolled on—he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud; 'Say, father! say If yet my task is done!' He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried, 'If I may yet be gone!' And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; He looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair,

And shouted but once more aloud, 'My father! must I stay?' While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound— The boy—O! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea:

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part! But the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart.

Hemans.



LXXXII

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;— They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roared— This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band; Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod. They have left unstained what there they found— Freedom to worship God.

Hemans.



LXXXIII

TO THE ADVENTUROUS

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific—and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Keats.



LXXXIV

HORATIUS

THE TRYSTING

Lars Porsena of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth East and west and south and north To summon his array.

East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome.

The horsemen and the footmen Are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine;

From lordly Volaterrae, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants For godlike kings of old; From sea-girt Populonia Whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky;

From the proud mart of Pisae, Queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes Heavy with fair-haired slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders Through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark Auser's rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Of the Ciminian hill; Beyond all streams Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves The great Volsinian mere.

But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path Up the Ciminian hill; Unwatched along Clitumnus Grazes the milk-white steer; Unharmed the water-fowl may dip In the Volsinian mere.

The harvests of Arretium This year old men shall reap; This year young boys in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna This year the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls Whose sires have marched to Rome.

There be thirty chosen prophets, The wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena Both morn and evening stand: Evening and morn the Thirty Have turned the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white By mighty seers of yore.

And with one voice the Thirty Have their glad answer given: 'Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; Go forth, beloved of Heaven; Go, and return in glory To Clusium's royal dome, And hang round Nurscia's altars The golden shields of Rome.'

And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trysting day!

For all the Etruscan armies Were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banished Roman, And many a stout ally; And with a mighty following To join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name.

THE TROUBLE IN ROME

But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright: From all the spacious champaign To Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city The throng stopped up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and days.

For aged folk on crutches, And women great with child, And mothers sobbing over babes That clung to them and smiled, And sick men borne in litters High on the necks of slaves, And troops of sun-burned husbandmen With reaping-hooks and staves,

And droves of mules and asses Laden with skins of wine, And endless flocks of goats and sheep, And endless herds of kine, And endless trains of waggons That creaked beneath the weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods, Choked every roaring gate.

Now from the rock Tarpeian Could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages Red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City, They sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman came With tidings of dismay.

To eastward and to westward Have spread the Tuscan bands; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia Hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath stormed Janiculum, And the stout guards are slain.

I wis, in all the Senate There was no heart so bold But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Consul, Up rose the Fathers all; In haste they girded up their gowns, And hied them to the wall.

They held a council standing Before the River-Gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Out spake the Consul roundly: 'The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Nought else can save the town.'

Just then a scout came flying, All wild with haste and fear: 'To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: Lars Porsena is here.' On the low hills to westward The Consul fixed his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky.

And nearer fast and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, The trampling, and the hum. And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, The long array of spears.

And plainly and more plainly Above that glimmering line Now might ye see the banners Of twelve fair cities shine; But the banner of proud Clusium Was highest of them all, The terror of the Umbrian, The terror of the Gaul.

And plainly and more plainly Now might the burghers know, By port and vest, by horse and crest, Each warlike Lucumo. There Cilnius of Arretium On his fleet roan was seen; And Astur of the fourfold shield, Girt with the brand none else may wield, Tolumnius with the belt of gold, And dark Verbenna from the hold By reedy Thrasymene.

Fast by the royal standard O'erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium Sate in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name; And by the left false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame.

But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament From all the town arose. On the house-tops was no woman But spat towards him, and hissed; No child but screamed out curses, And shook its little fist.

But the Consul's brow was sad, And the Consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe. 'Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town?'

Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the gate: 'To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late; And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his Gods,

And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame?

Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?'

Then out spake Spurius Lartius, A Ramnian proud was he: 'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.' And out spake strong Heminius, Of Titian blood was he: 'I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee.'

'Horatius,' quoth the Consul, 'As thou sayest, so let it be.' And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old.

Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great: Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old.

Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe, And the Tribunes beard the high, And the Fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold: Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old.

THE KEEPING OF THE BRIDGE

Now while the Three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an axe: And Fathers mixed with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless Three.

The Three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose: And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way;

Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva's mines; And Picus, long to Clusium Vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that grey crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers O'er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath: Herminius struck at Seius, And clove him to the teeth: At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust, And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust.

Then Ocnus of Falerii Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Along Albinia's shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. 'Lie there,' he cried, 'fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark The track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice-accursed sail.'

But now no sound of laughter Was heard amongst the foes. A wild and wrathful clamour From all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance Halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow way.

But hark! the cry is Astur: And lo! the ranks divide; And the great Lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the fourfold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield.

He smiled on those bold Romans A smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, 'The she-wolf's litter Stands savagely at bay: But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way?'

Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow.

He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space; Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, So fierce a thrust he sped The good sword stood a handbreadth out Behind the Tuscan's head.

