Chapter 3

What profits it, O England, to prevail In camp and mart and council, and bestrew With argosies thy oceans, and renew With tribute levied on each golden gale Thy treasuries, if thou canst hear the wail Of women martyred by the turbaned crew, Whose tenderest mercy was the sword that slew, And lift no hand to wield the purging flail? We deemed of old thou held'st a charge from Him Who watches girdled by his seraphim, To smite the wronger with thy destined rod. Wait'st thou his sign? Enough, the unanswered cry Of virgin souls for vengeance, and on high The gathering blackness of the frown of God!

WILLIAM WATSON.

* * * * *

AVE IMPERATRIX.

Set in this stormy Northern sea, Queen of these restless fields of tide, England! what shall men say of thee, Before whose feet the worlds divide?

The earth, a brittle globe of glass, Lies in the hollow of thy hand, And through its heart of crystal pass, Like shadows through a twilight land,

The spears of crimson-suited war, The long white-crested waves of fight, And all the deadly fires which are The torches of the lords of Night.

The yellow leopards, strained and lean, The treacherous Russian knows so well, With gaping blackened jaws are seen To leap through hail of screaming shell.

The strong sea-lion of England's wars Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, To battle with the storm that mars The star of England's chivalry.

The brazen-throated clarion blows Across the Pathan's reedy fen, And the high steeps of Indian snows Shake to the tread of armèd men.

And many an Afghan chief, who lies Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, Clutches his sword in fierce surmise When on the mountain-side he sees

The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes To tell how he hath heard afar The measured roll of English drums Beat at the gates of Kandahar.

For southern wind and east wind meet Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, England with bare and bloody feet Climbs the steep road of wide empire.

O lonely Himalayan height, Gray pillar of the Indian sky, Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight Our wingèd dogs of Victory?

The almond groves of Samarcand, Bokhara, where red lilies blow, And Oxus, by whose yellow sand The grave white-turbaned merchants go;

And on from thence to Ispahan, The gilded garden of the sun, Whence the long dusty caravan Brings cedar and vermilion;

And that dread city of Cabool Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet, Whose marble tanks are ever full With water for the noonday heat,

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar A little maid Circasian Is led, a present from the Czar Unto some old and bearded khan,--

Here have our wild war-eagles flown, And flapped wide wings in fiery flight; But the sad dove, that sits alone In England--she hath no delight.

In vain the laughing girl will lean To greet her love with love-lit eyes: Down in some treacherous black ravine, Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

And many a moon and sun will see The lingering wistful children wait To climb upon their father's knee; And in each house made desolate

Pale women who have lost their lord Will kiss the relics of the slain-- Some tarnished epaulette--some sword-- Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.

For not in quiet English fields Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, Where we might deck their broken shields With all the flowers the dead love best.

For some are by the Delhi walls, And many in the Afghan land, And many where the Ganges falls Through seven mouths of shifting sand.

And some in Russian waters lie, And others in the seas which are The portals to the East, or by The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.

O wandering graves! O restless sleep! O silence of the sunless day! O still ravine! O stormy deep! Give up your prey! Give up your prey!

And those whose wounds are never healed, Whose weary race is never won, O Cromwell's England! must thou yield For every inch of ground a son?

Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head, Change thy glad song to song of pain; Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, And will not yield them back again.

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore Possess the flower of English land-- Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more, Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.

What profit now that we have bound The whole round world with nets of gold, If hidden in our heart is found The care that groweth never old?

What profit that our galleys ride, Pine-forest like, on every main? Ruin and wreck are at our side, Grim warders of the House of pain.

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet? Where is our English chivalry? Wild grasses are their burial-sheet, And sobbing waves their threnody.

O loved ones lying far away, What word of love can dead lips send? O wasted dust! O senseless clay! Is this the end? is this the end?

Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead To vex their solemn slumber so; Though, childless, and with thorn-crowned head, Up the steep road must England go,

Yet when this fiery web is spun, Her watchmen shall descry from far The young Republic like a sun Rise from these crimson seas of war.

OSCAR WILDE.

* * * * *

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

All hail; thou noble land, Our Fathers' native soil! O, stretch thy mighty hand, Gigantic grown by toil, O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore! For thou with magic might Canst reach to where the light Of Phoebus travels bright The world o'er!

The genius of our clime From his pine-embattled steep Shall hail the guest sublime; While the Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. Then let the world combine,-- O'er the main our naval line Like the Milky Way shall shine Bright in flame!

Though ages long have passed Since our Fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravelled seas to roam, Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! And shall we not proclaim That blood of honest fame Which no tyranny can tame By its chains?

While the language free and bold Which the Bard of Avon sung, In which our Milton told How the vault of heaven rung When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; While this, with reverence meet, Ten thousand echoes greet, From rock to rock repeat Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul, Still cling around our hearts,-- Between let Ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the sun: Yet still from either beach The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech, "We are One."

WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

* * * * *

HANDS ALL ROUND.

First drink a health, this solemn night, A health 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 best Conservative Who lops the moulded branch away. Hands all round! God the tyrant's hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.

A health to Europe's honest men! Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails! From wronged Poerio's noisome den, From iron limbs and tortured nails! We curse the crimes of southern kings, The Russian whips and Austrian rods: We likewise have our evil things,-- Too much we make our ledgers, gods. Yet hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To Europe's better health we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round!

