Part 6
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 hills of Wales, Till twelve fair Counties saw the blaze on Malvern’s lonely height, Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin’s crest of light, Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely’s stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o’er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir’s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o’er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt’s embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.
_Macaulay._
LVI
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. O 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.
_Lord Macaulay._
TRENCH
LVII
THE TASK
Yes, let us own it in confession free, That when we girt ourselves to quell the wrong, We deemed it not so giant-like and strong, But it with our slight effort thought to see Pushed from its base; yea, almost deemed that we, Champions of right, might be excused the price Of pain, and loss, and large self-sacrifice, Set ever on high things by Heav’n’s decree. What if this work’s great hardness was concealed From us, until so far upon our way That no escape remained us, no retreat,-- Lest, being at an earlier hour revealed, We might have shrunk too weakly from the heat, And shunned the burden of this fiery day?
_Richard Chenevix Trench._
LVIII
THE UNFORGOTTEN
Whom for thy race of heroes wilt thou own, And, England, who shall be thy joy, thy pride? As thou art just, oh then not those alone Who nobly conquering lived, or conquering died.
Then also in thy roll of heroes write, For well they earned what best thou canst bestow, Who being girt and armèd for the fight, Yielded their arms, but to no mortal foe.
Far off they pined on fever-stricken coast, Or sank in sudden arms of painful death; And faces which their eyes desired the most, They saw not, as they drew their parting breath.
Sad doom, to know a mighty work in hand, Which shall from all the ages honour win; Upon the threshold of this work to stand, Arrested there, while others enter in.
And this was theirs; they saw their fellows bound To fields of fame which they might never share; And all the while within their own hearts found A strength that was not less, to do and dare:
But knew that never, never with their peers, They should salute some grand day’s glorious close, The shout of triumph ringing in their ears, The light of battle shining on their brows.
Sad doom;--yet say not Heaven to them assigned A lot from all of glory quite estranged: Albeit the laurel which they hoped to bind About their brows for cypress wreath was changed.
Heaven gave to them a glory stern, austere, A glory of all earthly glory shorn; With firm heart to accept fate’s gift severe, Bravely to bear the thing that must be borne;
To see such visions fade and turn to nought, And in this saddest issue to consent; If only the great work were duly wrought, That others should accomplish it, content.
Then as thou wouldst thyself continue great, Keep a true eye for what is great indeed; Nor know it only in its lofty state And victor’s robes, but in its lowliest weed.
And now, and when this dreadful work is done, England, be these too thy delight and pride; Wear them as near thy heart as any one Of all who conquering lived, or conquering died.
_Richard Chenevix Trench._
BROWNING
LIX
THE FORCED RECRUIT
(_Solferino, 1859_)
In the ranks of the Austrian you found him, He died with his face to you all; Yet bury him here where around him You honour your bravest that fall.
Venetian, fair-featured and slender, He lies shot to death in his youth, With a smile on his lips over-tender For any mere soldier’s dead mouth.
No stranger, and yet not a traitor, Though alien the cloth on his breast, Underneath it how seldom a greater Young heart has a shot sent to rest!
By your enemy tortured and goaded To march with them, stand in their file, His musket (see) never was loaded, He facing your guns with that smile!
As orphans yearn on to their mothers, He yearned to your patriot bands;-- Let me die for our Italy, brothers, If not in your ranks, by your hands!
‘Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me A ball in the body which may Deliver my heart here, and tear me This badge of the Austrian away!’
So thought he, so died he this morning. What then? Many others have died. Ay, but easy for men to die scorning The death-stroke, who fought side by side--
One tricolor floating above them; Struck down ’mid triumphant acclaims Of an Italy rescued to love them And blazen the brass with their names.
But he,--without witness or honour, Mixed, shamed in his country’s regard, With the tyrants who march in upon her, Died faithful and passive: ’twas hard.
’Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction Cut off from the guerdon of sons, With most filial obedience, conviction, His soul kissed the lips of her guns.
That moves you? Nay, grudge not to show it, While digging a grave for him here: The others who died, says your poet, Have glory,--let _him_ have a tear.
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._
TENNYSON
LX
THE ANSWER
You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas.
It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will;
A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent:
Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to fulness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread.
Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute;
Tho’ Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great-- Tho’ every channel of the State Should fill and choke with golden sand--
Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South.
_Tennyson._
LXI
FREEDOM
Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather’d in her prophet mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro’ town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal’d The fullness of her face--
Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes!
_Tennyson._
LXII
BATTLE SONG
Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums, That beat to battle where he stands; Thy face across his fancy comes, And gives the battle to his hands: A moment, while the trumpets blow, He sees his brood about thy knee; The next, like fire he meets the foe, And strikes him dead for thine and thee.
_Tennyson._
LXIII
VICTORIA’S REIGN
Her court was pure; her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen;
And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet
By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-based upon her people’s will, And compass’d by the inviolate sea.
_Tennyson._
LXIV
HANDS ALL ROUND
First pledge our Queen this solemn night, Then drink to England, every guest; That man’s the best Cosmopolite Who loves his native country best. May freedom’s oak for ever live With stronger life from day to day; That man’s the true Conservative Who lops the mouldered branch away. Hands all round! God the traitor’s hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.