And the great Lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder-smitten oak: Far o'er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head.

On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, Ere he wrenched out the steel. 'And see,' he cried, 'the welcome, Fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucumo comes next To taste our Roman cheer?'

But at his haughty challenge A sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath and shame and dread, Along that glittering van. There lacked not men of prowess, Nor men of lordly race; For all Etruria's noblest Were round the fatal place.

But all Etruria's noblest Felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, In the path the dauntless Three: And, from the ghastly entrance Where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, Ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood.

Was none who would be foremost To lead such dire attack; But those behind cried 'Forward!' And those before cried 'Back!' And backward now and forward Wavers the deep array; And on the tossing sea of steel, To and fro the standards reel; And the victorious trumpet-peal Dies fitfully away.

Yet one man for one moment Strode out before the crowd; Well known was he to all the Three, And they gave him greeting loud. 'Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! Now welcome to thy home! Why dost thou stay, and turn away? Here lies the road to Rome.'

Thrice looked he at the city; Thrice looked he at the dead; And thrice came on in fury, And thrice turned back in dread: And, white with fear and hatred, Scowled at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay.

But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied; And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. 'Come back, come back, Horatius!' Loud cried the Fathers all. 'Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! Back, ere the ruin fall!'

Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But, when they turned their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more.

But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream: And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops Was splashed the yellow foam.

And, like a horse unbroken When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, And tossed his tawny mane; And burst the curb, and bounded, Rejoicing to be free; And whirling down, in fierce career, Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rushed headlong to the sea.

FATHER TIBER

Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. 'Down with him!' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. 'Now yield thee,' cried Lars Porsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.'

Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome.

'O Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day!' So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer.

But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain: And fast his blood was flowing; And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armour, And spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose.

Never, I ween, did swimmer, In such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing-place: But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within, And our good father Tiber Bare bravely up his chin.

'Curse on him!' quoth false Sextus; 'Will not the villain drown? But for this stay ere close of day We should have sacked the town!' 'Heaven help him!' quoth Lars Porsena, 'And bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before.'

And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands; And now with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate, Borne by the joyous crowd.

They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right, As much as two strong oxen Could plough from morn till night; And they made a molten image, And set it up on high, And there it stands unto this day To witness if I lie.

It stands in the Comitium Plain for all folk to see; Horatius in his harness, Halting upon one knee: And underneath is written, In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge In the brave days of old.

And still his name sounds stirring Unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet-blast that cries to them To charge the Volscian home; And wives still pray to Juno For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well In the brave days of old.

And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amidst the snow; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest's din, And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within;

When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows;

When the goodman mends his armour And trims his helmet's plume; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old.

Macaulay.



LXXXV

THE ARMADA

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast, And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; Behind him march the halberdiers; before him sound the drums; His yeomen round the market cross make clear an ample space; For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield. So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute; ho! gallants, draw your blades: Thou sun, shine on her joyously: ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of our pride.

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, 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 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: 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. 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 furthest 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 huts 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.

Macaulay.



LXXXVI

THE LAST BUCCANEER

The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, The sky was black and drear, When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name Alongside the last Buccaneer.

'Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, When all others drive bare on the seas? Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador, Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?'

'From a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no line can sound, Without rudder or needle we steer; Above, below, our bark dies the sea-fowl and the shark, As we fly by the last Buccaneer.

To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde A loud crash and a louder roar; And to-morrow shall the deep with a heavy moaning sweep The corpses and wreck to the shore,'

The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride In the breath of the citron shades; And Severn's towering mast securely now hies fast, Through the seas of the balmy Trades.

From St Jago's wealthy port, from Havannah's royal fort, The seaman goes forth without fear; For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight Of the flag of the last Buccaneer.

Macaulay.



LXXXVII

A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH

To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting-place I asked—an early grave. Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I speak like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

Macaulay.



LXXXVIII

THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN

A good sword and a trusty hand! A merry heart and true! King James's men shall understand What Cornish lads can do.

And have they fixed the where and when? And shall Trelawny die? Here's twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why!

Out spake their captain brave and bold, A merry wight was he: 'If London Tower were Michael's hold, We'll set Trelawny free!

We'll cross the Tamar, land to land, The Severn is no stay, With "one and all," and hand in hand, And who shall bid us nay?

And when we come to London Wall, A pleasant sight to view, Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all, Here's men as good as you.

Trelawny he's in keep and hold, Trelawny he may die; But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold Will know the reason why!'

Hawker.



LXXXIX

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP

THE MODEL

'Build me straight, O worthy Master! Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!'

The merchant's word Delighted the Master heard; For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art. A quiet smile played round his lips, As the eddies and dimples of the tide Play round the bows of ships, That steadily at anchor ride. And with a voice that was full of glee, He answered, 'Ere long we will launch A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, As ever weathered a wintry sea!'

