Chapter 21

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain, half-way over, With envy--_they_ could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer.

At last, when care had banished sleep, He saw one morning, dreaming, doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating.

He hid it in a cave, and wrought The livelong day, laborious, lurking, Until he launched a tiny boat, By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond Description wretched: such a wherry, Perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond, Or crossed a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt-sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,-- No sail--no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipped he would have passed The foaming billows.

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo sorely jeering. Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger, And, in his wonted attitude, Addressed the stranger.

"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned, Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad; "But,--absent years from one another,-- Great was the longing that I had To see my mother."

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, "You've both my favour fairly won, A noble mother must have bred So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty, But never changed the coin and gift Of Buonaparte.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

(January 16, 1809.)

BY REV. CHARLES WOLFE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampant 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, Not 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 that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That 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 weary 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 left him alone in _his_ glory.

AT TRAFALGAR.

(October 21, 1805.)

_AN OLD MAN-O'-WARSMAN'S YARN_.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

Ay, ay, good neighbours, I have seen Him! sure as God's my life; One of his chosen crew I've been, Haven't I, old good wife? God bless your dear eyes! didn't you vow To marry me any weather, If I came back with limbs enow To keep my soul together?

Brave as a lion was our Nel And gentle as a lamb: It warms my blood once more to tell The tale--gray as I am-- It makes the old life in me climb, It sets my soul aswim; I live twice over every time That I can talk of him.

You should have seen him as he trod The deck, our joy, and pride; You should have seen him, like a god Of storm, his war-horse ride! You should have seen him as he stood Fighting for our good land, With all the iron of soul and blood Turned to a sword in hand.

Our best beloved of all the brave That ever for freedom fought; And all his wonders of the wave For Fatherland were wrought! He was the manner of man to show How victories may be won; So swift you scarcely saw the blow; You looked--the deed was done.

He sailed his ships for work; he bore His sword for battle-wear; His creed was "Best man to the fore"; And he was always there. Up any peak of peril where There was but room for one; The only thing he did not dare Was any death to shun.

The Nelson touch his men he taught, And his great stride to keep; His faithful fellows round him fought Ten thousand heroes deep. With a red pride of life, and hot For him, their blood ran free; They "minded not the showers of shot No more than peas," said he.

Napoleon saw our Sea-king thwart His landing on our Isle; He gnashed his teeth, he gnawed his heart At Nelson of the Nile, Who set his fleet in flames, to light The Lion to his prey, And lead Destruction through the night Upon his dreadful way.

Around the world he drove his game, And ran his glorious race; Nor rested till he hunted them From off the ocean's face; Like that old wardog who, till death, Clung to the vessel's side Till hands were lopped, then with his teeth He held on till he died.

Ay, he could do the deeds that set Old fighters' hearts afire; The edge of every spirit whet, And every arm inspire. Yet I have seen upon his face The tears that, as they roll, Show what a light of saintly grace May clothe a sailor's soul.

And when our darling went to meet Trafalgar's judgment day, The people knelt down in the street To bless him on his way. He felt the country of his love Watching him from afar; It saw him through the battle move; His heaven was in that star.

Magnificently glorious sight It was in that great dawn! Like one vast sapphire flashing light, The sea, just breathing shone. Their ships, fresh-painted, stood up tall And stately; ours were grim And weatherworn, but one and all In rare good fighting trim.

Our spirits were all flying light, And into battle sped, Straining for it on wings of might, With feet of springy tread; The light of battle on each face, Its lust in every eye; Our sailor blood at swiftest pace To catch the victory nigh.

His proudly wasted face, wave worn, Was loftily serene; I saw the brave bright spirit burn There, all too plainly seen; As though the sword this time was drawn Forever from the sheath; And when its work to-day was done, All would be dark in death.

His eye shone like a lamp of night Set in the porch of power; The deed unborn was burning bright Within him at that hour! His purpose, welded to white heat, Cried like some visible fate, "To-day we must not merely _beat_, We must _annihilate_."

He smiled to see the Frenchman show His reckoning for retreat, With Cadiz port on his lee bow, And held him then half beat. They flew no colours till we drew Them out to strike with there! Old _Victory_ for a prize or two Had flags enough to spare.

