Chapter 5

Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken where he is gane: O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.'

XXXIII

THE BARD

'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; 'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe With haggard eyes the Poet stood (Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air), And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: 'Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay.

'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue That hushed the stormy main: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie Smeared with gore and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; The famished eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries!-- No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

'Weave the warp and weave the woof The winding-sheet of Edward's race: Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonising king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

'Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hushed in grim repose expects his evening prey.

'Fill high the sparkling bowl. The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

'Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun;) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove; the work is done.) Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail: All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

'Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line: Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face Attempered sweet to virgin grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play? Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls and, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings.

'The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care, To triumph and to die are mine.' He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

_Gray._

XXXIV

THE ROYAL GEORGE

Toll for the Brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds And she was overset; Down went the Royal George With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main:

But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

_Cowper._

XXXV

BOADICEA

When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief:

'Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish,--write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.

Regions CÊsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.'

Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She with all a monarch's pride Felt them in her bosom glow, Rushed to battle, fought, and died, Dying, hurled them at the foe:

'Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you.'

_Cowper._

XXXVI

TO HIS LADY

If doughty deeds my lady please Right soon I'll mount my steed; And strong his arm, and fast his seat That bears frae me the meed. I'll wear thy colours in my cap Thy picture at my heart; And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye I'll dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thine ear These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me.

_Graham of Gartmore._

XXXVII

CONSTANCY

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear The mainmast by the board; My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear, And love well stored, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring winds, the raging sea, In hopes on shore to be once more Safe moored with thee!

Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And surges roaring from below, Shall my signal be to think on thee, And this shall be my song: Blow high, blow low--

And on that night, when all the crew, The memory of their former lives O'er flowing cans of flip renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh and think on thee, And, as the ship rolls through the sea, The burden of my song shall be: Blow high, blow low--

_Dibdin._

XXXVIII

THE PERFECT SAILOR

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful, below, he did his duty, But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare, His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair; And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed, For, though his body's under hatches His soul has gone aloft.

_Dibdin._

XXXIX

THE DESERTER

If sadly thinking, With spirits sinking, Could more than drinking My cares compose, A cure for sorrow From sighs I'd borrow, And hope to-morrow Would end my woes. But as in wailing There's nought availing, And Death unfailing Will strike the blow, Then for that reason, And for a season, Let us be merry Before we go.

To joy a stranger, A way-worn ranger, In every danger My course I've run; Now hope all ending, And Death befriending, His last aid lending, My cares are done: No more a rover, Or hapless lover, My griefs are over, My glass runs low; Then for that reason, And for a season, Let us be merry Before we go!

_Curran._

XL

THE ARETHUSA

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold, Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould, While English glory I unfold, Huzza for the Arethusa! She is a frigate tight and brave, As ever stemmed the dashing wave; Her men are staunch To their fav'rite launch, And when the foe shall meet our fire, Sooner than strike, we'll all expire On board of the Arethusa.

'Twas with the spring fleet she went out The English Channel to cruise about, When four French sail, in show so stout Bore down on the Arethusa. The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie, The Arethusa seemed to fly, Not a sheet, or a tack, Or a brace, did she slack; Though the Frenchman laughed and thought it stuff, But they knew not the handful of men, how tough, On board of the Arethusa.

On deck five hundred men did dance, The stoutest they could find in France; We with two hundred did advance On board of the Arethusa. Our captain hailed the Frenchman, 'Ho!' The Frenchman then cried out 'Hallo!' 'Bear down, d'ye see, To our Admiral's lee!' 'No, no,' says the Frenchman, 'that can't be!' 'Then I must lug you along with me,' Says the saucy Arethusa.

The fight was off the Frenchman's land, We forced them back upon their strand, For we fought till not a stick could stand Of the gallant Arethusa. And now we've driven the foe ashore Never to fight with Britons more, Let each fill his glass To his fav'rite lass; A health to our captain and officers true, And all that belong to the jovial crew On board of the Arethusa.

_Prince Hoare._

XLI

THE BEAUTY OF TERROR

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

_Blake._

XLII

DEFIANCE

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie: M'Pherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring and danced it round, Below the gallows tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath?-- On monie a bloody plain I've dared his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again!

Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword! And there's no a man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a word.

I've lived a life of sturt and strife; I die by treacherie: It burns my heart I must depart And not avengËd be.

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die!

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring and danced it round, Below the gallows tree.

_Burns._

XLIII

THE GOAL OF LIFE

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wandered mony a weary foot Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled i' the burn From mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.

_Burns._

XLIV

BEFORE PARTING

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink before I go A service to my bonnie lassie. The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are rankËd ready, The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's no the roar o' sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry, Nor shout o' war that's heard afar, It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

_Burns._

XLV

DEVOTION

O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That mak the miser's treasure poor. How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison!

Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard or saw; Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the toun, I sighed, and said amang them a', 'Ye are na Mary Morison.'

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown! A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

_Burns._

XLVI

TRUE UNTIL DEATH

It was a' for our rightfu' King, We left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' King We e'er saw Irish land, My dear, We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain; My love and native land farewell, For I maun cross the main, My dear, For I maun cross the main.

He turned him right and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle-reins a shake, With adieu for evermore, My dear, Adieu for evermore.

The sodger from the wars returns, The sailor frae the main; But I hae parted frae my love, Never to meet again, My dear, Never to meet again.

When day is gane, and night is come, And a' folk bound to sleep; I think on him that's far awa, The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear, The lee-lang night, and weep.

_Burns._

XLVII

VENICE

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee And was the safeguard of the West: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free; No guile seduced, no force could violate; And, when she took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

_Wordsworth._

XLVIII

DESTINY

It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,' Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.

_Wordsworth._

XLIX

THE MOTHERLAND

When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed? But when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart, Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. But dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; And I by my affection was beguiled. What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

_Wordsworth._

L

IDEAL

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee; she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on itself did lay.

_Wordsworth._

LI

TO DUTY

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot; Who do thy work, and know it not: May joy be theirs while life shall last! And Thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!

Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried; No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control; But in the quietness of thought: Me this unchartered freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires: My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.