Chapter 1

Processed by Tom Harris. In memory of my mother, Elizabeth Harris, who loved poetry, and scanned from her own copy of the book.

Collected Poems 1897 - 1907 by Henry Newbolt

To Thomas Hardy

Drake's Drum

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' rüled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?) Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin' They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago!

The Fighting Téméraire

It was eight bells ringing, For the morning watch was done, And the gunner's lads were singing As they polished every gun. It was eight bells ringing, And the gunner's lads were singing, For the ship she rode a-swinging, As they polished every gun.

Oh! to see the linstock lighting, Téméraire! Téméraire! Oh! to hear the round shot biting, Téméraire! Téméraire!

Oh! to see the linstock lighting, And to hear the round shot biting, For we're all in love with fighting On the fighting Téméraire.

It was noontide ringing, And the battle just begun, When the ship her way was winging, As they loaded every gun. It was noontide ringing, When the ship her way was winging, And the gunner's lads were singing As they loaded every gun.

There'll be many grim and gory, Téméraire! Téméraire! There'll be few to tell the story, Téméraire! Téméraire!

There'll be many grim and gory, There'll be few to tell the story, But we'll all be one in glory With the Fighting Téméraire.

There's a far bell ringing At the setting of the sun, And a phantom voice is singing Of the great days done. There's a far bell ringing, And a phantom voice is singing Of renown for ever clinging To the great days done.

Now the sunset breezes shiver, Téméraire! Téméraire! And she's fading down the river, Téméraire! Téméraire!

Now the sunset's breezes shiver, And she's fading down the river, But in England's song for ever She's the Fighting Téméraire.

Admirals All

Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake, Here's to the bold and free! Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake, Hail to the Kings of the Sea! Admirals all, for England's sake, Honour be yours and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson's peerless name!

Admirals all, for England's sake, Honour be yours and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson's peerless name!

Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay With the galleons fair in sight; Howard at last must give him his way, And the word was passed to fight. Never was schoolboy gayer than he, Since holidays first began: He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea, And under the guns he ran.

Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared, Their cities he put to the sack; He singed his Catholic Majesty's beard, And harried his ships to wrack. He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls When the great Armada came; But he said, "They must wait their turn, good souls," And he stooped and finished the game.

Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold, Duncan he had but two; But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled, And his colours aloft he flew. "I've taken the depth to a fathom," he cried, "And I'll sink with a right good will: For I know when we're all of us under the tide My flag will be fluttering still."

Splinters were flying above, below, When Nelson sailed the Sound: "Mark you, I wouldn't be elsewhere now," Said he, "for a thousand pound!" The Admiral's signal bade him fly But he wickedly wagged his head: He clapped the glass to his sightless eye, And "I'm damned if I see it!" he said.

Admirals all, they said their say (The echoes are ringing still). Admirals all, they went their way To the haven under the hill. But they left us a kingdom none can take, The realm of the circling sea, To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake, And the Rodneys yet to be.

Admirals all, for England's sake, Honour be yours and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson's peerless name!

San Stefano

(A Ballad of the Bold Menelaus)

It was morning at St. Helen's, in the great and gallant days, And the sea beneath the sun glittered wide, When the frigate set her courses, all a-shimmer in the haze And she hauled her cable home and took the tide. She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore, When the bold _Menelaus_ put to sea.

She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore, When the bold _Menelaus_ put to sea.

She was clear of Monte Cristo, she was heading for the land, When she spied a pennant red and white and blue; They were foemen, and they knew it, and they'd half a league in hand, But she flung aloft her royals, and she flew. She was nearer, nearer, nearer, they were caught beyond a doubt, But they slipped her into Orbetello Bay, And the lubbers gave a shout as they paid their cables out, With the guns grinning round them where they lay.

Now, Sir Peter was a captain of a famous fighting race, Son and grandson of an admiral was he; And he looked upon the batteries, he looked upon the chase, And he heard the shout that echoed out to sea. And he called across the decks, "Ay! the cheering might be late If they kept it till the _Menelaus_ runs; Bid the master and his mate heave the lead and lay her straight For the prize lying yonder by the guns!"

When the summer moon was setting, into Orbetello Bay Came the _Menelaus_ gliding like a ghost; And her boats were manned in silence, and in silence pulled away, And in silence every gunner took his post. With a volley from her broadside the citadel she woke, And they hammered back like heroes all the night; But before the morning broke she had vanished through the smoke With her prize upon her quarter grappled tight.

