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Edited  by  #.  K.  A.  BELL 


POEMS  OF  LOVE 

POEMS  OF  NATURE 

POEMS  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

POEMS  OF  MARRIAGE 

VERS  DE  SOCIETE 

POEMS  OF  ROMANCE 

Others  in  preparation 


POEMS 

OF 

PATKIOTISM 


EDITED 


BY 


G.  K.  A.  BELL,  B.A.  (OxoN.) 


UNIVERSITY 

OF 


LONDON 

GEORGE   ROUTLEDGE   &   SONS,    LIMITED 

NEW  YORK:  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  CO. 


Methinks  1  see  in  ray  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  Nation 
rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking 
her  invincible  locks.  Methinks  I  see  her  as  an  Eagle  muing 
her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  undazl'd  eyes  at  the  full 
midday  learn,  purging  and  unsealing  her  long  abused  sight 
at  the  fountain  itself  of  heavenly  radiance,  while  the  whole 
noise  of  timorous  and  flocking  birds,  with  those  also  that 
love  the  twilight,  flutter  about,  amazd  at  what  she  means, 
and  in  their  envious  gabble  would  prognosticat  a  year  of 

sects  and  schisms. 

JOHN  MILTON. 


PREFACE 

THIS  volume  presents  a  choice  of  the  best  patriotic 
poetry  in  the  English  language.  It  does  not  profess  to 
be  complete — fortunately  there  are  too  many  good 
poems  for  that — but  it  aims  at  giving  a  fair  and  repre- 
sentative selection.  At  any  rate,  it  is  hoped  that 
nothing  has  been  included  which  is  trivial  or  absurd. 
In  order  to  secure  this  representative  character  it  has 
been  thought  right  to  give  a  few  poems  where  the 
patriotic  feeling,  within  the  bounds  of  the  United  King- 
dom, is  directed  against  England  itself,  for  example,  or 
Scotland,  and  also  to  record  now  and  again  even  '  the 
deed  of  an  alien  legion,'  when  that  deed  is  associated, 
however  slightly,  with  the  British  name.  The  omission 
of  some  poems  such  as  the  Ballads  of  Lord  Tennyson 
and  the  failure  to  include  more  than  one  poem  by 
Rudyard  Kipling  is  due  to  copyright  restrictions,  and 
has  been  a  matter  for  the  editor's  keenest  regret. 

The  Muse  of  Patriotism  is  famously  capricious.  She 
is  the  cause  of  much  good  and  very  much  bad  verse. 
Occasionally  she  ascends  'the  brightest  heaven  of  in- 
vention,' but  more  often  men  use  her  ample  wing,  not 
to  bear  them  on  such  lofty  flights,  but  for  shelter  to 
their  very  earthy  offspring.  The  common  products  of 
the  lighter  stage  bear  witness  to  the  amount  of  absurd 
doggerel  which  she  inspires,  or  at  least  allows,  while, 


vi  PREFACE 

on  the  other  hand,  we  owe  some  of  the  finest  ballads  in 
the  language  to  her  prosperous  aid.  The  contrast  is 
sufficiently  striking,  but  probably  we  may  go  further 
and  say  that  not  only  is  more  bad  verse  tolerated  in 
the  name  of  patriotism  than  on  any  other  pretext,  but 
also  that  the  fine  results,  when  compared  with  those 
achieved  under  other  influences,  are  remarkably  rare. 
There  is  no  wish  to  deny  the  very  existence  of  great 
patriotic  poems  :  this  anthology  and  the  famous  names 
which  it  recalls  will  surely  prove  that.  But  those 
great  poems  are  amazingly  few,  if  we  think  of  the  large 
amount  of  really  great  verse  made  in  honour  of  Love, 
for  instance,  or  Nature.  What  is  the  reason  ?  A  man's 
love  for  his  country  must  have  been  one  of  the  earliest 
impelling  motives  to  poetry — is  it  superseded  ?  Are 
the  English  *  ill  at  these  numbers,3  because  they  are,  as 
a  nation,  unpatriotic  ?  The  answer  is  yes  and  no. 
Englishmen  are  patriotic,  but  their  patriotism  is  less  a 
love  for  their  country  in  the  abstract  than  a  specialized 
enthusiasm  for  eminent  persons  in  it.  The  English  are 
almost  unable  to  personify  :  very  few  of  them  can  look 
on  their  country  as  a  splendidly  magnetic  individual, 
very  few  can  '  feel  for  her  as  a  lover  or  a  child.'  In 
the  same  way,  great  causes  isolated  from  their  pro- 
moters will  never  move  them  ;  but  meet  the  personal 
demand,  identify  the  cause  with  the  cause's  representa- 
tive and  the  attractive  power  is  enormous.  The  person 
absolutely  transfigures  the  cause.  '  Produce  great  men,' 
it  has  been  said,  'the  rest  follows.'  So  the  country  must 
live  in  its  great  men :  men's  imaginations  must  be  fired, 
their  hearts  must  be  touched  by  an  appeal  to  heroic  ex- 
amples and  personal  enterprises,  and  not  in  war  alone. 


PREFACE  vii 

Surely  it  is  true  that  if  ever  wars  were  to  be  directed 
mainly  by  mechanical  means,  if  ever  the  conspicuous 
power  in  action  should  be  not  a  man  but  a  machine, 
very  soon,  from  sheer  lack  of  pride  or  even  interest  in 
such  very  impersonal  agencies,  in  England,  at  least,  the 
call  to  arms  would  be  disregarded  and  the  battle-cry 
cease  for  ever.  It  is  not  wonderful,  then,  that  very  little 
of  our  patriotic  verse  celebrates  the  country  itself,  and 
that  almost  all  the  best  poetry  in  its  honour  is  a  record 
of  brave  men's  achievements  and  noble  exploits  on  the 
battle-field  itself,  while  it  is  less  in  bulk  perhaps  be- 
cause war  is  after  all  a  rarer  thing  than  Love  and,  on 
the  whole,  not  so  close  an  intimate  as  Nature. 

Thanks  are  due  to  the  following  for  their  kind  help 
in  permitting  the  use  of  copyright  poems  :  to  Lady 
Leighton  Warren  for  a  poem  by  Lord  de  Tabley,  the 
Rev.  and  Hon.  W.  E.  Bowen  for  a  poem  by  Edward  E. 
Bo  wen,  Mr.  Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt,  Mr.  Austin  Dobson, 
Sir  Everard  Hastings  Doyle  for  six  poems  by  Sir 
Francis  Hastings  Doyle,  Sir  Alfred  Lyall,  Mr.  Henry 
Newbolt  for  four  poems  from  The  Island  Race,  Sir 
Rennell  Rodd,  Mr.  George  Allen  for  two  poems  from 
William  Cory's  lonica,  Mr.  Alfred  Nutt  for  three 
poems  by  W.  E.  Henley,  Mr.  Elkin  Mathews  for  a 
poem  by  Lionel  Johnson,  Messrs.  Methuen  &  Co.  for 
Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling's  Recessional,  Messrs.  Ellis  & 
Elvey  for  a  sonnet  by  D.  G.  Rossetti,  Messrs.  Mac- 
millan  &  Co.  for  a  sonnet  by  Charles  Tennyson  Turner, 
Mr.  John  Lane  for  a  poem  from  William  Watson's 
Poems. 


or  THF 
WIVERSI 


POEMS    OF    PATRIOTISM 


BREATHES  THERE  THE   MAN 

BREATHES  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

*  This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! ' 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burn'd 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turn'd 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ; 
For  him  no  Minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim  ; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonour'd,  and  unsung. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


B 


181581 


POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


AND  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time 

Walk  upon  England's  mountains  green  ? 

And  was  the  holy  Lamb  of  God 

On  England's  pleasant  pastures  seen  ? 

And  did  the  Countenance  Divine 
Shine  forth  upon  our  clouded  hills  ? 

And  was  Jerusalem  build ed  here 
Among  these  dark  Satanic  mills  1 

Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold  ! 

Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire  ! 
Bring  me  my  spear  !    0  clouds,  unfold  ! 

Bring  me  my  chariot  of  fire  ! 

I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 
Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land. 

William  Slake. 


LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND 


LOVE   THOU  THY  LAND 

LOVE  thou  thy  land  with  love  far-brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn'd  round  on  fixed  poles 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time, 
Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings, 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for  day, 

Tho'  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 

Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds  ; 

But  let  her  herald,  Reverence,  fly 

Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the  years  : 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain  : 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain  : 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers  : 


Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 
Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise  : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days  : 

Nor  deal  in  watch -words  overmuch  ; 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw  ; 

Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term  ; 

Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but  firm  : 
And  in  its  season  bring  the  law  ; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  my  fall 
With  Life,  that,  working  strongly,  binds — 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm, 
And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long, 
Thro*  many  agents  making  strong, 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 

Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 

We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees, 
All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that,  which  flies, 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act ; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 


LOVE  THOU  THY   LAND  5 

Even  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 

A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom — 

The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 
Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 

Completion  in  a  painful  school ; 

Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 
New  Majesties  of  mighty  States — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour, 
But  vague  in  vapour,  hard  to  mark  ; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd, 

Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 

Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 
Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind  ; 

A  wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires, 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head  ; 

To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 
That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

Oh  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 
Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes, 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall  close 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood  ; 


6  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro'  shame  and  guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 

Would  pace  the  troubled  land,  like  Peace  ; 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 

Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and  word, 
Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword, 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away — 

Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that  broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes  : 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should  rise 

Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one  stroke  : 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day, 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead  ; 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 

Eaw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 


ENGLAND 


ENGLAND 


THIS  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle, 

This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 

This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise  ; 

This  fortress,  built  by  nature  for  herself, 

Against  infection  and  the  hand  of  war  ; 

This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world  ; 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 

Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall, 

Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house, 

Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands  : 

This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England, 

This  nurse,  this  teeming  womb  of  royal  kings, 

Fear'd  by  their  breed,  and  famous  by  their  birth, 

Renowned  for  their  deeds  as  far  from  home, 

(For  Christian  service,  and  true  chivalry,) 

As  is  the  sepulchre  in  stubborn  Jewry, 

Of  the  world's  ransom,  blessed  Mary's  son  : 

This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear,  dear  land, 

Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world  .  .  . 

England,  bound  in  with  the  triumphant  sea, 

Whose  rocky  shore  beats  back  the  envious  siege 

Of  watery  Neptune. 