What health to France, if France be she, Whom martial progress only charms? Yet tell her--better to be free Than vanquish all the world in arms. Her frantic city's flashing heats But fire, to blast the hopes of men. Why change the titles of your streets? You fools, you'll want them all again. Hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.

Gigantic daughter of the West, We drink to thee across the flood! We know thee and we love thee best; For art thou not of British blood? Should war's mad blast again be blown, Permit not thou the tyrant powers To fight thy mother here alone, But let thy broadsides roar with ours. Hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To our great kinsman of the West, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.

Oh rise, our strong Atlantic sons, When war against our freedom springs! Oh, speak to Europe through your guns! They _can_ be understood by kings. You must not mix our Queen with those That wish to keep their people fools: Our freedom's foemen are her foes; She comprehends the race she rules. Hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To our great kinsman in the West, my friends, And the great cause of Freedom, round and round.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

RECESSIONAL.

God of our fathers, known of old,-- Lord of our far-flung battle line,-- Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine,-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget,--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies, The captains and the kings depart: Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,-- An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget,--lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire. Lo! all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget,--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not thee in awe, Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the law,-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget,--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard, All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not thee to guard, For frantic boasts and foolish word, Thy mercy on thy people, Lord! _Amen_.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

* * * * *

ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES.

She stands, a thousand-wintered tree, By countless morns impearled; Her broad roots coil beneath the sea, Her branches sweep the world; Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed, Clothe the remotest strand With forests from her scatterings made, New nations fostered in her shade, And linking land with land.

O ye by wandering tempest sown 'Neath every alien star, Forget not whence the breath was blown That wafted you afar! For ye are still her ancient seed On younger soil let fall-- Children of Britain's island-breed, To whom the Mother in her need Perchance may one day call.

WILLIAM WATSON.

* * * * *

SCOTLAND.

FROM "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL," CANTO VI.

O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand? Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems, as to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chilled my withered cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The bard may draw his parting groan.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

THE BARD.

A PINDARIC ODE.

I

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait; Tho' 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 quiv'ring lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er cold 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 th' 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 tissues of thy line.

II.

"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, thro' Berkeley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing 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 noon-tide 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, urged 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 accursèd loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III.

"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, oh 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 oh! 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-colored wings.

"The verse adorn again, Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe by fairy fiction drest. In buskined measure 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.

THOMAS GRAY.

* * * * *

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands forever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

ROBERT BURNS.

* * * * *

HEATHER ALE: A GALLOWAY LEGEND.

From the bonny bells of heather They brewed a drink long-syne, Was sweeter far than honey, Was stronger far than wine. They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in a blessed swound For days and days together In the dwellings underground.

There rose a king in Scotland, A fell man to his foes, He smote the Picts in battle, He hunted them like roes. Over miles of the red mountain He hunted as they fled, And strewed the dwarfish bodies Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country, Red was the heather bell; But the manner of the brewing Was none alive to tell. In graves that were like children's On many a mountain head, The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland Rode on a summer's day; And the bees hummed, and the curlews Cried beside the way. The king rode, and was angry; Black was his brow and pale, To rule in a land of heather And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals, Riding free on the heath, Came on a stone that was fallen And vermin hid beneath. Rudely plucked from their hiding, Never a word they spoke: A son and his agèd father-- Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger, He looked on the little men; And the dwarfish and swarthy couple Looked at the king again. Down by the shore he had them; And there on the giddy brink-- "I will give you life, ye vermin, For the secret of the drink."

There stood the son and father And they looked high and low; The heather was red around them, The sea rumbled below. And up and spoke the father, Shrill was his voice to hear; "I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear.

"Life is dear to the agèd, And honor a little thing; I would gladly sell the secret," Quoth the Pict to the King. His voice was small as a sparrow's, And shrill and wonderful clear: "I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear.

"For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honor Under the eye of my son. Take _him_, O king, and bind him, And cast him far in the deep; And it's I will tell the secret. That I have sworn to keep."

They took the son and bound him, Neck and heels in a thong, And a lad took him and swung him, And flung him far and strong, And the sea swallowed his body, Like that of a child of ten;-- And there on the cliff stood the father, Last of the dwarfish men.

"True as the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall never avail: Here dies in my bosom The secret of Heather Ale."

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

* * * * *

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.

[James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, was executed in Edinburgh, May 21, 1650, for an attempt to overthrow the Commonwealth and restore Charles II.]

Come hither, Evan Cameron! Come, stand behind my knee-- I hear the river roaring down Toward the wintry sea. There's shouting on the mountain-side, There's war within the blast-- Old faces look upon me, Old forms go trooping past. I hear the pibroch wailing Amidst the din of fight, And my dim spirit wakes again Upon the verge of night.

'Twas I that led the Highland host Through wild Lochaber's snows, What time the plaided clans came down To battle with Montrose. I've told thee how the Southrons fell Beneath the broad claymore, And how we smote the Campbell clan By Inverlochy's shore. I've told thee how we swept Dundee, And tamed the Lindsays' pride; But never have I told thee yet How the great Marquis died.

A traitor sold him to his foes;-- O deed of deathless shame! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of Assynt's name-- Be it upon the mountain's side, Or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone, Or backed by armèd men-- Face him as thou wouldst face the man Who wronged thy sire's renown; Remember of what blood thou art, And strike the caitiff down!