And first with nicest skill and art, Perfect and finished in every part, A little model the Master wrought, Which should be to the larger plan What the child is to the man, Its counterpart in miniature; That with a hand more swift and sure The greater labour might be brought To answer to his inward thought. And as he laboured, his mind ran o'er The various ships that were built of yore, And above them all, and strangest of all, Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, Whose picture was hanging on the wall, With bows and stern raised high in air, And balconies hanging here and there, And signal lanterns and flags afloat, And eight round towers, like those that frown From some old castle, looking down Upon the drawbridge and the moat. And he said with a smile, 'Our ship, I wis, Shall be of another form than this!'

It was of another form, indeed; Built for freight, and yet for speed, A beautiful and gallant craft; Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, Pressing down upon sail and mast, Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; Broad in the beam, but sloping aft With graceful curve and slow degrees, That she might be docile to the helm, And that the currents of parted seas, Closing behind, with mighty force, Might aid and not impede her course.

THE BUILDERS

In the ship-yard stood the Master, With the model of the vessel, That should laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!

Covering many a rood of ground, Lay the timber piled around; Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, And scattered here and there, with these, The knarred and crooked cedar knees; Brought from regions far away, From Pascagoula's sunny bay, And the banks of the roaring Roanoke! Ah! what a wondrous thing it is To note how many wheels of toil One thought, one word, can set in motion! There's not a ship that sails the ocean, But every climate, every soil, Must bring its tribute, great or small, And help to build the wooden wall!

The sun was rising o'er the sea, And long the level shadows lay, As if they, too, the beams would be Of some great, airy argosy, Framed and launched in a single day. That silent architect, the sun, Had hewn and laid them every one, Ere the work of man was yet begun. Beside the Master, when he spoke, A youth, against an anchor leaning, Listened to catch his slightest meaning. Only the long waves, as they broke In ripples on the pebbly beach, Interrupted the old man's speech.

Beautiful they were, in sooth, The old man and the fiery youth! The old man, in whose busy brain Many a ship that sailed the main Was modelled o'er and o'er again;— The fiery youth, who was to be The heir of his dexterity, The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand, When he had built and launched from land What the elder head had planned.

'Thus,' said he, 'will we build this ship! Lay square the blocks upon the slip, And follow well this plan of mine. Choose the timbers with greatest care; Of all that is unsound beware; For only what is sound and strong To this vessel shall belong. Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine Here together shall combine. A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, And the UNION be her name! For the day that gives her to the sea Shall give my daughter unto thee!'

The Master's word Enraptured the young man heard; And as he turned his face aside, With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, Standing before Her father's door, He saw the form of his promised bride. The sun shone on her golden hair, And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. Like a beauteous barge was she, Still at rest on the sandy beach, Just beyond the billow's reach; But he Was the restless, seething, stormy sea!

Ah! how skilful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain, And he who followeth Love's behest Far exceedeth all the rest! Thus with the rising of the sun Was the noble task begun, And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds Were heard the intermingled sounds Of axes and of mallets, plied With vigourous arms on every side; Plied so deftly and so well, That ere the shadows of evening fell, The keel of oak for a noble ship, Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, Was lying ready, and stretched along The blocks, well placed upon the slip. Happy, thrice happy, every one Who sees his labour well begun, And not perplexed and multiplied, By idly waiting for time and tide!

And when the hot, long day was o'er, The young man at the Master's door Sat with the maiden calm and still. And within the porch, a little more Removed beyond the evening chill, The father sat, and told them tales Of wrecks in the great September gales, Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, And ships that never came back again; The chance and change of a sailor's life, Want and plenty, rest and strife, His roving fancy, like the wind, That nothing can stay and nothing can bind: And the magic charm of foreign lands, With shadows of palms and shining sands, Where the tumbling surf, O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, As he lies alone and asleep on the turf.

And the trembling maiden held her breath At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, With all its terror and mystery, The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, That divides and yet unites mankind! And whenever the old man paused, a gleam From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume The silent group in the twilight gloom, And thoughtful faces, as in a dream; And for a moment one might mark What had been hidden by the dark, That the head of the maiden lay at rest, Tenderly, on the young man's breast!

IN THE SHIP-YARD

Day by day the vessel grew, With timbers fashioned strong and true, Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, Till, framed with perfect symmetry, A skeleton ship rose up to view! And round the bows and along the side The heavy hammers and mallets plied, Till after many a week, at length, Wonderful for form and strength, Sublime in its enormous bulk, Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk! And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething Caldron that glowed, And overflowed With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. And amid the clamours Of clattering hammers, He who listened heard now and then The song of the Master and his men:—

'Build me straight, O worthy Master, Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!'

With oaken brace and copper band, Lay the rudder on the sand, That, like a thought, should have control Over the movement of the whole; And near it the anchor, whose giant hand Would reach down and grapple with the land, And immovable and fast Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast! And at the bows an image stood, By a cunning artist carved in wood, With robes of white, that far behind Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. It was not shaped in a classic mould, Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, Or Naiad rising from the water, But modelled from the Master's daughter! On many a dreary and misty night 'Twill be seen by the rays of the signal light, Speeding along through the rain and the dark, Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, The pilot of some phantom bark, Guiding the vessel in its flight By a path none other knows aright, Behold, at last, Each tall and tapering mast Is swung into its place; Shrouds and stays Holding it firm and fast!