II 

THIS  England  never  did,  nor  never  shall, 
Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror, 
But  when  it  first  did  help  to  wound  itself. 


8  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Now  these  her  princes  are  come  home  again, 

Come  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms, 

And  we  shall  shock  them  :  Naught  shall  make  us  rue, 

If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true, 

William  Shakespeare. 


BOADICEA 


BOADICEA 

WHEN  the  British  warrior  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rod 

Sought  with  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods, 

Sage  beneath  a  spreading  oak 

Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief, 
Every  burning  word  he  spoke 

Full  of  rage  and  full  of  grief  : 

4  Princess  !  if  our  aged  eyes 
Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

Tis  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

4  Rome  shall  perish, — write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt : 

Perish  hopeless  and  abhorred, 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

4  Rome,  for  empire  far  renowned, 
Tramples  on  a  thousand  states  ; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground,— 
Hark  !  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates. 

'  Other  Romans  shall  arise, 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name. 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 


10  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

'  Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land, 

Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

1  Regions  Caesar  never  knew 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway, 
Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 

None  invincible  as  they.' 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words, 

Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 
Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 

Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow, 

Rushed  to  battle,  fought  and  died, 
Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

'  Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due  ; 

Empire  is  on  us  bestowed, 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you  ! ' 

William  Cowper. 


RULE  BRITANNIA  11 


RULE   BRITANNIA 

WHEN  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 
And  guardian  angels  sang  the  strain  : 

Rule  Britannia,  Britannia  rules  the  waves  ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  nations,  not  so  blest  as  thee, 

Must,  in  their  turn,  to  tyrants  fall ; 
Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish,  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all  : 

Rule  Britannia,  Britannia  rules  the  waves  ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke  ; 
As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak  : 

Rule  Britannia,  Britannia  rules  the  waves  ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame  ; 
All  their  attempts  to  hurl  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  geii'rous  flame, 
And  work  their  woe — but  thy  renown  : 

Rule  Britannia,  Britannia  rules  the  waves  ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 


12  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign  ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine  : 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 
And  every  shore  encircle  thine  : 

Rule  Britannia,  Britannia  rules  the  waves 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair  ; 
Blest  isle  !  with  matchless  beauty  crowned 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair  : 

Rule  Britannia,  Britannia  rules  the  waves  ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

James  TJiomson. 


O  SONS  OF  TROJAN   BRUTUS  13 


O   SONS   OF  TROJAN   BRUTUS 

0  SONS  of  Trojan  Brutus  clothed  in  war, 
Whose  voices  are  the  thunder  of  the  field, 
Rolling  dark  clouds  o'er  France,  muffling  the  sun 
In  sickly  darkness,  like  a  dim  eclipse, 
Threatening  as  the  red  brow  of  storms,  as  fire 
Burning  up  nations  in  your  wrath  and  fury  ! 

Your  ancestors  came  from  the  fires  of  Troy 
(Like  lions  roused  by  lightning  from  their  dens, 
Whose  eyes  do  glare  against  the  stormy  fires), 
Heated  with  war,  filled  with  the  blood  of  Greeks, 
With  helmets  hewn,  and  shields  covered  with  gore. 
In  navies  black,  broken  with  wind  and  tide  : 

They  landed  in  firm  array  upon  the  rocks 
Of  Albion  ;  they  kissed  the  rocky  shore  ; 
4  Be  thou  our  mother  and  our  nurse/  they  said  ; 

1  Our  children's  mother,  and  thou  shalt  be  our  grave, 
The  sepulchre  of  ancient  Troy,  from  whence 

Shall  rise  cities,  and  thrones,  and  arms,  and  awful 
powers.' 

Our  fathers  swarm  from  the  ships.    'Giant  voices 
Are  heard  from  the  hills,  the  enormous  sons 
Of  Ocean  run  from  rocks  and  caves  ;  wild  men, 
Naked  and  roaring  like  lions,  hurling  rocks, 
And  wielding  knotty  clubs,  like  oaks  entangled 
Thick  as  a  forest,  ready  for  the  axe. 


14  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Our  fathers  move  in  firm  array  to  battle  ; 
The  savage  monsters  rush  like  roaring  fire  ; 
Like  as  a  forest  roars  with  crackling  flames, 
When  the  red  lightning,  borne  by  furious  storms, 
Lights  on  some  woody  shore  ;  the  parched  heavens 
Eain  fire  into  the  molten  raging  sea. 

The  smoking  trees  are  strewn  upon  the  shore, 
Spoiled  of  their  verdure.     Oh  how  oft  have  they 
Defied  the  storm  that  howled  o'er  their  heads  ! 
Our  fathers,  sweating,  lean  on  their  spears,  and  view 
The  mighty  dead  :  giant  bodies  streaming  blood, 
Dread  visages  frowning  in  silent  death. 

Then  Brutus  spoke,  inspired  ;  our  fathers  sit 

Attentive  on  the  melancholy  shore  : 

Hear  ye  the  voice  of  Brutus — '  The  flowing  waves 

Of  time  come  rolling  o'er  my  breast,'  he  said  ; 

*  And  my  heart  labours  with  futurity. 

Our  sons  shall  rule  the  empire  of  the  sea. 

4  Their  mighty  wings  shall  stretch  from  East  to  West. 

Their  nest  is  in  the  sea,  but  they  shall  roam 

Like  eagles  for  the  prey  ;  nor  shall  the  young 

Crave  to  be  heard  ;  for  plenty  shall  bring  forth, 

Cities  shall  sing,  and  vales  in  rich  array 

Shall  laugh,  whose  fruitful  laps  bend  down  with  fulness. 

'  Our  sons  shall  rise  from  thrones  in  joy, 
Each  one  buckling  on  his  armour  ;  Morning 
Shall  be  prevented  by  their  swords  gleaming, 
And  Evening  hear  their  song  of  victory  : 
Their  towers  shall  be  built  upon  the  rocks, 
Their  daughters  shall  sing,  surrounded  with  shining 
spears. 


O  SONS  OF  TROJAN  BRUTUS  15 

*  Liberty  shall  stand  upon  the  cliffs  of  Albion, 
Casting  her  blue  eyes  over  the  green  ocean  ; 
Or  tow'ring  stand  upon  the  roaring  waves. 
Stretching  her  mighty  spear  o'er  distant  lands  ; 
While  with  her  eagle  wings  she  covereth 
Fair  Albion's  shore,  and  all  her  families.' 

William  Blake. 


16  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

8 

FOR   SOLDIERS 

YE  buds  of  Brutus'  land,  courageous  youths,  now  play 

your  parts  ; 
Unto  your  tackle  stand,  abide  the  brunt  with  valiant 

hearts. 
For  news  is  carried  to  and  fro,  that  we  must  forth  to 

warfare  go  : 
Men  muster  now  in  every  place,  and  soldiers  are  pusht 

forth  apace — 
Faint  not,  spend  blood,  to  do  your  Queen  and  country 

good  : 
Fair  words,  good  pay,  will  make  men  cast  all  care  away. 

The  time  of  war  is  come,  prepare  your  corslet,  spear, 

and  shield  ; 
Methinks  I  hear  the  drum  strike  doleful  marches  to 

the  field  ; 
Tantara,  tantara,  ye  trumpets  sound,  which  makes  our 

hearts  with  joy  abound, 
The  roaring  guns  are  heard  afar,  and  everything  de- 

nounceth  war. 
Serve  God  ;   stand   stout ;    bold   courage  brings  this 

gear  about ; 
Fear  not ;  fate  runs ;  faint  heart  fair  lady  never  won. 

Ye  curious  carpet-knights,  that  spend  the  time  in  sport 

and  play ; 
Abroad  and  see  new  sights,  your  country's  cause  calls 

you  away  ; 


FOR   SOLDIERS  17 

Do  not  to  make  your  ladies'  game,  bring  blemish  to 

your  worthy  name, 
Away  to  field  and  win  renown,  with  courage  beat  your 

enemies  down, 
Stout  hearts  gain  praise,  when  dastards  sail  in  Slander's 

seas  ; 
Hap  what  hap  shall,  we  sure  shall  die  but  once  for  all. 

Alarm  methinks  they  cry.     Be  packing,  mates  ;  begone 

with  speed  ; 
Our  foes  are  very  nigh  ;   shame  have  that  man  that 

shrinks  at  need. 
Unto  it  boldly  let  us  stand,  God  will  give  Right  the 

upper  hand, 
Our  cause  is  good,  we  need  not  doubt ;  in  sign  of  coming 

give  a  shout. 
March  forth,  be  strong,  good  hap  will  come  ere  it  be 

long, 
Shrink  not,  fight  well,  for  lusty  lads  must  bear  the  bell. 

All  you  that  will  shun  evil,  must  dwell  in  warfare 

every  day  ; 
The  world,  the  flesh,  and  devil,  always  do  seek  our  soul's 

decay, 
Strive  with  these  foes  with  all  your  might,  so  shall  you 

fight  a  worthy  fight. 
That  conquest  doth  deserve  most  praise,  where  vice  do 

yield  to  virtue's  ways. 

Beat  down  foul  sin,  a  worthy  crown  then  shall  ye  win  ; 
If  you  live  well,  in  heaven  with  Christ  our  souls  shall 

dwell. 

Humphry  Gifford. 


18  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


9 
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. 


YE  MARINERS   OF  ENGLAND  19 

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. 


20  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


10 
SONG   AND   CHORUS   OF   SAILORS 

OLD  England  to  thyself  be  true, 
Firm  as  this  rock  thy  fame  shall  stand  : 

The  sword  that  Eliott,  Curtis  drew, 
Be  never  wanted  through  the  land. 

Join  then  this  prayer,  our  foes  shall  rue, 
Let  England  to  herself  be  true. 

Though  foes  on  foes  contending  throng, 
And  dreadful  havock  threaten  round, 

Thy  flaming  bolts  shall  whirl  along, 

Throughout  the  world  thy  thunders  sound  : 

Nought  then  on  earth  shall  make  us  rue, 
Let  England  to  herself  be  true. 

What  though  no  grand  alliance  share 
Each  warlike,  envied  deed  of  thine  ; 

JTis  doubly  glorious  thus  to  dare, 
Against  the  world  in  arms  to  shine. 

Nought  then  shall  make  Britannia  rue, 
Let  Britons  to  themselves  be  true. 

