Chapter 20
And broadside the great ship went down Amid the swirling foam; And with her nigh four hundred men Went down in sight of home (Fletcher and I alone were saved) Only an hour from home!
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.
BY H.W. LONGFELLOW.
(September 13, 1852.)
A mist was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun.
It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips.
Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover, Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away.
Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite.
And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning salutations, That all was well.
And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports.
Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure Awaken with its call!
No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal Be seen upon his post!
For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled.
He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew and deeper The silence and the gloom.
He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar; Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble, And groan from shore to shore.
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead: Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead.
ENGLAND'S DEAD.
BY FELICIA HEMANS.
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, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains, By the pyramid o'erswayed, With fearful power the noon-day 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 storms rage on! Let the forest-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 warlike 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.
MEHRAB KHAN.
BY SIR F.H. DOYLE.
["Mehrab Khan died, as he said he would, sword in hand, at the door of his own Zenana."--_Capture of Kelat_.]
(1839.)
With all his fearless chiefs around The Moslem leader stood forlorn, And heard at intervals the sound Of drums athwart the desert borne. To him a sign of fate, they told That Britain in her wrath was nigh, And his great heart its powers unrolled In steadiness of will to die.
"Ye come, in your mechanic force, A soulless mass of strength and skill-- Ye come, resistless in your course, What matters it?--'Tis but to kill. A serpent in the bath, a gust Of venomed breezes through the door, Have power to give us back to dust-- Has all your grasping empire more?
"Your thousand ships upon the sea, Your guns and bristling squares by land, Are means of death--and so may be A dagger in a damsel's hand. Put forth the might you boast, and try If it can shake my seated will; By knowing when and how to die, I can escape, and scorn you still.
"The noble heart, as from a tower, Looks down on life that wears a stain; He lives too long who lives an hour Beneath the clanking of a chain. I breathe my spirit on my sword, I leave a name to honour known, And perish, to the last the lord Of all that man can call his own."
Such was the mountain leader's speech; Say ye, who tell the bloody tale, When havoc smote the howling breach, Then did the noble savage quail? No--when through dust, and steel, and flame, Hot streams of blood, and smothering smoke, True as an arrow to its aim, The meteor-flag of England broke;
And volley after volley threw A storm of ruin, crushing all, Still cheering on a faithful few, He would not yield his father's hall. At his yet unpolluted door He stood, a lion-hearted man, And died, A FREEMAN STILL, before The merchant thieves of Frangistan.
THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR.
BY SIR F.H. DOYLE.
[Told to the author by the late Sir Charles James Napier.]
Eleven men of England A breast-work 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 Roostrum 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 Roostrum Have climbed, like these, the Hill?"
And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; Prince Roostrum 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.
THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.
BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.
["Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the _Kotow_. The Sikhs obeyed, but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill."--_Times_.]
_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.
For Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd Like dreams, to come and go; Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleam'd 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 Doom'd 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.
A FISHERMAN'S SONG.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Hurrah! the craft is dashing Athwart the briny sea; Hurrah! the wind is lashing The white sails merrily; The sun is shining overhead, The rough sea heaves below; We sail with every canvas spread, Yo ho! my lads, yo ho!
Simple is our vocation, We seek no hostile strife; But 'mid the storm's vexation We succour human life; O, simple are our pleasures, We crave no miser's hoard, But haul the great sea's treasures To spread a frugal board.
But if at usurpation We needs must strike a blow, Our hardy avocation Shall fit us for the foe; Then let the despot's strength compete Upon the open sea, And on the proudest of his fleet Our flag shall flutter free.
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
BY LORD BYRON.
Stop!--for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot marked with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so. As the ground was before, thus let it be; How that red rain hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?...
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 window'd 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 stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rush'd 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 Blush'd 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 would 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 "Cameron's 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 of 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, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!
THE LAY OF THE BRAVE CAMERON.
JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
At Quatre Bras, when the fight ran high, Stout Cameron stood with wakeful eye, Eager to leap as a mettlesome hound, Into the fray with a plunge and a bound, But Wellington, lord of the cool command, Held the reins with a steady hand, Saying, "Cameron, wait, you'll soon have enough. Give the Frenchmen a taste of your stuff, When the Cameron men are wanted."
Now hotter and hotter the battle grew, With tramp and rattle, and wild halloo, And the Frenchmen poured, like a fiery flood, Right on the ditch where Cameron stood. Then Wellington flashed from his steadfast stance On his captain brave a lightning glance, Saying, "Cameron, now have at them, boy, Take care of the road to Charleroi, Where the Cameron men are wanted."
Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from a bow Into the midst of the plunging foe, And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent, Sweeping the rocks in its foamy current; And he fell the first in the fervid fray, Where a deathful shot had shove its way, But his men pushed on where the work was rough, Giving the Frenchmen a taste of their stuff, Where the Cameron men were wanted.
'Brave Cameron, then, front the battle's roar His foster-brother stoutly bore, His foster-brother with service true, Back to the village of Waterloo. And they laid him on the soft green sod, And he breathed his spirit there to God, But not till he heard the loud hurrah Of victory billowed from Quatre Bras, Where the Cameron men were wanted.
By the road to Ghent they buried him then, This noble chief of the Cameron men, And not an eye was tearless seen That day beside the alley, green: Wellington wept--the iron man! And from every eye in the Cameron clan The big round drop in bitterness fell, As with the pipes he loved so well His funeral wail they chanted.
And now he sleeps (for they bore him home, When the war was done across the foam), Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben, With his sires, the pride of the Cameron men. Three thousand Highlandmen stood round, As they laid him to rest in his native ground; The Cameron brave, whose eye never quailed, Whose heart never sank, and whose hand never failed, Where a Cameron man was wanted.
A SONG FOR STOUT WORKERS.
BY JOHN STUART BLACKIE.
Onward, brave men, onward go, Place is none for rest below; He who laggeth faints and fails. He who presses on prevails!
Monks may nurse their mouldy moods Caged in musty solitudes; Men beneath the breezy sky March to conquer or to die!
Work and live--this only charm Warms the blood and nerves the arm, As the stout pine stronger grows By each gusty blast that blows.
On high throne or lonely sod, Fellow-workers we with God; Then most like to Him when we March through toil to victory.
If there be who sob and sigh. Let them sleep or let them die; While we live we strain and strive, Working most when most alive!
Where the fairest blossom grew, There the spade had most to do; Hearts that bravely serve the Lord, Like St. Paul, must wear the sword!
Onward, brothers, onward go! Face to face to find the foe! Words are weak, and wishing fails, But the well-aimed blow prevails!
AT THE BURIAL OF A VETERAN.
"Hodie tibi, cras mihii."
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Yours to-day and ours to-morrow, Hither, comrade, hence to go; Yours the joy and ours the sorrow, Yours the weal and ours the woe.
What the profit of the stronger? Life is loss and death is gain; Though we live a little longer, Longer life is longer pain.
Which the better for the weary-- Longer travel? Longer rest? Death is peace, and life is dreary: He must die who would be blest.
You have passed across the borders, Death has led you safely home; We are standing, waiting orders, Ready for the word to come.
Empty-handed, empty-hearted, All we love have gone before, And since they have all departed, We are loveless evermore.
Yours to-day and ours to-morrow, Hither, comrade, hence to go; Yours the joy and ours the sorrow, Yours the weal and ours the woe.
NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.
BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.
I love contemplating--apart From all his homicidal glory-- The traits that soften to our heart Napoleon's story.
'Twas when his banners at Boulogne, Armed in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman.
They suffered him,--I know not how, Unprisoned on the shore to roam; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home.