Long ago, In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, When upon mountain and plain Lay the snow, They fell—those lordly pines! Those grand, majestic pines! 'Mid shouts and cheers The jaded steers, Panting beneath the goad, Dragged down the weary, winding road Those captive kings so straight and tall, To be shorn of their streaming hair And, naked and bare, To feel the stress and the strain Of the wind and the reeling main, Whose roar Would remind them for evermore Of their native forest they should not see again. And everywhere The slender, graceful spars Poise aloft in the air, And at the mast head, White, blue, and red, A flag unrolls the stripes and stars, Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, In foreign harbours shall behold That flag unrolled, 'Twill be as a friendly hand Stretched out from his native land, Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless.

THE TWO BRIDALS

All is finished! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendours dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest; And far and wide, With ceaseless flow, His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast.

He waits impatient for his bride. There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Decked with flags and streamers gay In honour of her marriage day, Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the grey, old sea.

On the deck another bride Is standing by her lover's side. Shadows from the flags and shrouds, Like the shadows cast by clouds, Broken by many a sunny fleck, Fall around them on the deck.

The prayer is said, The service read, The joyous bridegroom bows his head, And in tears the good old Master Shakes the brown hand of his son, Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek In silence, for he cannot speak, And ever faster Down his own the tears begin to run. The worthy pastor— The shepherd of that wandering flock, That has the ocean for its wold, That has the vessel for its fold, Leaping ever from rock to rock— Spake, with accents mild and clear, Words of warning, words of cheer, But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. He knew the chart, Of the sailor's heart, All its pleasures and its griefs, All its shallows and rocky reefs, All those secret currents that flow With such resistless undertow, And lift and drift with terrible force, The will from its moorings and its course. Therefore he spake, and thus said he:

'Like unto ships far off at sea, Outward or homeward bound, are we. Before, behind, and all around, Floats and swings the horizon's bound, Seems at its distant rim to rise And climb the crystal wall of the skies, And then again to turn and sink, As if we could slide from its outer brink. Ah! it is not the sea, It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, But ourselves That rock and rise With endless and uneasy motion, Now touching the very skies, Now sinking into the depths of ocean. Ah! if our souls but poise and swing Like the compass in its brazen ring, Ever level, and ever true To the toil and the task we have to do, We shall sail securely, and safely reach The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, Will be those of joy and not of fear!'

Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see! she stirs! She starts—she moves—she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms! And lo! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, That to the ocean seemed to say,— 'Take her, O bridegroom, old and grey, Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms!'

How beautiful she is! How fair She lies within those arms, that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care! Sail forth into the sea, O ship! Through wind and wave, right onward steer! The moistened eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be! For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives!

Thou, too, sail on, O ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee,—are all with thee!

Longfellow.



XC

THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE

Othere, the old sea-captain, Who dwelt in Helgoland, To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth, Which he held in his brown right hand.

His figure was tall and stately, Like a boy's his eye appeared; His hair was yellow as hay, But threads of a silvery grey Gleamed in his tawny beard.

Hearty and hale was Othere, His cheek had the colour of oak; With a kind of laugh in his speech, Like the sea-tide on a beach, As unto the king he spoke.

And Alfred, King of the Saxons, Had a book upon his knees, And wrote down the wondrous tale Of him who was first to sail Into the Arctic seas.

'So far I live to the northward, No man lives north of me; To the east are wild mountain-chains, And beyond them meres and plains; To the westward all is sea.

So far I live to the northward, From the harbour of Skeringes-hale, If you only sailed by day With a fair wind all the way, More than a month would you sail.

I own six hundred reindeer, With sheep and swine beside; I have tribute from the Finns, Whalebone and reindeer-skins, And ropes of walrus-hide.

I ploughed the land with horses, But my heart was ill at ease, For the old seafaring men Came to me now and then, With their sagas of the seas;—

Of Iceland and of Greenland, And the stormy Hebrides, And the undiscovered deep;— I could not eat nor sleep For thinking of those seas.

To the northward stretched the desert, How far I fain would know; So at last I sallied forth, And three days sailed due north, As far as the whale-ships go.

To the west of me was the ocean, To the right the desolate shore, But I did not slacken sail For the walrus or the whale, Till after three days more.

The days grew longer and longer, Till they became as one, And southward through the haze I saw the sullen blaze Of the red midnight sun.

And then uprose before me, Upon the water's edge, The huge and haggard shape Of that unknown North Cape, Whose form is like a wedge.

The sea was rough and stormy, The tempest howled and wailed, And the sea-fog, like a ghost, Haunted that dreary coast, But onward still I sailed.