Anonymous. 


MEN   OF  ENGLAND  21 


11 

MEN   OF  ENGLAND 

MEN  of  England  !  who  inherit 

Rights  that  cost  your  sires  their  blood  ! 

Men  whose  undegenerate  spirit 

Has  been  proved  on  land  and  flood. 

Yours  are  Hampden's,  Russell's  glory, 
Sydney's  matchless  shade  is  yours, — 

Martyrs  in  heroic  story, 
Worth  a  thousand  Agincourts  ! 

We're  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 

Crowned  and  mitred  tyranny  : 
They  defied  the  field  and  scaffold, 

For  their  birthright — so  will  we. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


22  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


A  NEW   SONG   TO  AN   OLD  TUNE 

SONS  of  Shannon,  Tamar,  Trent, 
Men  of  the  Lothians,  men  of  Kent, 
Essex,  Wessex,  shore  and  shire, 
Mates  of  the  net,  the  mine,  the  fire, 
Lads  of  desk  and  wheel  and  loom, 
Noble  and  trader,  squire  and  groom, 
Come  where  the  bugles  of  England  play, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away ! 

Southern  Cross  and  Polar  Star — 
Here  are  the  Britons  bred  afar  ; 
Serry,  0  serry  them,  fierce  and  keen, 
Under  the  flag  of  the  Empress-Queen  ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  down  the  track, 
Where,  to  the  unretreating  Jack, 
The  victor  bugles  of  England  play 
Over  the  hills  and  far  aivay ! 

What  if  the  best  of  our  wages  be 
An  empty  sleeve,  a  stiff-set  knee, 
A  crutch  for  the  rest  of  life — who  cares, 
So  long  as  the  One  Flag  floats  and  dares  ? 
So  long  as  the  One  Race  dares  and  grows  ? 
Death — what  is  death  but  God's  own  rose  ? 
Let  but  the  bugles  of  England  play 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away  ! 

William  Ernest  Henley. 


THE   BLUE   BELL  OF  SCOTLAND         23 


13 
THE   BLUE   BELL   OF   SCOTLAND 

OH  where,  and  oh  where,  is  your  Highland  laddie 

gone? 
He's  gone  to  fight  the  French  for  King  George  upon 

the  throne  ; 
And  it's  oh,  in  my  heart,  how  I  wish  him  safe  at  home  ! 

Oh  where,  and  oh  where,  does  your  Highland  laddie 

dwell? 
He  dwells  in  merry  Scotland,  at  the  sign  of  the  Blue 

Bell ; 
And  it's  oh,  in  my  heart,  that  I  love  my  laddie  well. 

In  what  clothes,  in  what  clothes  is  your  Highland 

laddie  clad  ? 
His  bonnet's  of  the  Saxon  green,  his  waistcoat's  of  the 

plaid  ; 
And  it's  oh,  in  my  heart,  that  I  love  my  Highland  lad. 

Suppose,  oh,  suppose  that  your  Highland  lad  should 

die? 
The  bagpipes  shall  play  over  him,  and  I'll  lay  me  down 

and  cry  ; 
And  it's  oh,  in  my  heart,  I  wish  he  may  not  die. 

Anonymous. 


24 


14 
THE   MINSTREL-BOY 

THE  Minstrel-boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  find  him  ; 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him.— 
*  Land  of  song  ! ;  said  the  warrior-bard, 

'  Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee  ! ' 

The  Minstrel  fell ! — but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under  ; 
The  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  cords  asunder  ; 
And  said  '  No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery  ! 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  brave  and  free, 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery  ! ' 

Thomas  Moore. 


PIBROCH  25 


15 
PIBROCH 

PIBROCH  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan-Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky, 
The  warpipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlocky. 
Come  every  hill-plaid  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  every  steel  blade  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter  ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar  ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges  : 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 


26  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

Come  as  the  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  rended. 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded  : 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come  ; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


A  VOW  TO   MARS  27 


16 
A   VOW  TO   MARS 

STORE  of  courage  to  me  grant, 
Now  I'm  turn'd  a  combatant ; 
Help  me,  so  that  I  my  shield, 
Fighting,  lose  not  in  the  field. 
That's  the  greatest  shame  of  all 
That  in  warfare  can  befall. 
Do  but  this,  and  there  shall  be 
Offer'd  up  a  wolf  to  thee. 

Robert  Herrick. 


28  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


17 
THE   CAVALIER'S  SONG 

A  STEED  !  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed, 

A  sword  of  metal  keene  ! 
All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drosse, 

All  else  on  earth  is  meane. 
The  neighyinge  of  the  war-horse  prowde, 

The  rowlinge  of  the  drum, 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde, 

Be  soundes  from  heaven  that  come  ; 
And  0  !  the  thundering  presse  of  knightes 

Whenas  their  war  cryes  swell, 
May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  brighte, 

And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mounte  !  then  mounte,  brave  gallants,  all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine  : 
Deathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honour,  call 

Us  to  the  field  again e. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

When  the  sword-hilt's  in  our  hand,— 
Heart  whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sigbe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land  ! 
Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight, 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye, 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  die  ! 

William  Motherwell. 


WAR  SONG  OF  THE  LIGHT  DRAGOONS   29 


18 


WAR    SONG    OF    THE    ROYAL    EDIN 
BURGH   LIGHT   DRAGOONS 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  the  standard  flies, 

The  bugles  sound  the  call ; 
The  Gallic  navy  stems  the  seas, 
The  voice  of  battle's  on  the  breeze, — 

Arouse  ye,  one  and  all ! 

From  high  Dunedin's  towers  we  come, 

A  band  of  brothers  true  ; 
Our  casques  the  Leopard's  spoils  surround 
With  Scotland's  hardy  thistle  crowned  ; 

We  boast  the  red  and  blue. 

Though  tamely  crowd  to  Gallic's  prow 

Dull  Holland's  tardy  train  ; 
Their  vanished  toys,  though  Komans  mourn, 
Though  gallant  Switzers  vainly  spurn 

And,  foaming,  gnaw  the  chain  ; 

0  !  had  they  marked  the  avenging  call 

Their  brethren's  murder  gave, 
Disunion  ne'er  their  ranks  had  mown, 
Nor  patriot  valour,  desperate  grown, 

Sought  freedom  in  the  grave  ! 

Shall  we,  too,  bend  the  stubborn  head, 

In  Freedom's  temple  born, 
Dress  our  pale  cheek  in  fervid  smile, 
To  hail  a  master  in  our  isle, 

Or  brook  a  victor's  scorn  ? 


30 


No  !  though  destruction  o'er  the  land 

Come  pouring  as  a  flood, 
The  sun,  that  sees  our  falling  day, 
Shall  mark  our  sabres'  deadly  sway, 

And  set  that  night  in  blood. 

For  gold  let  Gallic's  legions  fight, 

Or  plunder's  bloody  gain : 
Unbribed,  unbought,  our  swords  we  draw, 
To  guard  our  King,  to  fence  our  Law, 

Nor  shall  their  edge  be  vain. 

If  ever  breath  of  British  gale 

Shall  fan  the  tricolor, 
Or  footsteps  of  invader  rude, 
With  rapine  foul,  and  red  with  blood, 

Pollute  our  happy  shore, — 

Then  farewell  home  !  and  farewell  friends  ! 

Adieu  each  tender  tie  ! 
Resolved  we  mingle  in  the  tide, 
Where  charging  squadrons  furious  ride, 

To  conquer,  or  to  die. 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  the  sabres  gleam  ; 

High  sounds  our  bugle  call ; 
Combined  by  honor's  sacred  tie  ; 
Our  word  is  Laws  and  Liberty  ! 

March  forward,  one  and  all ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


BATTLE  SONG  31 

19 
BATTLE   SONG 

DAY,  like  our  souls,  is  fiercely  dark  ; 

What  then  ?    'Tis  day  ! 
We  sleep  no  more  ;  the  cock  crows — hark  ! 

To  arms  !  away  ! 
They  come  !  they  come  !  the  knell  is  rung 

Of  us  or  them  ; 
Wide  o'er  their  march  the  pomp  is  flung 

Of  gold  and  gem. 
What  collar'd  hound  of  lawless  sway, 

To  famine  dear — 
What  pension'd  slave  of  Attila, 

Leads  in  the  rear  ? 
Come  they  from  Scythian  wilds  afar, 

Our  blood  to  spill  1 
Wear  they  the  livery  of  the  Czar  ? 

They  do  his  will. 
Nor  tasselled  silk,  nor  epaulette, 

Nor  plume,  nor  torse — 
No  splendour  gilds,  all  sternly  met, 

Our  foot  and  horse. 
But,  dark  and  still,  we  inly  glow 

Condensed  in  ire  ! 
Strike,  tawdry  slaves,  and  ye  shall  know 

Our  gloom  is  fire. 
In  vain  your  pomp,  ye  evil  powers, 

Insults  the  land  ; 
Wrongs,  vengeance,  and  the  cause  are  ours, 

And  God's  right  hand  ! 


32  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Madmen  !  they  trample  into  snakes 

The  moving  clod  ! 
Like  fire  beneath  their  feet  awakes 

The  sword  of  God  ! 
Behind,  before,  above,  below, 

They  rouse  the  brave  ; 
Where'er  they  go,  they  make  a  foe, 

Or  find  a  grave. 

Ebenezer  Elliot. 


A   BATTLE-SONG  33 

20 
A   BATTLE-SONG 

ARM,  arm,  arm,  arm  !  the  scouts  are  all  come  in  ; 
Keep  your  ranks  close,  and  now  your  honours  win. 
Behold  from  yonder  hill  the  foe  appears  ; 
Bows,  bills,  glaives,  arrows,  shields,  and  spears  ! 
Like  a  dark  wood  he  comes,  or  tempest  pouring  ; 
0  view  the  wings  of  horse  the  meadows  scouring  ! 
The  vanguard  marches  bravely.     Hark,  the  drums  ! 

Dub,  dub  ! 

They  meet,  they  meet,  and  now  the  battle  comes  : 
See  how  the  arrows  fly 
That  darken  all  the  sky  ! 
Hark  how  the  trumpets  sound  ! 
Hark  how  the  hills  rebound — 

Tara,  tara,  tara,  tara,  tara  ! 