It was evening at St. Helen's in the great and gallant time, And the sky behind the down was flushing far; And the flags were all a-flutter, and the bells were all a-chime, When the frigate cast her anchor off the bar. She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; And they cheered her from the shore for the colours at the fore, When the bold _Menelaus_ came from the sea.

She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore, When the bold _Menelaus_ came from the sea.

Hawke

In seventeen hundred and fifty-nine, When Hawke came swooping from the West, The French King's Admiral with twenty of the line, Was sailing forth to sack us, out of Brest. The ports of France were crowded, the quays of France a-hum With thirty thousand soldiers marching to the drum, For bragging time was over and fighting time was come When Hawke came swooping from the West.

'Twas long past noon of a wild November day When Hawke came swooping from the West; He heard the breakers thundering in Quiberon Bay, But he flew the flag for battle, line abreast. Down upon the quicksands roaring out of sight Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell the night, But they took the foe for pilot and the cannon's glare for light When Hawke came swooping from the West.

The Frenchmen turned like a covey down the wind When Hawke came swooping from the West; One he sank with all hands, one he caught and pinned, And the shallows and the storm took the rest. The guns that should have conquered us they rusted on the shore, The men that would have mastered us they drummed and marched no more, For England was England, and a mighty brood she bore When Hawke came swooping from the West.

The Bright Medusa

(1807)

She's the daughter of the breeze, She's the darling of the seas, And we call her, if you please, the bright _Medu--sa_; From beneath her bosom bare To the snakes among her hair She's a flash o' golden light, the bright _Medu--sa_.

When the ensign dips above And the guns are all for love, She's as gentle as a dove, the bright _Medu--sa_; But when the shot's in rack And her forestay flies the Jack, He's a merry man would slight the bright _Medu--sa_.

When she got the word to go Up to Monte Video, There she found the river low, the bright _Medu--sa_; So she tumbled out her guns And a hundred of her sons, And she taught the Dons to fight the bright _Medu--sa_.

When the foeman can be found With the pluck to cross her ground, First she walks him round and round, the bright _Medu--sa_; Then she rakes him fore and aft Till he's just a jolly raft, And she grabs him like a kite, the bright _Medu--sa_.

She's the daughter of the breeze, She's the darling of the seas, And you'll call her, if you please, the bright _Medu--sa_; For till England's sun be set-- And it's not for setting yet-- She shall bear her name by right, the bright _Medu--sa_.

The Old Superb

The wind was rising easterly, the morning sky was blue, The Straits before us opened wide and free; We looked towards the Admiral, where high the Peter flew, And all our hearts were dancing like the sea. "The French are gone to Martinique with four and twenty sail! The Old _Superb_ is old and foul and slow, But the French are gone to Martinique, and Nelson's on the trail. And where he goes the Old _Superb_ must go!"

So Westward ho! for Trinidad, and Eastward ho! for Spain, And "Ship ahoy!" a hundred times a day; Round the world if need be, and round the world again, With a lame duck lagging all the way.

The Old _Superb_ was barnacled and green as grass below, Her sticks were only fit for stirring grog; The pride of all her midshipmen was silent long ago, And long ago they ceased to heave the log. Four year out from home she was, and ne'er a week in port, And nothing save the guns aboard her bright; But Captain Keats he knew the game, and swore to share the sport, For he never yet came in too late to fight.

So Westward ho! for Trinidad, and Eastward ho! for Spain, And "Ship ahoy!" a hundred times a day; Round the world if need be, and round the world again, With a lame duck lagging all the way.

"Now up, my lads," the Captain cried, "for sure the case were hard If longest out were first to fall behind; Aloft, aloft with studding sails, and lash them on the yard, For night and day the Trades are driving blind!" So all day long and all day long behind the fleet we crept, And how we fretted none but Nelson guessed; But every night the Old _Superb_ she sailed when others slept, Till we ran the French to earth with all the rest.

Oh, 'twas Westward ho! for Trinidad, and Eastward ho! for Spain, And "Ship ahoy!" a hundred times a day; Round the world if need be, and round the world again, With a lame duck lagging all the way.

The Quarter-Gunner's Yarn

We lay at St. Helen's, and easy she rode With one anchor catted and fresh-water stowed; When the barge came alongside like bullocks we roared, For we knew what we carried with Nelson aboard.

Our Captain was Hardy, the pride of us all, I'll ask for none better when danger shall call; He was hardy by nature and Hardy by name, And soon by his conduct to honour he came.