Four days I steered to eastward, Four days without a night: Round in a fiery ring Went the great sun, O King, With red and lurid light.'

Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, Ceased writing for a while; And raised his eyes from his book, With a strange and puzzled look, And an incredulous smile.

But Othere, the old sea-captain, He neither paused nor stirred, Till the King listened, and then Once more took up his pen, And wrote down every word.

'And now the land,' said Othere, 'Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore, And ever southward bore Into a nameless sea.

And there we hunted the walrus, The narwhale, and the seal; Ha! 'twas a noble game! And like the lightning's flame Flew our harpoons of steel.

There were six of us all together, Norsemen of Helgoland; In two days and no more We killed of them threescore, And dragged them to the strand.'

Here Alfred, the Truth-Teller, Suddenly closed his book, And lifted his blue eyes, With doubt and strange surmise Depicted in their look.

And Othere, the old sea-captain, Stared at him wild and weird, Then smiled till his shining teeth Gleamed white from underneath His tawny, quivering beard.

And to the King of the Saxons, In witness of the truth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, 'Behold this walrus-tooth!'

Longfellow.



XCI

THE CUMBERLAND

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop of war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide.

'Strike your flag!' the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain 'Never!' our gallant Morris replies; 'It is better to sink than to yield!' And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wreck, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas, Ye are at peace in the troubled stream! Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, Thy flag that is rent in twain Shall be one again, And without a seam!

Longfellow.



XCII

A DUTCH PICTURE

Simon Danz has come home again, From cruising about with his buccaneers; He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, And carried away the Dean of Jaen And sold him in Algiers.

In his house by the Maes, with its roof of tiles And weathercocks flying aloft in air, There are silver tankards of antique styles, Plunder of convent and castle, and piles Of carpets rich and rare.

In his tulip-garden there by the town, Overlooking the sluggish stream, With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, The old sea-captain, hale and brown, Walks in a waking dream.

A smile in his grey mustachio lurks Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain, And the listed tulips look like Turks, And the silent gardener as he works Is changed to the Dean of Jaen.

The windmills on the outermost Verge of the landscape in the haze, To him are towers on the Spanish coast With whiskered sentinels at their post, Though this is the river Maes.

But when the winter rains begin, He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, And old seafaring men come in, Goat-bearded, grey, and with double chin, And rings upon their hands.

They sit there in the shadow and shine Of the flickering fire of the winter night; Figures in colour and design Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, Half darkness and half light.

And they talk of their ventures lost or won, And their talk is ever and ever the same, While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, From the cellars of some Spanish Don Or convent set on flame.

Restless at times, with heavy strides He paces his parlour to and fro; He is like a ship that at anchor rides, And swings with the rising and falling tides, And tugs at her anchor-tow.

Voices mysterious far and near, Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, Are calling and whispering in his ear, 'Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here? Come forth and follow me!'

So he thinks he shall take to the sea again For one more cruise with his buccaneers, To singe the beard of the King of Spain, And capture another Dean of Jaen And sell him in Algiers.

Longfellow.



XCIII

BARBARA FRIETCHIE

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde

On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain wall,

Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

'Halt!'—the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 'Fire!'—out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

'Shoot, if you must, this old grey head, But spare your country's flag,' she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word:

'Who touches a hair of yon grey head Dies like a dog! March on!' he said.

All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Whittier.



XCIV

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away: 'Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!' Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: ''Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?'

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: 'I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.'

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all the sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. 'Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' And Sir Richard said again: 'We be all good English men. Let us bang those dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turned my back upon Don or devil yet.'

Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane between.

Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delayed By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stayed.

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle thunder broke from them all.

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went, Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shattered, and so could fight us no more— God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

For he said, 'Fight on! fight on!' Though his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said, 'Fight on! fight on!'

And the night went down and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting, So they watched what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maimed for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;

But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: 'We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die—does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!'

And the gunner said, 'Ay, ay,' but the seamen made reply: 'We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.' And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 'I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!' And he fell upon their decks and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honour down into the deep, And they manned the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sailed with her loss and longed for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shattered navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main.

Tennyson.



XCV

THE HEAVY BRIGADE

The charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade! Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians, Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley—and stayed; For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred were riding by When the points of the Russian lances arose in the sky; And he called, 'Left wheel into line!' and they wheeled and obeyed. Then he looked at the host that had halted he knew not why, And he turned half round, and he bad his trumpeter sound To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved his blade To the gallant three hundred whose glory will never die— 'Follow,' and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, Followed the Heavy Brigade.

The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the fight! Thousands of horsemen had gathered there on the height, With a wing pushed out to the left and a wing to the right, And who shall escape if they close? but he dashed up alone Through the great grey slope of men, Swayed his sabre, and held his own Like an Englishman there and then; All in a moment followed with force Three that were next in their fiery course, Wedged themselves in between horse and horse, Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made— Four amid thousands! and up the hill, up the hill, Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade.