Hark  how  the  horses  charge  !  in,  boys  !  boys,  in  ! 
The  battle  totters  ;  now  the  wounds  begin  : 

0  how  they  cry  ! 

0  how  they  die  ! 

Room  for  the  valiant  Memnon,  armed  with  thunder  I 
See  how  he  breaks  the  ranks  asunder  ! 
They  fly  !  they  fly  !  Eumenes  has  the  chase, 
And  brave  Polybius  makes  good  his  place  : 

To  the  plains,  to  the  woods, 

To  the  rocks,  to  the  floods, 
They  fly  for  succour.     Follow,  follow,  follow  ! 
Hark  how  the  soldiers  hollow  ! 

Hey,  hey  ! 


34  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


Brave  Diocles  is  dead, 
And  all  his  soldiers  fled  ; 
The  battle's  won,  and  lost, 
That  many  a  life  hath  cost. 

Anonymous. 


SCHOOL  FENCIBLES  35 

21 

SCHOOL  FENCIBLES 

WE  come  in  arms,  we  stand  ten  score, 

Embattled  on  the  castle  green  ; 
We  grasp  our  firelocks  tight,  for  war 

Is  threatening,  and  we  see  our  Queen. 
And  '  will  the  churls  last  out  till  we 

Have  duly  hardened  bones  and  thews 
For  scouring  leagues  of  swamp  and  sea 

Of  braggart  mobs  and  corsair  crews  1 ' 
We  ask  ;  we  fear  not  scoff  or  smile 

At  meek  attire  of  blue  and  grey, 
For  the  proud  wrath  that  thrills  our  isle 

Gives  faith  and  force  to  this  array. 
So  great  a  charm  is  England's  right, 

That  hearts  enlarged  together  flow, 
And  each  man  rises  up  a  knight 

To  work  the  evil- thinkers  woe. 
And,  girt  with  ancient  truth  and  grace, 

We  do  our  service  and  our  suit, 
And  each  can  be,  whate'er  his  race, 

A  Chandos  or  a  Montacute. 
Thou,  Mistress,  whom  we  serve  to-day, 

Bless  the  real  swords  that  we  shall  wield, 
Repeat  the  call  we  now  obey 

In  sunset  lands,  on  some  fair  field 
Thy  Flag  shall  make  some  Huron  rock 

As  dear  to  us  as  Windsor's  keep, 
And  arms  thy  Thames  has  nerved  shall  mock 

The  surgings  of  th'  Ontarian  deep. 


36  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

The  stately  music  of  thy  Guards, 

Which  times  our  march  beneath  thy  ken, 
Shall  sound,  with  spells  of  sacred  bards, 

From  heart  to  heart,  when  we  are  men. 
And  when  we  bleed  on  alien  earth, 

We'll  call  to  mind  how  cheers  of  ours 
Proclaimed  a  loud  uncourtly  mirth 

Amongst  thy  glowing  orange  bowers. 
And  if  for  England's  sake  we  fall, 

So  be  it,  so  thy  cross  be  won, 
Fixed  by  kind  hands  on  silvered  pall, 

And  worn  in  death,  for  duty  done. 
Ah  !  thus  we  fondle  Death,  the  Soldier's  mate, 

Blending  his  image  with  the  hopes  of  youth 
To  hallow  all ;  meanwhile  the  hidden  fate 

Chills  not  our  fancies  with  the  iron  truth. 
Death  from  afar  we  call,  and  Death  is  here, 

To  choose  out  him  who  wears  the  loftiest  mien  ; 
And  grief,  the  cruel  lord  who  knows  no  peer, 

Breaks  through  the  shield   of  love  to  pierce   our 
Queen. 

William  Cory. 


BANNOCKBURN  37 


BANNOCKBURN 
ROBERT  BRUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY 

SCOTS,  wha  hae  wi;  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  often  led  ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  glorious  victorie. 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour  ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lower, 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power  — 
Edward  !  chains  and  slaverie  ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Traitor  !  coward  !  turn  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  King  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Free-man  stand,  or  free-man  fa'  1 
Caledonian  !  on  wi'  me  ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  —  they  shall  be  free  ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 

Forward  !  let  us  do,  or  die  ! 

Robert  Burns. 


38  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


CHEVY    CHACE 

i 
GOD  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all ; 
A  woeful  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy  Chace  befall ; 

To  drive  the  deere  with  hound  and  horn 

Erie  Percy  took  his  way  ; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn, 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Erie  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer's  days  to  take, 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy  Chace 

To  kill  and  bear  away. 
These  tydings  to  Erie  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay  : 

Who  sent  Erie  Percy  present  word, 

He  wold  prevent  his  sport, 
The  English  Erie,  not  fearing  that, 

Did  to  the  woods  resort 


CHEVY  CHACE  39 

With  fifteen  hundred  bow-men  bold, 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  neede 

To  ayme  their  shafts  aright. 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran, 

To  chase  the  fallow  deere  : 
On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt, 

Ere  daylight  did  appear  ; 

And  long  before  high  noon  they  had 

An  hundred  fat  buckes  slaine  ; 
Then  having  dined,  the  drovyers  went 

To  rouse  the  deere  againe. 

The  bow-men  mustered  on  the  hills, 

Well  able  to  endure  ; 
Their  backsides  all  with  special  care 

That  day  were  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods, 

The  nimble  deere  to  take, 
And  with  their  cryes  the  hills  and  dales 

An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went, 

To  view  the  slaughtered  deere  ; 
Quoth  he,  '  Erie  Douglas  promised 

This  day  to  meet  me  here, 

But  if  I  thought  he  wold  not  come 

No  longer  wold  I  stay.' 
With  that  a  brave  young  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  Erie  did  say  : 


40  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

'  Lo,  yonder  doth  Erie  Douglas  come, 
His  men  in  armour  bright, 

Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speares 
All  marching  in  our  sight ; 

All  men  of  pleasant  Tivy  dale, 
Fast  by  the  river  T weeded 

'  0,  cease  your  sports,'  Erie  Percy  said, 
*  And  take  your  bowes  with  speede  ; 

And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 
Your  courage  forth  advance, 

For  there  was  never  champion  yet, 
In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

That  ere  did  on  horsebacke  come, 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

And  with  him  break  a  speare.' 

II 

Erie  Douglas  on  his  milke-white  steede, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold, 
Rode  foremost  of  his  company, 

Whose  armour  shone  like  gold. 

'  Shew  me,5  said  he,  '  whose  men  ye  be, 

That  hunt  so  boldly  here, 
That,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deere.' 

The  first  man  that  did  answer  make, 
"Was  noble  Percv  he  ; 

V 

Who  sayd,  '  We  list  not  to  declare, 
Nor  shew  what  men  we  be, 


CHEVY   CHACE  41 

Yet  we  will  spend  our  dearest  blood, 

Thy  chief est  harts  to  slay.' 
Then  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oath, 

And  this  in  rage  did  say  : 

1  Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be, 

One  of  us  two  shall  dye  : 
I  know  thee  well,  an  erle  thou  art ; 

Lord  Percy,  st)  am  I. 

But  trust  me,  Percy,  pitty  it  were, 

And  great  offence  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltlesse  men, 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

Let  thou  and  I  the  battell  trye, 

And  set  our  men  aside.' 
1  Accurst  be  he,'  Erie  Percy  said, 

'  By  whom  this  is  denied.' 

Then  stept  a  gallant  squire  forth, 

Witherington  was  his  name, 
Who  said,  '  I  wold  not  have  it  told 

To  Henry  our  king  for  shame, 

That  ere  my  captaine  fought  on  foote, 

And  I  stood  looking  on. 
Ye  be  two  erles,'  said  Witherington, 

'  And  I  a  squire  alone  : 

lie  do  the  best  that  do  I  may, 

While  I  have  power  to  stand  : 
While  I  have  power  to  wield  my  sword, 

He  fight  with  heart  and  hand.' 


42  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

in 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bowes, 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true, 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrowes  sent, 
Full  fourscore  Scots  they  slew. 

Yet  bides  Erie  Douglas  on  the  bent, 
As  Chieftain  stout  and  good, 

As  valiant  Captain,  all  unmoved 
The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three, 

As  leader  ware  and  try'd, 
And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 

Bore  down  on  every  side. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 
They  dealt  full  many  a  wound  ; 

But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 
All  firmly  kept  their  ground, 

And,  throwing  strait  their  bowes  away, 
They  grasped  their  swords  so  bright, 

And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower, 
On  shields  and  helmets  light. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side, 
No  slackness  there  was  found, 

And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

0  Christ  it  were  a  grief  to  see, 
And  likewise  for  to  heare, 

The  cries  of  men  lying  in  their  gore, 
And  scattered  here  and  there  ! 


CHEVY  CHACE  43 

At  last  these  two  stout  erles  did  meet, 

Like  captaines  of  great  might : 
Like  lions  wode,  they  laid  on  lode, 

And  made  a  cruel  fight : 

They  fought  untill  they  both  did  sweat 

With  swords  of  tempered  steele  ; 
Until  the  blood  like  drops  of  rain 

They  trickling  downe  did  feele. 

*  Yield  thee,  Lord  Percy,'  Douglas  said  ; 

'  In  faith  I  will  thee  bringe, 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  be 

By  James  our  Scottish  king  ; 

Thy  ransome  I  will  freely  give, 

And  this  report  of  thee, 
Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight 

That  ever  I  did  see.' 

'  No,  Douglas,'  quoth  Erie  Percy  then, 

'  Thy  proffer  I  do  scorne  ; 
I  will  not  yield  to  any  Scot, 

That  ever  yet  was  borne.' 

With  that,  there  came  an  arrow  keene 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Erie  Douglas  to  the  heart, 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow  : 

Who  never  spake  more  words  than  these, 

i  Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all ; 
For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end  ; 

Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall.' 


44 


Then  leaving  life,  Erie  Percy  tooke 
The  dead  man  by  the  hand  ; 

And  said,  '  Erie  Douglas,  for  thy  life 
Wold  I  had  lost  my  land  ! 

0  Christ !  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake, 
For  sure,  a  more  redoubted  knight 

Mischance  could  never  take.' 

A  knight  amongst  the  Scots  there  was, 
Which  saw  Erie  Douglas  dye, 

Who  straight  in  wroth  did  vow  revenge 
Upon  the  Lord  Percye. 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  was  he  called, 
Who,  with  a  speare  most  bright, 

Well  mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 
Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight, 

And  past  the  English  archers  all, 

Without  or  dread  or  feare, 
And  through  Erie  Percy's  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hateful  speare. 