Mast-high the famous signal ran; Breathless we caught each word: "_England expects that every man Will do his duty_." Lord, You should have seen our faces! heard Us cheering, row on row; Like men before some furnace stirred To a fiery fearful glow!

'Twas Collingwood our lee line led, And cut their centre through. "_See how he goes in!_" Nelson said, As his first broadside flew, And near four hundred foemen fall. Up went another cheer. "Ah! what would Nelson give," said Coll, "But to be with us here!"

We grimly kept our vanward path; Over us hummed their shot; But, silently, we reined our wrath, Held on and answered not, Till we could grip them face to face, And pound them for our own, Or hug them in a war-embrace, Till we or both went down.

How calm he was! when first he felt The sharp edge of that fight. Cabined with God alone he knelt; The prayer still lay in light Upon his face, that used to shine In battle--flash with life, As though the glorious blood ran wine, Dancing with that wild strife.

"Fight for us, Thou Almighty one! Give victory once again! And if I fall, Thy will be done. Amen, Amen, Amen!" With such a voice he bade good-bye; The mournfullest old smile wore: "Farewell! God bless you, Blackwood, I Shall never see you more."

And four hours after, he had done With winds and troubled foam: The Reaper was borne dead upon Our load of Harvest home-- Not till he knew the Old Flag flew Alone on all the deep; Then said he, "Hardy, is that you? Kiss me." And fell asleep.

Well, 'twas his chosen death below The deck in triumph trod; 'Tis well. A sailor's soul should go From his good ship to God. He would have chosen death aboard, From all the crowns of rest; And burial with the Patriot sword Upon the Victor's breast.

"_Not a great sinner_." No, dear heart, God grant in our death pain, We may have played as well our part, And feel as free from stain. We see the spots on such a star, Because it burned so bright; But on the other side they are All lost in greater light.

And so he went upon his way, A higher deck to walk, Or sit in some eternal day And of the old time talk With sailors old, who, on that coast, Welcome the homeward bound, Where many a gallant soul we've lost And Franklin will be found.

Where amidst London's roar and moil That cross of peace upstands, Like Martyr with his heavenward smile, And flame-lit, lifted hands, There lies the dark and moulder'd dust; But that magnanimous And manly Seaman's soul, I trust, Lives on in some of us.

CAMPERDOWN.

(October 11, 1797.)

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

We were lying calm and peaceful as an infant lies asleep, Rocked in the mighty cradle of the ever-restless deep, Or like a lion resting ere he rises to the fray, With eyes half closed in slumber and half open for the prey. We had waited long, and restless was the spirit of the fleet, For the long-expected conquest and the long-delayed defeat, When, uprose the mists of morning, as a curtain rolls away, For the high heroic action of some old chivalric play. And athwart the sea to starboard waved the colours high and free Of the famous fighting squadron that usurped the loyal sea.

Quick the signal came for action, quick replied we with a cheer, For the friends at home behind us, and the foes before so near; Three times three the cheering sounded, and 'mid deafening hurrahs We sprang into position--five hundred lusty tars. And the cannons joined our shouting with a burly, booming cheer That aroused the hero's action, and awoke the coward's fear; And the lightning and the thunder gleamed and pealed athwart the scene, Till the noontide mist was greater than the morning mist had been, And the foeman and the stranger and the brother and the friend Were mingled in one seething mass the battle's end to end.

With broken spars and splintered bulks the decks were strewn anon, While the rigging, torn and tangled, hung the shattered yards upon; Like a cataract of fire outpoured the steady cannonade, Till the strongest almost wavered and the bravest were dismayed. Like an endless swarm of locusts sprang they up our vessel's side, And scaled her burning bulwarks or fell backward in the tide, 'Twas a fearful day of carnage, such as none had known before, In the fiercest naval battles of those gallant days of yore.

We had battled all the morning, 'mid the never-ceasing hail Of grape and spark and splinter, of cable shred, and sail; We had thrice received their onslaught, which we thrice had driven back, And were waiting, calm and ready, for the last forlorn attack; When a shout of exultation from out their ranks arose, A frenzied shout of triumph o'er their yet unconquered foes; For the stainless flag of England, that has braved a thousand years, Had been shot clean from the masthead; and they gave three hearty cheers, "A prize! a prize!" they shouted, from end to end the host, Till a broadside gave them answer, and for ever stilled their boast.