The third day the Lizard was under our lee, Where the _Ajax_ and _Thunderer_ joined us at sea, But what with foul weather and tacking about, When we sighted the Fleet we were thirteen days out.

The Captains they all came aboard quick enough, But the news that they brought was as heavy as duff; So backward an enemy never was seen, They were harder to come at than Cheeks the Marine.

The lubbers had hare's lugs where seamen have ears, So we stowed all saluting and smothered our cheers, And to humour their stomachs and tempt them to dine, In the offing we showed them but six of the line.

One morning the topmen reported below The old _Agamemnon_ escaped from the foe. Says Nelson: "My lads, there'll be honour for some, For we're sure of a battle now Berry has come."

"Up hammocks!" at last cried the bo'sun at dawn; The guns were cast loose and the tompions drawn; The gunner was bustling the shot racks to fill, And "All hands to quarters!" was piped with a will.

We now saw the enemy bearing ahead, And to East of them Cape Traflagar it was said, 'Tis a name we remember from father to son, That the days of old England may never be done.

The _Victory_ led, to her flag it was due, Tho' the _Téméraires_ thought themselves Admirals too; But Lord Nelson he hailed them with masterful grace: "Cap'n Harvey, I'll thank you to keep in your place."

To begin with we closed the _Bucentaure_ alone, An eighty-gun ship and their Admiral's own; We raked her but once, and the rest of the day Like a hospital hulk on the water she lay.

To our battering next the _Redoutable_ struck, But her sharpshooters gave us the worst of the luck: Lord Nelson was wounded, most cruel to tell. "They've done for me; Hardy!" he cried as he fell.

To the cockpit in silence they carried him past, And sad were the looks that were after him cast; His face with a kerchief he tried to conceal, But we knew him too well from the truck to the keel.

When the Captain reported a victory won, "Thank God!" he kept saying, "my duty I've done." At last came the moment to kiss him good-bye, And the Captain for once had the salt in his eye.

"Now anchor, dear Hardy," the Admiral cried; But before we could make it he fainted and died. All night in the trough of the sea we were tossed, And for want of ground-tackle good prizes were lost.

Then we hauled down the flag, at the fore it was red, And blue at the mizzen was hoisted instead By Nelson's famed Captain, the pride of each tar, Who fought in the _Victory_ off Cape Traflagar.

Northumberland

"The Old and Bold"

When England sets her banner forth And bids her armour shine, She'll not forget the famous North, The lads of moor and Tyne; And when the loving-cup's in hand, And Honour leads the cry, They know not old Northumberland Who'll pass her memory by.

When Nelson sailed for Trafalgar With all his country's best, He held them dear as brothers are, But one beyond the rest. For when the fleet with heroes manned To clear the decks began, The boast of old Northumberland He sent to lead the van.

Himself by _Victory's_ bulwarks stood And cheered to see the sight; "That noble fellow Collingwood, How bold he goes to fight!" Love, that the league of Ocean spanned, Heard him as face to face; "What would he give, Northumberland, To share our pride of place?"

The flag that goes the world around And flaps on every breeze Has never gladdened fairer ground Or kinder hearts than these. So when the loving-cup's in hand And Honour leads the cry, They know not old Northumberland Who'll pass her memory by.

For A Trafalgar Cenotaph

Lover of England, stand awhile and gaze With thankful heart, and lips refrained from praise; They rest beyond the speech of human pride Who served with Nelson and with Nelson died.

Craven

(Mobile Bay, 1864)

Over the turret, shut in his iron-clad tower, Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, Now was the time for a charge to end the game.

There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim The flag was flying, and he was head of the line.

The fleet behind was jamming; the monitor hung Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed, Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed.

Into the narrowing channel, between the shore And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar, A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.

Over the manhole, up in the iron-clad tower, Pilot and Captain met as they turned to fly: The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour, For one could pass to be saved, and one must die.

They stood like men in a dream: Craven spoke, Spoke as he lived and fought, with a Captain's pride, "After you, Pilot." The pilot woke, Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.

All men praise the deed and the manner, but we--- We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud, The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free, The grace of the empty hands and promises loud:

Sidney thirsting, a humbler need to slake, Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeon's hand, Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade's sake, Outram coveting right before command:

These were paladins, these were Craven's peers, These with him shall be crowned in story and song, Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears, Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong.