With  such  a  vehement  force  and  might 

He  did  his  body  gore, 
The  staff  ran  throughe  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth -yard  and  more. 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  dye, 
Whose  courage  none  could  staine  ! 

An  English  archer  then  perceived 
The  noble  Erie  was  slaine  : 


CHEVY  CHACE 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand, 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree  ; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

Up  to  the  head  drew  he  ; 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye 

So  right  the  shaft  he  set, 
The  grey  goose-winge  that  was  thereon- 

In  his  heart's  blood e  was  wet. 

This  fight  did  last  from  breake  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun  ; 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening-bell,. 

The  battle  scarce  was  done. 


IV 

With  stout  Erie  Percy,  there  was  slairie 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  Ratcliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  bar6n  : 


And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir 
Both  knights  of  good  account, 

Good  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slaine, 
Whose  prowesse  did  surmount. 

For  Witherington  needs  must  I  wayle, 

As  one  in  doleful  dumpes  ; 
For  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off, 

He  fought  upon  his  stumpes. 

And  with  Erie  Douglas,  there  was  slaine- 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye, 
Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  from  the  field 

One  foote  would  never  flee  ; 


46  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Sir  Charles  Murray,  of  Ratcliff,  too, 

His  sister's  sonne  was  he  ; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed, 

Yet  saved  he  could  not  be  ; 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 

Did  with  Erie  Douglas  dye  : 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speares, 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  flye. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three  : 
The"rest  were  slain  in  Chevy  Chace, 

Under  the  greene  woode  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widdowes  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewayle  ; 
They  washt  their  wounds  in  brinish  teares, 

But  all  wold  not  prevayle  ; 

Their  bodyes,  bathed  in  purple  gore, 

They  bore  with  them  away  ; 
They  kist  their  dead  a  thousand  times, 

Erst  they  were  clad  in  clay. 

v 

The  newes  was  brought  to  Eddenborrow, 
Where  Scotland's  king  did  reigne, 

That  brave  Erie  Douglas  suddenlye 
Was  with  an  arrowe  slaine  : 

*  0  dreary  newes,'  King  James  did  say, 

;  Scotland  may  witness  be, 
I  have  not  any  captaine  more 

Of  such  account  as  he.3 


CHEVY  CHACE  47 

Like  tydings  to  King  Henry  came, 

Within  as  short  a  space, 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slaine  in  Chevy-Chace  : 

'Now  God  be  with  him/  said  our  king, 

1  Sith  it  will  no  better  be  ; 
I  trust  I  have,  within  my  realme, 

Five  hundred  good  as  he  : 

Yet  shall  not  Scots  nor  Scotland  say, 

But  I  will  vengeance  take  : 
I'll  be  revenged  on  them  all, 

For  brave  Erie  Percy's  sake.1 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed 

After,  at  Humbledowne  ; 
In  one  day,  fifty  knights  were  slayne, 

With  lords  of  great  renowne. 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  thousands  dye. 
Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy-Chace, 

Made  by  the  Erie  Percye. 

God  save  our  king,  and  bless  this  land 

With  plenty e,  joy,  and  peace, 
And  grant  henceforth  that  f oule  debate 

'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease. 

Anonymous. 


48  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


24 

AGINCOURT 

i 

0  FOR  a  muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend 

The  brightest  heaven  of  invention  ! 

A  kingdom  for  a  stage,  princes  to  act, 

And  monarchs  to  behold  the  swelling  scene  ! 

Then  should  the  warlike  Harry,  like  himself, 

Assume  the  port  of  Mars  ;  and,  at  his  heels, 

Leash'd  in  like  hounds,  should  famine,  sword,  and  fire, 

Crouch  for  employment.     But  pardon,  gentles  all, 

The  flat  unraised  spirit,  that  hath  dared, 

On  this  unworthy  scaffold  to  bring  forth 

So  great  an  object :  Can  this  cockpit  hold 

The  vasty  fields  of  France  ?  or  may  we  cram 

Within  this  wooden  0  the  very  casques 

That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt  ? 

0,  pardon  !  since  a  crooked  figure  may 

Attest,  in  little  place,  a  million  ; 

And  let  us,  ciphers  to  this  great  accompt, 

On  your  imaginary  forces  work  : 

Suppose,  within  the  girdle  of  these  walls 

Are  now  confined  two  mighty  monarchies, 

Whose  high  upreared  and  abutting  fronts 

The  perilous,  narrow  ocean  parts  asunder. 

Piece  out  our  imperfections  with  your  thoughts ; 

Into  a  thousand  parts  divide  one  man, 

And  make  imaginary  puissance  : 

Think,  when  we  talk  of  horses,  that  you  see  them 


AGINCOURT  49 

Printing  their  proud  hoofs  i'  the  receiving  earth  : 
For  'tis  your  thoughts  that  now  must  deck  our  kings, 
Carry  them  here  and  there  ;  jumping  o'er  times  ; 
Turning  the  accomplishment  of  many  years 
Into  an  hour-glass  ;  For  the  which  supply, 
Admit  me  chorus  to  this  history  : 
Who,  prologue-like,  your  humble  patience  pray, 
Gently  to  hear,  kindly  to  judge,  our  play.. 


II 

Now  all  the  youth  of  England  are  on  fire, 
And  silken  dalliance  in  the  wardrobe  lies  ; 
Now  thrive  the  armourers,  and  honour's  thought 
Reigns  solely  in  the  breast  of  every  man  : 
They  sell  the  pasture  now  to  buy  the  horse  ; 
Following  the  mirror  of  all  Christian  kings, 
With  winged  heels,  as  English  Mercuries. 
For  now  sits  Expectation  in  the  air  ; 
And  hides  a  sword,  from  hilts  unto  the  point, 
With  crowns  imperial,  crowns  and  coronets, 
Promis'd  to  Harry,  and  his  followers. 
The  French,  advis'd  by  good  intelligence 
Of  this  most  dreadful  preparation, 
Shake  in  their  fear  ;  and  with  pale  policy 
Seek  to  divert  the  English  purposes. 
0  England  !  model  to  thy  inward  greatness, 
Like  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart, 
What  might'st  thou  do,  that  honour  would  thee  do, 
Were  all  thy  children  kind  and  natural ! 
But  see  thy  fault !     France  hath  in  thee  found  out 
A  nest  of  hollow  bosoms,  which  he  fills 
With  treacherous  crowns  ;  and  three  corrupted  men,- 
One,  Richard  earl  of  Cambridge  ;  and  the  second, 

E 


50  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Henry  lord  Scroop  of  Masham  ;  and  the  third, 
Sir  Thomas  Grey,  knight,  of  Northumberland, — 
Have,  for  the  gilt  of  France,  (0  guilt,  indeed  !) 
Confirmed  conspiracy  with  fearful  France ; 
And  by  their  hands  this  grace  of  kings  must  die, 
If  hell  and  treason  hold  their  promises, 
Ere  he  take  ship  for  France,  and  in  Southampton. 
Linger  your  patience  on,  and  we'll  digest 
The  abuse  of  distance  ;  force  a  play. 
The  sum  is  paid  ;  the  traitors  are  agreed  ; 
The  king  is  set  from  London  ;  and  the  scene 
Is  now  transported,  gentles,  to  Southampton  : 
There  is  the  playhouse  now,  there  must  you  sit  : 
And  thence  to  France  shall  we  convey  you  safe, 
And  bring  you  back,  charming  the  narrow  seas 
To  give  you  gentle  pass ;  for,  if  we  may, 
We'll  not  offend  one  stomach  with  our  play. 
But,  till  the  king  come  forth,  and  not  till  then, 
Unto  Southampton  do  we  shift  our  scene. 


in 

Now  entertain  conjecture  of  a  time, 

When  creeping  murmur,  and  the  poring  dark, 

Fills  the  wide  vessel  of  the  universe. 

From  camp  to  camp,  through  the  foul  womb  of  night, 

The  hum  of  either  army  stilly  sounds, 

That  the  fix'd  sentinels  almost  receive 

The  secret  whispers  of  each  other's  watch  : 

Fire  answers  fire  :  and  through  their  paly  flames 

Each  battle  sees  the  other's  umber'd  face  : 

Steed  threatens  steed,  in  high  and  boastful  neighs 

Piercing  the  night's  dull  ear  ;  and  from  the  tents, 

The  armourers,  accomplishing  the  knights, 


AGINCOURT  51 

With  busy  hammers  closing  rivets  up, 

Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation. 

The  country  cocks  do  crow,  the  clocks  do  toll, 

And  the  third  hour  of  drowsy  morning  name. 

Proud  of  their  numbers,  and  secure  in  soul, 

The  confident  and  over-lusty  French 

Do  the  low-rated  English  play  at  dice  ; 

And  chide  the  cripple  tardy-gaited  night, 

Who,  like  a  foul  and  ugly  witch,  doth  limp 

So  tediously  away.     The  poor  condemned  English, 

Like  sacrifices,  by  their  watchful  fires 

Sit  patiently,  and  inly  ruminate 

The  morning's  danger  ;  and  their  gesture  sad 

Investing  lank-lean  cheeks,  and  war-worn  coats, 

Presenteth  them  unto  the  gazing  moon 

So  many  horrid  ghosts.     0,  now,  who  will  behold 

The  royal  captain  of  this  ruin'd  band, 

Walking  from  watch  to  watch,  from  tent  to  tent, 

Let  him  cry — Praise  and  glory  on  his  head  ! 

For  forth  he  goes,  and  visits  all  his  host ; 

Bids  them  good-morrow,  with  a  modest  smile  : 

And  calls  them — brothers,  friends,  and  countrymen. 

Upon  his  royal  face  there  is  no  note 

How  dread  an  army  hath  enrounded  him  ; 

Nor  doth  he  dedicate  one  jot  of  colour 

Unto  the  weary  and  all-watched  night : 

But  freshly  looks,  and  overbears  attaint 

With  cheerful  semblance  and  sweet  majesty  : 

That  every  wretch,  pining  and  pale  before, 

Beholding  him,  plucks  comfort  from  his  looks  : 

A  largess  universal,  like  the  sun, 

His  liberal  eye  doth  give  to  every  one, 

Thawing  cold  fear,  that  mean  and  gentle  all 


52  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

Behold  (as  may  unworthiness  define) 
A  little  touch  of  Harry  in  the  night : 
And  so  our  scene  must  to  the  battle  fly  ; 
Where,  (0  for  pity  !)  we  shall  much  disgrace— 
With  four  or  five  most  vile  and  ragged  foils, 
Right  ill-dispos'd  in  brawl  ridiculous, — 
The  name  of  Agincourt :  Yet,  sit  and  see  ; 
Minding  true  things  by  what  their  mockeries^be. 