Fell like a cannon-shot, Burst like a thunderbolt, Crashed like a hurricane, Broke through the mass from below, Drove through the midst of the foe, Plunged up and down, to and fro, Rode flashing blow upon blow, Brave Inniskillens and Greys Whirling their sabres in circles of light! And some of us, all in amaze, Who were held for a while from the fight, And were only standing at gaze, When the dark-muffled Russian crowd Folded its wings from the left and the right, And rolled them around like a cloud,— O mad for the charge and the battle were we, When our own good redcoats sank from sight, Like drops of blood in a dark grey sea, And we turned to each other, whispering, all dismayed, 'Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's Brigade!'

'Lost one and all' were the words Muttered in our dismay; But they rode like Victors and Lords Through the forest of lances and swords In the heart of the Russian hordes, They rode, or they stood at bay— Struck with the sword-hand and slew, Down with the bridle-hand drew The foe from the saddle and threw Underfoot there in the fray— Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock In the wave of a stormy day; Till suddenly shock upon shock Staggered the mass from without, Drove it in wild disarray, For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout, And the foemen surged, and wavered and reeled Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, And over the brow and away.

Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made! Glory to all the three hundred, and all the Brigade!

Tennyson.



XCVI

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS

Last night, among his fellow roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore; A drunken private of the Buffs, Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, He stands in Elgin's place, Ambassador from Britain's crown And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught Bewildered, and alone, A heart, with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord, or axe, or flame: He only knows, that not through him Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed, Like dreams, to come and go; Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, One sheet of living snow; The smoke, above his father's door, In grey soft eddyings hung: Must he then watch it rise no more, Doomed by himself, so young?

Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steel He put the vision by. Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron frames; Vain, those all-shattering guns; Unless proud England keep, untamed, The strong heart of her sons. So, let his name through Europe ring— A man of mean estate, Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great.

Doyle.



XCVII

THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR

Eleven men of England A breastwork charged in vain; Eleven men of England Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain. Slain; but of foes that guarded Their rock-built fortress well, Some twenty had been mastered, When the last soldier fell.

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way Across the sand-waves of the desert sea, Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay, Lord of their wild Truckee. These missed the glen to which their steps were bent, Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard, And, in that glorious error, calmly went To death without a word.

The robber-chief mused deeply Above those daring dead; 'Bring here,' at length he shouted, 'Bring quick, the battle thread. Let Eblis blast for ever Their souls, if Allah will: But we must keep unbroken The old rules of the Hill.

Before the Ghiznee tiger Leapt forth to burn and slay; Before the holy Prophet Taught our grim tribes to pray; Before Secunder's lances Pierced through each Indian glen; The mountain laws of honour Were framed for fearless men.

Still, when a chief dies bravely, We bind with green one wrist— Green for the brave, for heroes ONE crimson thread we twist. Say ye, Oh gallant Hillmen, For these, whose life has fled, Which is the fitting colour, The green one or the red?'

'Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear Their green reward,' each noble savage said; 'To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, Who dares deny the red?'

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height Rolled back its loud acclaim.

Once more the chief gazed keenly Down on those daring dead; From his good sword their heart's blood Crept to that crimson thread. Once more he cried, 'The judgment, Good friends, is wise and true, But though the red be given, Have we not more to do?

These were not stirred by anger, Nor yet by lust made bold; Renown they thought above them, Nor did they look for gold. To them their leader's signal Was as the voice of God: Unmoved, and uncomplaining, The path it showed they trod.

As, without sound or struggle, The stars unhurrying march, Where Allah's finger guides them, Through yonder purple arch, These Franks, sublimely silent, Without a quickened breath, Went in the strength of duty Straight to their goal of death.

'If I were now to ask you To name our bravest man, Ye all at once would answer, They called him Mehrab Khan. He sleeps among his fathers, Dear to our native land, With the bright mark he bled for Firm round his faithful hand.

'The songs they sing of Rustum Fill all the past with light; If truth be in their music, He was a noble knight. But were those heroes living And strong for battle still, Would Mehrab Khan or Rustum Have climbed, like these, the hill?'

And they replied, 'Though Mehrab Khan was brave, As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; Prince Rustum lied, his forfeit life to save, Which these had never done.'

'Enough!' he shouted fiercely; 'Doomed though they be to hell, Bind fast the crimson trophy Round BOTH wrists—bind it well. Who knows but that great Allah May grudge such matchless men, With none so decked in heaven, To the fiends' flaming den?'

Then all those gallant robbers Shouted a stern 'Amen!' They raised the slaughtered sergeant, They raised his mangled ten. And when we found their bodies Left bleaching in the wind, Around BOTH wrists in glory That crimson thread was twined.

Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core, Rung, like an echo, to that knightly deed, He bade its memory live for evermore, That those who run may read.

Doyle.



XCVIII

HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA

Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey; 'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'—say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

Browning.



XCIX

HERVE RIEL

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,—woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place 'Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick—or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!'

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; 'Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?' laughed they: 'Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!'

Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: 'Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!' (Ended Damfreville his speech). Not a minute more to wait! 'Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate.