To all the loyal hearts who long To keep our English Empire whole! To all our noble sons, the strong New England of the Southern Pole! To England under Indian skies, To those dark millions of her realm! To Canada whom we love and prize, Whatever statesman hold the helm. Hands all round! God the traitor’s hope confound! To this great name of England drink, my friends, And all her glorious Empire round and round.
To all our statesmen so they be True leaders of the land’s desire! To both our Houses, may they see Beyond the borough and the shire! We sail’d wherever ship could sail, We founded many a mighty state; Pray God our greatness may not fail Thro’ craven fears of being great. Hands all round! God the traitor’s hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.
_Tennyson._
LXV
BRITONS, HOLD YOUR OWN!
Britain fought her sons of yore-- Britain fail’d; and never more, Careless of our growing kin, Shall we sin our fathers’ sin, Men that in a narrower day-- Unprophetic rulers they-- Drove from out the mother’s nest That young eagle of the West To forage for herself alone; Britons, hold your own!
Sharers of our glorious past, Brothers, must we part at last? Shall we not thro’ good and ill Cleave to one another still? Britain’s myriad voices call, ‘Sons, be wedded each and all, Into one imperial whole, One with Britain, heart and soul! One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne! Britons, hold your own!’
_Tennyson._
LXVI
WELLINGTON AT ST. PAUL’S
Who is he that cometh, like an honour’d guest, With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest? Mighty Seaman, this is he Was great by land as thou by sea. Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, The greatest sailor since our world began. Now to the roll of muffled drums, To thee the greatest soldier comes; For this is he Was great by land as thou by sea; His foes were thine; he kept us free; O give him welcome, this is he Worthy of our gorgeous rites, And worthy to be laid by thee; For this is England’s greatest son, He that gained a hundred fights, Nor ever lost an English gun.
Mighty Seaman, tender and true, And pure as he from taint of craven guile, O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, If aught of things that here befall Touch a spirit among things divine, If love of country move thee there at all, Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine! And thro’ the centuries let a people’s voice In full acclaim, A people’s voice, The proof and echo of all human fame, A people’s voice, when they rejoice At civic revel and pomp and game, Attest their great commander’s claim With honour, honour, honour, honour to him, Eternal honour to his name.
A people’s voice! we are a people yet. Tho’ all men else their nobler dreams forget, Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers; Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set His Briton in blown seas and storming showers, We have a voice, with which to pay the debt Of boundless love and reverence and regret To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. And keep it ours, O God, from brute control; O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, And save the one true seed of freedom sown, Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, That sober freedom out of which there springs Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; For, saving that, ye help to save mankind Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, And drill the raw world for the march of mind, Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.
Not once or twice in our fair island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory: He that ever following her commands, On with toil of heart and knees and hands, Thro’ the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevail’d, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled Are close upon the shining table-lands To which our God Himself is moon and sun.
Hush! the Dead March wails in the people’s ears: The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears: The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears; Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; He is gone who seem’d so great.-- Gone; but nothing can bereave him Of the force he made his own Being here, and we believe him Something far advanced in State, And that he wears a truer crown Than any wreath that man can weave him.
Speak no more of his renown, Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave him! God accept him, Christ receive him!
_Tennyson._
LXVII
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. ‘Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!’ he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’ Was there a man dismay’d? Not tho’ the soldier knew Some one had blunder’d: Their’s not to make reply, Their’s not to reason why, Their’s but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley’d and thunder’d; Storm’d at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare, Flash’d as they turn’d in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder’d: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro’ the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel’d from the sabre-stroke Shatter’d and sunder’d. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley’d and thunder’d; Storm’d at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro’ the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder’d. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!
_Tennyson._
LXVIII
THE USE OF WAR
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? We have made them a curse, Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone?
Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, When the poor are hovell’d and hustled together, each sex, like swine, When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie; Peace in her vineyard--yes!--but a company forges the wine.
And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian’s head, And the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life, When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children’s bones, Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land and sea, War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones.
For I trust if an enemy’s fleet came yonder round by the hill And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam, That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and till, And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard-wand, home!
_Lord Tennyson._
DOYLE
LXIX
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 framed; 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.
_Sir Francis Hastings Doyle._
BROWNING
LXX
HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD
O, to be in England, Now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf, Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows-- Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray’s edge-- That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children’s dower, --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
_Robert Browning._
LXXI
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.
_Robert Browning._
MACKAY
LXXII
A SONG OF ENGLAND
There’s a land, a dear land, where the rights of the free, Though firm as the earth are as wide as the sea; Where the primroses bloom, and the nightingales sing, And the honest poor man is as good as a king. Showery! Flowery! Tearful! Cheerful! England, wave-guarded and green to the shore! West Land! Best Land! Thy Land! My Land! Glory be with her, and Peace evermore!
There’s a land, a dear land, where our vigour of soul, Is fed by the tempests that blow from the Pole; Where a slave cannot breathe, or invader presume, To ask for more earth than will cover his tomb. Sea Land! Free Land! Fairest! Rarest! Home of brave men, and the girls they adore! Fearless! Peerless! Thy Land! My Land! Glory be with her, and Peace evermore!
_Charles Mackay._
CLOUGH
LXXIII
GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND
Green fields of England! wheresoe’er Across this watery waste we fare, One image at our hearts we bear, Green fields of England everywhere.