William  Shakespeare. 


AGINCOURT  53 


25 
AGINCOURT 

FAIR  stood  the  wind  for  France 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry ; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnish'd  in  warlike  sort, 
Marcheth  tow'rds  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour ; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopp'd  his  way, 
Where  the  French  gen'ral  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which,  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

Unto  him  sending ; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile 

Their  fall  portending. 


54  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then, 
1  Though  they  to  one  be  ten 

Be  not  amazed  : 
Yet  have  we  well  begun  ; 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

S c  And  for  myself  (quoth  he) 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be  : 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me 

Nor  more  esteem  me  : 
Victor  I  will  remain 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain, 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

'  Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 

Under  our  swords  they  fell : 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopp'd  the  French  lilies.' 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led  ; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped 
Among  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there  ; 


AGINCOURT  55 

0  Lord,  how  hot  they  were 
On  the  false  Frenchmen  ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone,    . 
Armour  on  armour  shone, 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 

To  hear  was  wonder  ; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake  : 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
0  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces  ! 
When  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly 
The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses. 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather  ; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbos  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 
Not  one  was  tardy  ; 


56  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went- 
Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it ; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloster,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood 

With  his  brave  brother  ; 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made 

Still  as  they  ran  up  ; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  Day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 
To  England  to  carry. 


AGINCOURT  57 

0  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen  ? 
Or  England  breed  again 
Such  a  King  Harry  ? 

Michael  Drayton. 


58 


26 
SONG   OF  THE   ENGLISH   BOWMEN 

AGINCOURT,  Agincourt ! 
Know  ye  not  Agincourt, 
Where  English  slew  and  hurt 

All  their  French  foemen  ? 
With  their  pikes  and  bills  brown, 
How  the  French  were  beat  down, 

Shot  by  our  Bowmen  ? 

Agincourt,  Agincourt ! 
Know  ye  not  Agincourt, 
Never  to  be  forgot, 

Or  known  to  no  men  ? 
Where  English  cloth-yard  arrows 
Killed  the  French  like  tame  sparrows, 

Slain  by  our  Bowmen  1 

Agincourt,  Agincourt ! 
Know  ye  not  Agincourt  ? 
English  of  every  sort, 

High  men  and  low  men, 
Fought  that  day  wondrous  well, 
All  our  old  stories  tell, 

Thanks  to  our  Bowmen  ! 

Agincourt,  Agincourt ! 
Know  ye  not  Agincourt  1 
Where  our  fifth  Harry  taught 

Frenchmen  to  know  men  : 


SONG  OF  THE  ENGLISH   BOWMEN      59 

And,  when  the  day  was  done, 
Thousands  there  fell  to  one 

Good  English  Bowman  ! 

Agincourt,  Agincourt ! 
Know  ye  not  Agincourt  ? 
Dear  was  the  vict'ry  bought 

By  fifty  yeomen. 
Ask  any  English  wench, 
They  were  worth  all  the  French, 

Rare  English  Bowmen  ! 

Anonymous. 


60  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 


27 
BRAVE  LORD   WILLOUGHBY 

THE  fifteenth  day  of  July, 

With  glistening  spear  and  shield, 
A  famous  fight  inTlanders 

Was  foughten  in  the  field  ; 
The  most  conspicuous  officers 

Were  English  captains  three, 
But  the  bravest  man  in  battle 

Was  brave  Lord  Willoughby. 

The  next  was  Captain  Norris, 

A  valiant  man  was  he  ; 
The  other,  Captain  Turner, 

From  field  would  never  flee, 
With  fifteen  hundred  fighting  men, 

Alas  !  there  were  no  more, 
They  fought  with  forty  thousand  then 

Upon  the  bloody  shore. 

1  Stand  to  it,  noble  pikemen, 

And  look  you  round  about, 
And  shoot  you  right,  you  bowmen, 

And  we  will  keep  them  out : 
You  musquet  and  calliver  men, 

Do  you  prove  true  to  me, 
I'll  be  the  bravest  man  in  fight,3 

Says  brave  Lord  Willoughby. 


BRAVE  LORD  WILLOUGHBY  61 

And  then  the  bloody  enemy 

They  fiercely  did  assail, 
And  fought  it  out  most  furiously, 

Not  doubting  to  prevail ; 
The  wounded  men  on  both  sides  fell 

Most  piteous  for  to  see, 
But  nothing  could  the  courage  quell 

Of  brave  Lord  Willoughby. 

For  seven  hours  to  all  men's  view 

This  fight  endured  sore, 
Until  our  men  so  feeble  grew    I 

That  they  could  fight  no  morex ; 
And  then  upon  dead  horses          ^S£A! 

Full  savourly  did  eat, 
And  drank  the  puddle  water, 

That  could  no  better  get. 

When  they  had  fed  so  freely, 

They  kneeled  on  the  ground, 
And  praised  God  devoutly 

For  the  favour  they  had  found  ; 
And  bearing  up  their  colours, 

The  fight  they  did  renew, 
And  cutting  tow'rds  the  Spaniards, 

Five  thousand  more  they  slew. 

The  sharp  steel-pointed  arrows 

And  bullets  thick  did  fly  ; 
Then  did  our  valiant  soldiers 

Charge  on  most  furiously  : 
Which  made  the  Spaniards  waver, 

They  thought  it  best  to  flee  : 
They  feared  the  stout  behaviour 

Of  brave  Lord  Willoughby. 


62  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Then  quoth  the  Spanish  general, 

'  Come,  let  us  march  away, 
I  fear  we  shall  be  spoiled  all 

If  that  we  longer  stay  : 
For  yonder  comes  Lord  Willoughby 

With  courage  fierce  and  fell, 
He  will  not  give  one  inch  of  ground 

For  all  the  devils  in  hell.' 

And  when  the  fearful  enemy 

Was  quickly  put  to  flight, 
Our  men  pursued  courageously 

To  rout  his  forces  quite  ; 
And  at  last  they  gave  a  shout 

Which  echoed  through  the  sky  : 
1  God,  and  St.  George  for  England  ! ' 

The  conquerors  did  cry. 

This  news  was  brought  to  England 

With  all  the  speed  might  be, 
And  soon  our  gracious  Queen  was  told 

Of  this  same  victory. 
i  0  !  this  is  brave  Lord  Willoughby, 

My  love  that  ever  won  : 
Of  all  the  lords  of  honour 

'Tis  he  great  deeds  hath  done  ! ' 

To  the  soldiers  that  were  maimed, 

And  wounded  in  the  fray, 
The  queen  allowed  a  pension 

Of  fifteen  pence  a  day, 
And  from  all  costs  and  charges 

She  quit  and  set  them  free  : 
And  this  she  did  all  for  the  sake 

Of  brave  Lord  Willoughby. 


BRAVE  LORD  WILLOUGHBY  63 

Then  courage,  noble  Englishmen, 

And  never  be  dismayed  ! 
If  that  we  be  but  one  to  ten, 

We  will  not  be  afraid 
To  fight  with  foreign  enemies, 

And  set  our  country  free. 
And  thus  I  end  the  bloody  bout 

Of  brave  Lord  Willoughby. 

Anonymous. 


64  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

28 
FLODDEN 

NEXT  morn  the  Baron  climbed  the  tower, 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power 

Encamped  on  Flodden  edge  : 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show, 
Like  remnants  of  the  winter  snow, 

Along  the  dusky  ridge. 
Long  Marmion  looked  :  at  length  his  eye 
Unusual  movement  might  descry 

Amid  the  shifting  lines  : 
The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears, 
For  flashing  on  the  hedge  of  spears 

The  eastern  sunbeam  shines. 
Their  front  now  deepening,  now  extending  ; 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bending, 
Now  drawing  back,  and  now  descending, 
The  skilful  Marmion  well  could  know, 
They  watched  the  motions  of  some  foe 
Who  traversed  on  the  plain  below. 

Even  so  it  was.     From  Flodden  ridge 
The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 
Leave  Barmont-wood,  their  evening  post, 
And  heedful  watched  them  as  they  crossed 

The  Till  by  Twisel  bridge, 

High  sight  it  is  and  haughty,  while 
They  dive  into  the  deep  defile ; 
Beneath  the  caverned  cliff  they  fall, 
Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall, 


FLODDEN  65 

By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn  tree, 

Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing  ; 

Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing 
Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see. 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den, 

Where  flows  the  sullen  Till, 
And  rising  from  the  dim-wood  glen, 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men, 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
And  pressing  on  in  ceaseless  march 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn  to  many  a  trumpet  clang, 
Twisel !  thy  rocks  deep  echo  rang  ; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 
Saint  Helen  !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly, 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom, 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room. 

And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now, 
Dark  Flodden  !  on  thy  airy  brow, 
Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while 
And  struggles  through  the  deep  defile  1 
What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James  1 
Why  sits  that  champion  of  the  dames 

Inactive  on  his  steed, 
And  sees  between  him  and  his  land, 
Between  him  and  Tweed's  southern  strand, 

His  host  Lord  Surrey  lead  ! 
What  Vails  the  vain  knight-errant's  brand  ? 
0,  Douglas,  for  thy  leading  wand  ! 

Fierce  Randolph,  for  thy  epeed  ! 


66  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

0  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wight, 

Or  well-skilled  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight, 
And  cry  '  Saint  Andrew  and  our  right ! ' 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn, 
From  Fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn, 
And  Flodden  had  been  Bannock  burn  ! 
The  precious  hour  has  passed  in  vain, 
And  England's  host  has  gained  the  plain  ; 
Wheeling  their  march,  and  circling  still, 
Around  the  base  of  Flodden  hill. 