Then a fearful struggle followed, as, to desperation spurred, They sought in deed the triumph so falsely claimed in word. 'Twas the purpose of a moment, and the bravest of our tars Plunged headlong in the boiling surf, amid the broken spars; He snatched the shot-torn colours, and wound them round his arm, Then climbed upon the deck again, and there stood safe and calm; He paused but for a moment--it was no time to stay-- Then he leaped into the rigging that had yet survived the fray; Higher yet he climbed and higher, till he gained a dizzy height, Then turned and paused a moment to look down upon the fight.

Whistled wild the shots around him, as a curling, smoky wreath Formed a cloudy shroud to hide him from the enemy beneath. Beat his heart with proud elation as he firmly fixed his stand, And again the colours floated as he held them in his hand. Then a pistol deftly wielded, 'mid the battle's ceaseless blast, Fastened there the colours firmly, as he nailed them to that mast; Then as if to yield him glory--the smoke-clouds cleared away-- And we sent him up the loudest cheer that reach'd his ear that day, With new-born zeal and courage, dashing fiercely to the fight, To crown the day of battle with the triumph of the night.

'Tis a story oft repeated, 'tis a triumph often won, How a thousand hearts are strengthened by the bravery of one There was never dauntless courage of the loyal and the true That did not inspirit others unto deeds of daring too; There was never bright example, be the struggle what it might, That did not inflame the ardour of the others in the fight. Up, then, ye who would be heroes, and, before the strife is past, For the sake of those about you, "_nail the colours to the mast!_"

For the flag is ever flying, and it floats above the free, On island and on continent, and up and down the sea; And the conflict ever rages--there are many foes to fight-- There are many ills to conquer, there are many wrongs to right, For the glory of the moment, for the triumph by-and-bye; For the love of truth and duty, up and dare, and do or die, And though fire and shot and whirlwind join to tear the standard down, Up and nail it to the masthead, as we did at Camperdown.

THE ARMADA.

BY LORD MACAULAY.

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 in Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; The crew had 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 Edgecombe'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: The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and 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!

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, or Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew, And 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: The 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 farthest 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.

MR. BARKER'S PICTURE.

BY MAX ADELER.

"Your charge against Mr. Barker, the artist here," said the magistrate, "is assault and battery, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"And your name is----"

"Potts! I am art critic of the _Weekly Spy_."

"State your case."

"I called at Mr. Barker's studio upon his invitation to see his great picture, just finished, of 'George Washington cutting down the cherry-tree with his hatchet.' Mr. Barker was expecting to sell it to Congress for fifty thousand dollars. He asked me what I thought of it, and after I had pointed out his mistake in making the handle of the hatchet twice as thick as the tree, and in turning the head of the hatchet around, so that George was cutting the tree down with the hammer end, I asked him why he foreshortened George's leg so as to make it look as if his left foot was upon the mountain on the other side of the river."

"Did Mr. Barker take it kindly?" asked the justice.

"Well, he looked a little glum--that's all. And then when I asked him why he put a guinea-pig up in the tree, and why he painted the guinea-pig with horns, he said it was not a guinea-pig but a cow; and that it was not in the tree, but in the background. Then I said that, if I had been painting George Washington, I should not have given him the complexion of a salmon-brick, I should not have given him two thumbs on each hand, and I should have tried not to slue his right eye around so that he could see around the back of his head to his left ear. And Barker said, 'Oh, wouldn't you?' Sarcastic, your honour. And I said, 'No, I wouldn't'; and I wouldn't have painted oak-leaves on a cherry-tree; and I wouldn't have left the spectator in doubt as to whether the figure off by the woods was a factory chimney, or a steamboat, or George Washington's father taking a smoke."

"Which was it?" asked the magistrate.

"I don't know. Nobody will ever know. So Barker asked me what I'd advise him to do. And I told him I thought his best chance was to abandon the Washington idea, and to fix the thing up somehow to represent 'The Boy who stood on the Burning Deck.' I told him he might paint the grass red to represent the flames, and daub over the tree so's it would look like the mast, and pull George's foot to this side of the river so's it would rest somewhere on the burning deck, and maybe he might reconstruct the factory chimney, or whatever it was, and make it the captain, while he could arrange the guinea-pig to do for the captain's dog."

"Did he agree?"