Give the word!' But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these —A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese.

And, 'What mockery or malice have we here?' cries Herve Riel: 'Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.

Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this Formidable clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, —Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,—here's my head!' cries Herve Riel.

Not a minute more to wait. 'Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!' cried his chief. 'Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief.' Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face, As the big ship with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harboured to the last, And just as Herve Riel hollas 'Anchor!'—sure as fate Up the English come, too late!

So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the o'erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 'Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English take the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance, As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!' How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, 'This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!' What a shout, and all one word, 'Herve Riel!' As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, 'My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville.'

Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 'Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?— Since 'tis ask and have, I may— Since the others go ashore— Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!' That he asked and that he got,—nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

Browning.



C

THE DYING FIREMAN

I am the mashed fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have cleared the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie, exhausted but not so unhappy, White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps, The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

Whitman.



CI

A SEA-FIGHT

Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight? Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars? List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me.

'Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you (said he), His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be; Along the lowered eve he came horribly raking us.

We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touched, My captain lashed fast with his own hands.

We had received some eighteen-pound shots under the water, On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead.

Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark, Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported, The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves.

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.

Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter? If our colours are struck and the fighting done?

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, "We have not struck," he composedly cries, "we have just begun our part of the fighting."

Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast, Two well served with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.

Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.

One of the pumps had been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.

Serene stands the little captain, He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.

Toward twelve, there in the beams of the moon, they surrender to us.'

Whitman.



CII

BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying; Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride, Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill, you bugles, blow.

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers' bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they continue? Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier, drums—you bugles, wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley—stop for no expostulation, Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties, Make even the trestle to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump, O terrible drums—so loud, you bugles, blow.

Whitman.



CIII

TWO VETERANS

The last sunbeam Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath, On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking Down a new-made double grave.

Lo! the moon ascending, Up from the east the silvery round moon, Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon, Immense and silent moon.

I see a sad procession, And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, As with voices and with tears.

I hear the great drums pounding, And the small drums steady whirring, And every blow of the great convulsive drums Strikes me through and through.

For the son is brought with the father, (In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, Two veterans son and father dropt together, And the double grave awaits them).

Now nearer blow the bugles, And the drums strike more convulsive, And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, And the strong dead-march enwraps me.

In the eastern sky up-buoying, The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, ('Tis some mother's large transparent face In heaven brighter growing).

O strong dead-march you please me! O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me! O my soldiers twain! O my veterans passing to burial! What I have I also give you.

The moon gives you light, And the bugles and the drums give you music, And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, My heart gives you love.

Whitman.



CIV

THE PLEASANT ISLE OF AVES

Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

O the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

O sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's ships sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till, for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going—I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again.

Kingsley.



CV

A WELCOME

Welcome, wild North-easter. Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black North-easter! O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day: Jovial wind of winter Turns us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy dyke; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild-fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snow-flakes Off the curdled sky. Hark! The brave North-easter! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow. Who can over-ride you? Let the horses go! Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams. Let the luscious South-wind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes. What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard grey weather Breeds hard English men. What's the soft South-wester? 'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their true-loves Out of all the seas: But the black North-easter, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world. Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. Come; and strong within us Stir the Vikings' blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God!

Kingsley.



CVI

THE BIRKENHEAD

Amid the loud ebriety of War, With shouts of 'la Republique' and 'la Gloire,' The Vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flag And broadside blazing level with the wave Went down erect, defiant, to their grave Beneath the sea.—'Twas but a Frenchman's brag, Yet Europe rang with it for many a year. Now we recount no fable; Europe, hear! And when they tell thee 'England is a fen Corrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay, Her nerveless burghers lying an easy prey For the first comer,' tell how the other day A crew of half a thousand Englishmen Went down into the deep in Simon's Bay!

Not with the cheer of battle in the throat, Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood, But, roused from dreams of home to find their boat Fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood, Biding God's pleasure and their chief's command. Calm was the sea, but not less calm that band Close ranged upon the poop, with bated breath But flinching not though eye to eye with Death! Heroes!

Who were those Heroes? Veterans steeled To face the King of Terrors mid the scaith Of many an hurricane and trenched field? Far other: weavers from the stocking-frame; Boys from the plough; cornets with beardless chin, But steeped in honour and in discipline! Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred name, Long since divorced from Hope suggests but shame, Disaster, and thy Captains held at bay By naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thank Heaven for those undegenerate sons who sank Aboard the Birkenhead in Simon's Bay!

Yule.



CVII

APOLLO

Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts Thick breaks the red flame; All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed frame.

Not here, O Apollo! Are haunts meet for thee. But, where Helicon breaks down In cliff to the sea,

Where the moon-silvered inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe, O speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-top Lie strewn the white flocks. On the cliff-side the pigeons Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds, Soft lulled by the rills, Lie wrapt in their blankets Asleep on the hills.

—What forms are these coming So white through the gloom? What garments out-glistening The gold-flowered broom?

