Part 5

‘Homeward, my lads!’ cried the general.--‘Huzza!’ Roll went the drum, and the fife played cheer’ly, To quick time we footed, and sung all the way ‘Hey for the pretty girls we love so dearly!’ My father lived with jolly boys in bustle, jars, and strife, And, like him, being fond of noise, I mean to take a wife Soon as miss blushes ‘_y-i-s!_’ Rings, gloves, dears, loves, Bells ringing, comrades singing, Honeymoon finished soon, Scolding, sighing, children crying! Yet still a wedded life may prove, if taken smooth and rough, A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.

_Thomas Dibdin._

SOUTHEY

XLIV

THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS

Steep is the soldier’s path; nor are the heights Of glory to be won without long toil And arduous efforts of enduring hope; Save when Death takes the aspirant by the hand, And cutting short the work of years, at once Lifts him to that conspicuous eminence. Such fate was mine.--The standard of the Buffs I bore at Albuera, on that day When, covered by a shower, and fatally For friends misdeem’d, the Polish lancers fell Upon our rear. Surrounding me, they claim’d My precious charge.--‘Not but with life!’ I cried, And life was given for immortality. The flag which to my heart I held, when wet With that heart’s blood, was soon victoriously Regain’d on that great day. In former times, Marlborough beheld it borne at Ramilies; For Brunswick and for liberty it waved Triumphant at Culloden; and hath seen The lilies on the Caribbean shores Abased before it. Then too in the front Of battle did it flap exultingly, When Douro, with its wide stream interposed, Saved not the French invaders from attack, Discomfiture, and ignominious rout. My name is Thomas: undisgraced have I Transmitted it. He who in days to come May bear the honour’d banner to the field, Will think of Albuera, and of me.

_Robert Southey._

CAMPBELL

XLV

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o’er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger’s troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

_Thomas Campbell._

XLVI

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day’s renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark’s crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time.

But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O’er the deadly space between. ‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feebler cheer the Dane, To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail; Or, in conflagration pale Light the goom.

Now joy, Old England, raise For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities’ blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

_Thomas Campbell._

XLVII

MEN OF ENGLAND

Men of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood:--

By the foes you’ve fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds you’ve done, Trophies captured--breaches mounted, Navies conquered--kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom? What avails in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

Pageants!--Let the world revere us For our people’s rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom’s holy cause.

Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory, Sidney’s matchless shade is yours,-- Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We’re the sons of sires that baffled Crown’d and mitred tyranny;-- They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights--so will we!

_Thomas Campbell._

CUNNINGHAM

XLVIII

THE BRITISH SAILOR’S SONG

Away with bayonet and with lance, With corselet, casque, and sword; Our island-king no war-horse needs, For on the sea he’s lord. His throne’s the war-ship’s lofty deck, His sceptre is the mast; His kingdom is the rolling wave, His servant is the blast. His anchor’s up, fair Freedom’s flag Proud to the mast he nails; Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads, For there your terror sails.

I saw fierce Prussia’s chargers stand, Her children’s sharp swords out;-- Proud Austria’s bright spurs streaming red When rose the closing shout; But soon the steeds rush’d masterless, By tower, and town, and wood; For lordly France her fiery youth Poured o’er them like a flood. Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels, And let your steeds run free; Then come to our unconquered decks, And learn to reign at sea.

Behold yon black and batter’d hulk That slumbers on the tide, There is no sound from stem to stern, For peace has pluck’d her pride; The masts are down, the cannon mute She shows nor sheet nor sail, Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze, Nor answers shout nor hail; Her merry men, with all their mirth, Have sought some other shore; And she with all her glory on, Shall rule the sea no more.

So landsmen speak. Lo! her top-masts Are quivering in the sky; Her sails are spread, her anchor’s raised, There sweeps she gallant by. A thousand warriors fill her decks; Within her painted side The thunder sleeps--man’s might has nought Can match or mar her pride. In victor glory goes she forth; Her stainless flag flies free; Kings of the earth, come and behold How Britain reigns on sea!