II 

1  But  see  !  look  up — on  Flodden  bent 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent.7 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill, 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke. 
Volumed  and  fast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war, 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke  ; 
Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone 
Announced  their  march  :  their  tread  alone, 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a  stifled  hum, 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain- throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come. 
Scarce  could  they  hear,  or  see  their  foes, 

Until  at  weapon-point  they  close. 
They  close  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 
With  sword-sway  and  with  lance's  thrust ; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth, 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth 


FLODDEN  67 

And  fiends  in  upper  air  ; 

0  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout, 

Recoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout, 

And  triumph  and  despair. 
Long  looked  their  anxious  squires  :  their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  nought  descrv. 


At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast : 
And  first  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears  ; 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew, 
As  ins  the  storm  the  white  sea-mew. 
Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 
The  broken  billows  of  the  war, 
And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave 
Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ; 

But  nought  distinct  they  see  : 
Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain ; 
Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain  ; 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain  : 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly: 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright 
Still  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight : 

Although  against  them  come 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one, 
And  many  a  stubborn  Badenoch-man, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan, 

With  Huntly  and  with  Home. 


68  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle  ; 
Through  these  the  western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside, 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied. 
'Twas  vain  :  but  Fortune,  on  the  right, 
With  fickle  smile  cheered  Scotland's  fight. 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, 

Then  Howard's  lion  fell  ; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky  ! 
A  Home  !  a  Gordon  !  was  the  cry  : 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows  ; 
Advanced,  forced  back,  now  low,  now  high, 

The  pennon  sank  and  rose  ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail, 

It  wavered  'mid  the  foes. 

in 

By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell, 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell, 
For  still  the  Scots,  around  their  king, 
Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
Where's  now  their  victor  vaward  wing, 

Where  Huntly,  and  where  Home  1 
0  for  a  blast  of  that  dread  horn, 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come, 
When  Roland  brave,  and  Olivier, 
And  every  paladin  and  peer, 


FLODDEN  69 

On  Roncesvalles  died  ! 
Such  blast  might  warn  them,  not  in  vain, 
To  quit  the  plunder  of  the  slain, 
And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again, 

While  yet  on  Flodden  side 
Afar  the  Royal  Standard  flies, 
And  round  it  toils,  and  bleeds,  and  dies 

Our  Caledonian  pride. 


But  as  they  left  the  dark'ning  heath, 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 
The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hailed, 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assailed  ; 
Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep 

That  fought  around  their  king. 
But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow, 
Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwinds  go, 
Though  bill-men  ply  the  ghastly  blow, 

Unbroken  was  the  ring  ; 
The  stubborn  spear-men  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood, 
Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood, 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 
No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight ; 
Linked  in  the  serried  phalanx  fight, 
Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight, 

As  fearlessly  and  well ; 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  king. 
Then  skilful  Surrey's  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands  ; 
And  from  the  charge  they  drew, 


70  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

As  mountain-waves  from  wasted  lands 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know  ; 
Their  king,  their  lords,  their  mightiest  low, 
They  melted  from  the  field,  as  snow, 
When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds  blow, 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash, 

While  many  a  broken  band 
Disordered  through  her  convents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land  ; 
To  town  and  tower,  to  town  and  dale, 
To  tell  red  Flodden's  dismal  tale, 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song, 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong  : 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife  and  carnage  drear 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field, 
Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland's  spear, 

And  broken  was  her  shield  ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THE  SPANISH   ARMADA  71 


29 
THE    SPANISH   ARMADA 

FROM  mercilesse  invaders, 
From  wicked  men's  device, 

0  God  !  arise  and  helpe  us, 
To  quel  owre  enemies. 

Sinke  deepe  their  potent  navies, 

Their  strength  and  corage  break, 
0  God  !  arise  and  arm  us, 

For  Jesus  Christ,  his  sake. 
Though  cruel  Spain  and  Parma 

With  heathen  legions  come, 
0  God  !  arise  and  arm  us, 

We'll  dye  for  owre  home  ! 

We  will  not  change  owre  Credo 
For  Pope,  nor  boke,  nor  bell ; 

And  if  the  Devil  come  himself, 
We'll  hound  him  back  to  hell. 


Jolvn  Still. 


72  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

30 
THE   SPANISH   ARMADO 

SOME  years  of  late,  in  eighty-eight, 

As  I  do  well  remember, 
It  was,  some  say,  the  middle  of  May, 

And  some  say  in  September, 
And  some  say  in  September. 

The  Spanish  train  launch'd  forth  amain, 

With  many  a  fine  bravado, 
Their  (as  they  thought,  but  it  prov'd  not) 

Invincible  Armado, 
Invincible  Armado. 

There  was  a  man  that  dwelt  in  Spain 

Who  shot  well  with  a  gun  a, 
Don  Pedro  hight,  black  as  a  wight 

As  the  Knight  of  the  Sun  a, 
As  the  Knight  of  the  Sun  a. 

King  Philip  made  him  Admiral, 

And  bid  him  not  to  stay  a, 
But  to  destroy  both  man  and  boy 

And  so  to  come  away  a, 
And  so  to  come  away  a. 

Their  navy  was  well  victualled 

With  bisket,  pease  and  bacon, 
They  brought  two  ships,  well  fraught  with  whips, 

But  I  think  they  were  mistaken, 
But  I  think  they  were  mistaken. 


THE   SPANISH  ARMADO  73 

Their  men  were  young,  munition  strong, 

And  to  do  us  more  harm  a, 
They  thought  it  meet  to  joyn  their  fleet 

All  with  the  Prince  of  Parma, 
All  with  the  Prince  of  Parma. 

They  coasted  round  about  our  land, 
And  so  came  in  by  Dover  : 
ut  we  had  men  set  on  'em  then, 
And  threw  the  rascals  over, 
And  threw  the  rascals  over. 

The  Queen  was  then  at  Tilbury, 

What  could  we  more  desire  a  ? 
Sir  Francis  Drake  for  her  sweet  sake 

Did  set  them  all  on  fire  a, 
Did  set  them  all  on  fire  a. 

Then  straight  they  fled  by  sea  and  land, 

That  one  man  kill'd  threescore  a, 
And  had  not  they  all  'run  away, 

In  truth  he  had  kill'd  more  a, 
In  truth  he  had  kill'd  more  a. 

Then  let  them  neither  bray  nor  boast, 

But  if  they  come  again  a, 
Let  them  take  heed  they  do  not  speed 

As  they  did  you  know  when  a, 
As  they  did  you  know  when  a. 

Anonymous. 


74  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

31 

THE   ARMADA 

ATTEND,  all  ye  who  list  to  hear  our  noble  England  s 

praise  : 
I  sing  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's  day, 
There  came  a  gallant  merchant  ship  full  sail  to  Ply- 
mouth bay  ; 
The  crew  had  seen  Castile's  black  fleet,  beyond  Aurig- 

ny'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. 


THE  ARMADA  75 

With   his  white  hair,  unbonnetted,  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  Caesar'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 

vour  blades ! 

V 

Thou,  sun,  shine  on  her  joyously  !  ye  breezes,  waft  her 

wide  ! 
Our  glorious  Semper  Eadem!  the  banner  of  our  pride ! 

The  fresh'ning  breeze  of  eve  unfurled  that  banner's 

massy  fold — 

The  parting  gleam  of  sunshine  kissed  that  haughty 
scroll  of  gold  : 


76  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

Night  sunk  upon  the  dusky  beach,  and  on  the  purple 

sea  ; 
Such  night  in  England  ne'er  had  been,  nor  ne'er  again 

shall  be. 
From  Eddystone  to  Berwick  bounds,  from  Lynn  to 

Milford  bay, 
That  time  of  slumber  was  as  bright,  as  busy  as  the 

day; 
For  swift  to   east,   and   swift  to  west,  the   warning 

radiance  spread- 
High  on  St.  Michael's  Mount  it  shone — it  shone  on 

Beachy  Head  : 
Far  o'er  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  rang  out  all  night 

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,  that  streak  of 
blood-red  light : 


THE  ARMADA  77 

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  flags  and  pikes  dashed  down 

each  rousing  street : 
And  broader  still  became  the  blaze,  and  louder  still 

the  din, 

As  fast  from  every  village  round  the  horse  came  spur- 
ring in  ; 

And  eastward  straight,  for  wild  Blackheath,  the  war- 
like errand  went ; 
And  roused,  in  many  an  ancient  hall,  the  gallant 

squires  of  Kent : 
Southward,   for  Surrey's  pleasant    hills,    flew    those 

bright  coursers  forth ; 
High  on  black  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,  all  night 

from  hill  to  hill ; 
Till  the  proud  peak  unfurled  the  flag  o'er  Derwent's 

rocky  dales ; 


78  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

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  town  and  hamlet  rose  in  arms,  o'er  all  the  bound- 
less plain  ; 

Till  Belvoir's  lordly  towers  the  sign  to  Lincoln  sent, 

And  Lincoln  sped  the  message  on,  o'er  the  wide  vale  of 
Trent ; 

Till  Skiddaw  saw  the  fire  that  burnt  on  Gaunt's  em- 
battled pile, 

And  the  red  glare  on  Skiddaw  roused  the  burghers  of 
Carlisle. 

Thomas  Babington,  Lord  Macaulay. 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  ARMADA  79 


32 
A   BALLAD   OF   THE   ARMADA 

KING  PHILIP  had  vaunted  his  claims  ; 

He  had  sworn  for  a  spear  he  would  sack  us  : 

With  an  army  of  heathenish  names 

He  was  coming  to  fagot  and  stack  us  ; 

Like  the  thieves  of  the  sea  he  would  track  us, 

And  shatter  our  ships  on  the  main  ; 

But  we  had  bold  Neptune  to  back  us — 

And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 

His  carackes  were  christened  of  dames 
To'the  kirtles  whereof  he  would  tack  us  ; 
With  his  saints  and  his  gilded  stern-frames 
He  had  thought  like  an  egg-shell  to  crack  us  ; 
Now  Howard  may  get  to  his  Flaccus, 
And  Drake  to  his  Devon  again, 
And  Hawkins  bowl  rubbers  to  Bacchus — 
For  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 

Let  his  Majesty  hang  to  S.t.  James 
The  axe  that  he  whetted  to  hack  us  ; 
He  must  play  at  some  lustier  games 
Or  at  sea  he  can  hope  to  out-thwack  us  ; 
To  the  mines  of  Peru  he  would  pack  us 
To  tug  at  his  bullet  and  chain  : 
Alas  !  that  his  Greatness  should  lack  us  ! — 
But  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 


80  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

ENVOY 

GLORIANA  ! — the  don  may  attack  us 
Whenever  his  stomach  be  fain  ; 
He  must  reach  us  before  he  can  rack  us,  . 
And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 

Austin  Dobson. 