Messmates

He gave us all a good-bye cheerily At the first dawn of day; We dropped him down the side full drearily When the light died away. It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there, And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over him And the great ships go by.

He's there alone with green seas rocking him For a thousand miles round; He's there alone with dumb things mocking him, And we're homeward bound. It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, While the months and the years roll over him And the great ships go by.

I wonder if the tramps come near enough As they thrash to and fro, And the battle-ships' bells ring clear enough To be heard down below; If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him When the great ships go by.

The Death Of Admiral Blake

(August 7th, 1657)

Laden with spoil of the South, fulfilled with the glory of achievement, And freshly crowned with never-dying fame, Sweeping by shores where the names are the names of the victories of England, Across the Bay the squadron homeward came.

Proudly they came, but their pride was the pomp of a funeral at midnight, When dreader yet the lonely morrow looms; Few are the words that are spoken, and faces are gaunt beneath the torchlight That does but darken more the nodding plumes.

Low on the field of his fame, past hope lay the Admiral triumphant, And fain to rest him after all his pain; Yet for the love that he bore to his own land, ever unforgotten, He prayed to see the western hills again.

Fainter than stars in a sky long gray with the coming of the daybreak, Or sounds of night that fade when night is done, So in the death-dawn faded the splendour and loud renown of warfare, And life of all its longings kept but one.

"Oh! to be there for an hour when the shade draws in beside the hedgerows, And falling apples wake the drowsy noon: Oh! for the hour when the elms grow sombre and human in the twilight, And gardens dream beneath the rising moon.

"Only to look once more on the land of the memories of childhood, Forgetting weary winds and barren foam: Only to bid farewell to the combe and the orchard and the moorland, And sleep at last among the fields of home!"

So he was silently praying, till now, when his strength was ebbing faster, The Lizard lay before them faintly blue; Now on the gleaming horizon the white cliffs laughed along the coast-line, And now the forelands took the shapes they knew.

There lay the Sound and the Island with green leaves down beside the water, The town, the Hoe, the masts with sunset fired---- Dreams! ay, dreams of the dead! for the great heart faltered on the threshold, And darkness took the land his soul desired.

Væ Victis

Beside the placid sea that mirrored her With the old glory of dawn that cannot die, The sleeping city began to moan and stir, As one that fain from an ill dream would fly; Yet more she feared the daylight bringing nigh Such dreams as know not sunrise, soon or late,--- Visions of honour lost and power gone by, Of loyal valour betrayed by factious hate, And craven sloth that shrank from the labour of forging fate.

They knew and knew not, this bewildered crowd, That up her streets in silence hurrying passed, What manner of death should make their anguish loud, What corpse across the funeral pyre be cast, For none had spoken it; only, gathering fast As darkness gathers at noon in the sun's eclipse, A shadow of doom enfolded them, vague and vast, And a cry was heard, unfathered of earthly lips, "What of the ships, O Carthage? Carthage, what of the ships?"

They reached the wall, and nowise strange it seemed To find the gates unguarded and open wide; They climbed the shoulder, and meet enough they deemed The black that shrouded the seaward rampart's side And veiled in drooping gloom the turrets' pride; But this was nought, for suddenly down the slope They saw the harbour, and sense within them died; Keel nor mast was there, rudder nor rope; It lay like a sea-hawk's eyry spoiled of life and hope.

Beyond, where dawn was a glittering carpet, rolled From sky to shore on level and endless seas, Hardly their eyes discerned in a dazzle of gold That here in fifties, yonder in twos and threes, The ships they sought, like a swarm of drowning bees By a wanton gust on the pool of a mill-dam hurled, Floated forsaken of life-giving tide and breeze, Their oars broken, their sails for ever furled, For ever deserted the bulwarks that guarded the wealth of the world.

A moment yet, with breathing quickly drawn And hands agrip, the Carthaginian folk Stared in the bright untroubled face of dawn, And strove with vehement heaped denial to choke Their sure surmise of fate's impending stroke; Vainly--for even now beneath their gaze A thousand delicate spires of distant smoke Reddened the disc of the sun with a stealthy haze, And the smouldering grief of a nation burst with the kindling blaze.

"O dying Carthage!" so their passion raved, "Would nought but these the conqueror's hate assuage? If these be taken, how may the land be saved Whose meat and drink was empire, age by age?" And bitter memory cursed with idle rage The greed that coveted gold beyond renown, The feeble hearts that feared their heritage, The hands that cast the sea-kings' sceptre down And left to alien brows their famed ancestral crown.