When on your necks the armèd foot Of fierce Napoleon trod, And all was his, save the wide sea, Where we triumphant rode, He launched his terror and his strength, Our sea-born pride to tame; They came--they got the Nelson-touch, And vanish’d as they came. Go, hang your bridles in your halls, And set your war-steeds free; The world has one unconquer’d king, And he reigns on the sea!

_Allan Cunningham._

BYRON

XLIX

ON LEAVING ENGLAND

Once more upon the waters! Yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead! Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam to sail Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.

I’ve taught me other tongues--and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with--aye, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be,-- Not without cause; and should I leave behind The inviolate Island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,

Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay My ashes in a soil which is not mine, My Spirit shall resume it--if we may Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine My hopes of being remembered in my line With my land’s language: if too fond and far These aspirations in their scope incline,-- If my Fame should be, as my fortunes are, Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar

My name from out the temple where the dead Are honoured by the Nations--let it be-- And light the Laurels on a loftier head! And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me-- ‘Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.’ Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need-- The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted,--they have torn me,--and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

_Byron._

L

THE ISLES OF GREECE

The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace,-- Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute. To sounds which echo further west Than your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’

The mountains look on Marathon-- And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream’d that Greece might still be free, For standing on the Persians’ grave I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;--all were his! He counted them at break of day-- And when the sun set where were they?

And where are they? And where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

’Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot’s shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear!

Must _we_ but weep o’er days more blest? Must _we_ but blush? Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!

What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;--the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent’s fall, And answer, ‘Let one living head, But one arise,--we come, we come!’ ’Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain--in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio’s vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call-- How answers each bold Bacchanal!

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine-- Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

_Byron._

LI

THE EVE OF WATERLOO

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry--and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No--’twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street; On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-- But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer--clearer--deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the cannon’s opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick’s fated Chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro-- And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness-- And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste--the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war,-- And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips--‘The foe! They come! they come!’

And wild and high the ‘Camerons’ Gathering’ rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-- How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan’s--Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass-- Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;-- Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day Battle’s magnificently-stern array! The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend--foe,--in one red burial blent!

_Lord Byron._

WOLFE

LII

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the 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.

_Charles Wolfe._

HEMANS

LIII

THE BENDED BOW

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, There was sent through Britain a bended bow; And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far, As the land rose up at the sign of war.

‘Heard you not the battle horn?-- Reaper! leave thy golden corn! Leave it for the birds of heaven, Swords must flash, and spears be riven! Leave it for the winds to shed-- Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red!’

And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

‘Hunter! leave the mountain-chase! Take the falchion from its place! Let the wolf go free to-day, Leave him for a nobler prey! Let the deer ungall’d sweep by,-- Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh!’

And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

‘Chieftain! quit the joyous feast! Stay not till the song hath ceased: Though the mead be foaming bright, Though the fires give ruddy light, Leave the hearth, and leave the hall-- Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.’

And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

‘Prince! thy father’s deeds are told, In the bower, and in the hold! Where the goatherd’s lay is sung, Where the minstrel’s harp is strung, Foes are on thy native sea-- Give our bards a tale of thee!’

And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

‘Mother! stay not thou thy boy! He must learn the battle’s joy, Sister bring the sword and spear, Give thy brother words of cheer! Maiden! bid thy lover part, Britain calls the strong in heart!’

And the bended bow and the voice passed on; And the bards made song for a battle won.

_Felicia Hemans._

LIV

ENGLAND’S DEAD

Son of the Ocean Isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is reared o’er Glory’s bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, not wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead.

On Egypt’s burning plains, By the pyramid o’erswayed, With fearful power the noonday reigns, And the palm trees yield no shade;

But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!-- There slumber England’s dead.

The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far by Ganges’ banks at night Is heard the tiger’s roar;--

But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone,-- There slumber England’s dead.

Loud rush the torrent floods The western wilds among, And free in green Columbia’s woods The hunter’s bow is strung;--

But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow’s flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?-- There slumber England’s dead.

The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky Like rose-leaves on the breeze;--

But let the storm rage on! Let the fresh wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,-- There slumber England’s dead.

On the frozen deep’s repose ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern night-clouds lour;--

But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done,-- Even there sleep England’s dead.

The war-like of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead.

_Felicia Hemans._

MACAULAY

LV

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 Cæsar’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.