What sweet-breathing presence Out-perfumes the thyme? What voices enrapture The night's balmy prime?—

'Tis Apollo comes leading His choir, the Nine. —The leader is fairest, But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows! They stream up again! What seeks on this mountain The glorified train?—

They bathe on this mountain, In the spring by the road; Then on to Olympus, Their endless abode.

—Whose praise do they mention? Of what is it told?— What will be for ever; What was from of old.

First hymn they the Father Of all things; and then, The rest of immortals, The action of men.

The day in his hotness, The strife with the palm; The night in her silence, The stars in their calm.

Arnold.



CVIII

THE DEATH OF SOHRAB

THE DUEL

He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword; at once they rushed Together, as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west; their shields Dashed with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest's heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees—such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud Grew suddenly in Heaven, and darkened the sun Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone; For both the on-looking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes And labouring breath; first Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin, And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm, Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, Never till now defiled, sank to the dust; And Rustum bowed his head; but then the gloom Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry;— No horse's cry was that, most like the roar Of some pained desert-lion, who all day Hath trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, And comes at night to die upon the sand. The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but rushed on, And struck again; and again Rustum bowed His head; but this time all the blade, like glass, Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, And in the hand the hilt remained alone. Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, And shouted: Rustum!—Sohrab heard that shout, And shrank amazed; back he recoiled one step, And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form; And then he stood bewildered; and he dropped His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. He reeled, and staggering back, sank to the ground; And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair— Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand.

SOHRAB

Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began:— 'Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. Or else that the great Rustum would come down Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. And then that all the Tartar host would praise Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, To glad thy father in his weak old age. Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man! Dearer to the red jackels shalt thou be Than to thy friends, and to thy father old,' And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied:— 'Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man! No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. For were I matched with ten such men as thee, And I were that which till to-day I was, They should be lying here, I standing there. But that beloved name unnerved my arm— That name, and something, I confess, in thee, Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield Fall; and thy spear transfix an unarmed foe. And now thou boastest, and insultest my fate. But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear: The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! My father, whom I seek through all the world, He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!' As when some hunter in the spring hath found A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, And followed her to find her where she fell Far off;—anon her mate comes winging back From hunting, and a great way off decries His huddling young left-sole; at that he checks His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps Circles above his eyry, with loud screams Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, In some far stony gorge out of his ken, A heap of fluttering feathers—never more Shall the lake glass her, flying over it; Never the black and dripping precipices Echo her stormy scream as she sails by— As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood Over his dying son, and knew him not. But, with a cold, incredulous voice he said: 'What prate is this of fathers and revenge? The mighty Rustum never had a son.' And with a failing voice Sohrab replied: 'Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I, Surely the news will one day reach his ear, Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here; And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son! What will that grief, what will that vengeance be? O could I live, till I that grief had seen! Yet him I pity not so much, but her, My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells With that old king, her father, who grows grey With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. Her most I pity, who no more will see Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, With spoils and honour, when the war is done. But a dark rumour will be bruited up, From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; And then will that defenceless woman learn That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more, But that in battle with a nameless foe, By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.'

THE RECOGNITION

He spoke, and as he ceased he wept aloud, Thinking of her he left, and his own death. He spoke; but Rustum listened plunged in thought. Nor did he yet believe it was his son Who spoke, although he called back names he knew; For he had had sure tidings that the babe, Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, Had been a puny girl, no boy at all— So that sad mother sent him word, for fear Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. And as he deemed that either Sohrab took, By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son; Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. So deemed he; yet he listened plunged in thought; And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore At the full moon; tears gathered in his eyes; For he remembered his own early youth, And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, Through many rolling clouds—so Rustum saw His youth; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom; And that old king, her father, who loved well His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child With joy; and all the pleasant life they led, They three, in that long-distant summer-time— The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt And hound, and morn on those delightful hills In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, Of age and looks to be his own dear son, Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand, Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, On the mown, dying grass—so Sohrab lay, Lovely in death, upon the common sand. And Rustum gazed on him in grief, and said: 'O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved: Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men Have told thee false—thou art not Rustum's son. For Rustum had no son; one child he had— But one—a girl; who with her mother now Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us— Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.' But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for now The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce, And he desired to draw forth the steel, And let the blood flow free, and so to die— But first he would convince his stubborn foe; And, rising sternly on one arm, he said: 'Man, who art thou who dost deny my words? Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, That she might prick it on the babe she bore.' He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks, And his knees tottered, and he smote his hand Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud; And to his heart he pressed the other hand, And in a hollow voice he spake and said: 'Sohrab, that were a proof that could not lie! If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son.' Then with weak hasty fingers Sohrab loosed His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, And showed a sign in faint vermilion points Pricked; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, An emperor's gift—at early morn he paints, And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands— So delicately pricked the sign appeared On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal, Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks; Him that kind creature found, and reared, and loved— Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, And then he touched it with his hand and said:— 'How sayest thou? Is that sign the proper sign Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?'