THE  WINNING  OF  CALES  81 


THE   WINNING   OF  CALES 

LONG  the  proud  Spaniards  had  vaunted  to  conquer  us, 

Threatning  our  country  with  fyer  and  sword  ; 
Often  preparing  their  navy  most  sumptuous 
With  as  great  plenty  as  Spain  could  afford. 

Dub  a  dub,  dub  a  dub,  thus  strike  their  drums  ; 
Tantara,  tantara,  the  Englishman  comes. 

To  the  seas  presently e  went  our  lord  admiral, 
With  knights  couragious  and  captains  full  good  ; 

The  brave  Earl  of  Essex,  a  prosperous  general, 
With  him  prepared  to  pass  the  salt  flood. 

At  Plymouth  speed  i  lye,  took  they  ship  valiantly  e, 
Braver  ships  never  were  seen  under  sayle, 

With  their  fair  colours  spread,  and  streamers  o'er  their 

head. 
Now  bragging  Spaniards,  take  heed  of  your  tayle. 

Unto  Gales  cunninglye,  came  we  most  speedilye, 
Where  the  kinges  navy  securelye  did  ryde  ; 

Being  upon  their  backs,  piercing  their  butts  of  sacks, 
Ere  any  Spaniards  our  coming  descryde. 

Great  was  the  crying,  the  running  and  ryding, 
Which  at  that  season  was  made  in  that  place  ; 

The  beacons  were  fyred,  as  need  then  required  ; 
To  hyde  their  great  treasure  they  had  little  space. 


82  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

There  you  might  see  their  ships,  how  they  were  fyred 

fast, 

And  how  their  men  drowned  themselves  in  the  sea  ; 
There  you  might  hear  them  cry,  wayle  and  weep  pite- 

ously, 
When  they  saw  no  shift  to  'scape  thence  away. 

The  great  St.  Phillip,  the  pryde  of  the  Spaniards, 
Was  burnt  to  the  bottom,  and  sunk  in  the  sea  ; 

But  the  St.  Andrew,  and  eke  the  St.  Matthew, 
Wee  took  in  fight  manfullye  and  brought  away. 

The  Earl  of  Essex,  most  valiant  and  hardye, 

With  horsemen  and  footmen  march'd  up  to  the  town ; 

The  Spanyards,  which  saw  them,  were  greatly  alarmed, 
Did  fly  for  their  savegard,  and  durst  not  come  down. 

Now,  quoth  the  noble  Earl,  courage  my  soldiers  all, 
Fight  and  be  valiant,  the  spoil  you  shall  have  ; 

And  be  well  rewarded  all  from  the  great  to  the  small ; 
But  look  that  the  women  and  children  you  save. 

The  Spaniards  at  that  sight,  thinking  it  vain  to  fight, 
Hung  upp  flags  of  truce  and  yielded  the  towne  ; 

Wee  marched  in  presently e,  decking  the  walls  on  hye, 
With  English  colours  which  purchas'd  renowne. 

Entering  the  houses  then,  of  the  most  richest  men, 
For  gold  and  treasure  we  searched  eche  day  ; 

In  some  places  we  did  find,  pyes  baking  left  behind, 
Meate  at  fire  rosting,  and  folkes  run  away. 

Full  of  rich  merchandize,  every  shop  catch'd  our  eyes, 
Damasks  and  sattens  and  velvets  full  fayre  : 

Which  soldiers  measur'd  out  by  the  length  of  their 

swords ; 
Of  all  commodities  eche  had  a  share. 


THE  WINNING  OF  CALES  83 

Thus  Gales  was  taken,  and  our  brave  general 
March'd  to  the  market-place,  where  he  did  stand  : 

There  many  prisoners  fell  to  our  several  shares, 
Many  crav'd  mercye,  and  mercye  they  fannd. 

When  our  brave  general  saw  they  delayed  all, 

And  would  not  ransome  their  towne  as  they  said, 
With  their  fair  wanscots,  their  presses  and  bedsteds, 
Their  joint-stools  and  tables  a  fire  we  made  ; 
And  when  the  town  burned  all  in  a  flame, 
With  tara,  tantara,  away  we  all  came. 

Anonymous. 


84  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


34 
HEARTS   OF   OAK 

COME,  cheer  up,  my  lads,  'tis  to  glory  we  steer, 

To  add  something  more  to  this  wonderful  year, 

To  honour  we  call  you,  not  press  you  like  slaves, 

For  who  are  so  free  as  the  sons  of  the  waves  ? 

Hearts  of  oak  are  our  ships,  hearts  of  oak  are  our  men, 

We  always  are  ready, 

Steady,  boys,  steady. 
We'll  fight  and  we'll  conquer  again  and  again. 

We  ne'er  see  our  foes  but  we  wish  them  to  stay, 
They  never  see  us  but  they  wish  us  away  ; 
If  they  run,  why,  we  follow,  and  run  them  ashore, 
For  if  they  won't  fight  us,  we  cannot  do  more. 
Hearts  of  oak  are  our  ships,  hearts  of  oak  are  our  men, 

We  always  are  ready, 

Steady,  boys,  steady, 
We'll  fight  and  we'll  conquer  again  and  again. 

Still  Britain  shall  triumph,  her  ships  plough  the  sea, 
Her  standard  be  justice,  her  watchword  'Be  free' ; 
Then,  cheer  up,  my  lads,  with  one  heart  let  us  sing 
Our  soldiers,  our  sailors,  our  statesmen,  our  king. 
Hearts  of  oak  are  our  ships,  hearts  of  oak  are  our  men, 

We  always  are  ready, 

Steady,  boys,  steady, 
We'll  fight  and  we'll  conquer  again  and  again. 

David  Garrick. 


TRUE   UNTIL  DEATH  86 


35 
TRUE   UNTIL   DEATH 

IT  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  King 
We  left  fair  Scotland's  strand  ; 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  King 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land, 

my  dear. 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land. 

Now  a'  is  done  that  men  can  do, 

And  a'  is  done  in  vain  ; 
My  love  and  native  land  farewell, 

For  I  maun  cross  the  main, 

my  dear, 

For  I  maun  cross  the  main. 

He  turned  him  right  and  round  about, 

Upon  the  Irish  shore  : 
And  gae  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

With  adieu  for  evermore, 
my  dear, 

Adieu  for  evermore. 

The  sodger  from  the  wars  returns, 

The  sailor  frae  the  main  : 
But  I  hae  parted  frae  my  love, 

Never  to  meet  again, 

my  dear, 

Never  to  meet  again. 


86  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

When  day  is  gane,  and  night  is  come, 

And  a'  folk  bound  to  sleep  ; 
I  think  on  him  that's  far  awa, 
The  lee-lang  night  and  weep. 

my  dear, 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep. 

Anonymous. 


MARCHING  ALONG  87 


86 
MARCHING   ALONG 


KENTISH  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 

Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing  : 

And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 

And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folks  droop, 

Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

ii 

God  for  King  Charles.     Pym  and  such  carles 

To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous  paries  ! 

Cavaliers,  up  !     Lips  from  the  cup, 

Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 

Till  you're — 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

in 

Hampden  to  Hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well ! 
England,  good  cheer  !     Rupert  is  near  ! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here 

Chorus. — Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song  ? 


88  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

IV 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles  !     Pym  and  his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles  ! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might ; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the  light, 
Chorus. — March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song  ! 

Robert  Browning. 


GIVE  A  ROUSE  89 


37 
GIVE   A  ROUSE 


KING  CHARLES,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse  :  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles  ! 

II 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since  ? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once  ? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  that  I  spent  since  ? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once  ? 
Chorus. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ? 

King  Charles,  and  ivho's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 

Give  a  rouse :  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 

King  Charles! 

in 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him  ? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 
While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot  him  1 
Chorus. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a  rouse :  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles ! 

Robert  Browning. 


90  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 


WHEN    THE    ASSAULT    WAS 
INTENDED  TO  THE  CITY 

CAPTAIN,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  Arms 

Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doors  may  seize, 

If  deed  of  honour  did  thee  ever  please, 

Guard  them,  and  him  within  protect  from  harms. 

He  can  requite  thee  ;  for  he  knows  the  charms 
That  call  fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as  these, 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  lands  and  seas, 
Whatever  clime  the  Sun's  bright  circle  warms. 

Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower  : 
The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare 
The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 

Went  to  the  ground  ;  and  the  repeated  air 
Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 
To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare. 

John  Milton. 


AN  HORATIAN  ODE  91 


39 

AN   HORATIAN   ODE   UPON 

CROMWELUS   RETURN   FROM 

IRELAND 

THE  forward  youth  that  would  appear 
Must  now  forsake  his  Muses  dear, 

Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 

His  numbers  languishing. 

'Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 
And  oil  the  unused  armour's  rust, 

Removing  from  the  wall 

The  corslet  of  the  hall. 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  through  adventurous  war 

Urged  his  active  star  : 

And  like  the  three-fork'd  lightning,  first 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nurst, 

Did  thorough  his  own  side 

His  fiery  way  divide  : 

For  'tis  all  one  to  courage  high, 
The  emulous,  or  enemy  ; 

And  with  such,  to  enclose 

Is  more  than  to  oppose. 


92  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went 
And  palaces  and  temples  rent ; 
And  Caesar's  head  at  last 
Did  through  his  laurels  blast. 

'Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  face  of  angry  Heaven's  flame  ; 
And  if  we  would  speak  true, 
Much  to  the  man  is  due, 

Who,  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
He  lived  reserved  and  austere 
(As  if  his  highest  plot 
To  plant  the  bergamot), 

Could  by  industrious  valour  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  time, 
And  cast  the  Kingdoms  old 


Though  Justice  against  Fate  complain, 
And  plead  the  ancient  rights  in  vain — 
But  those  do  hold  or  break 
As  men  are  strong  or  weak — 

Nature,  that  hateth  emptiness, 

Allows  of  penetration  less, 

And  therefore  must  make  room 
Where  greater  spirits  come. 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  war 
Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar  ? 

And  Hampton  shows  what  part 

He  had  of  wiser  art ; 


AN  HORATIAN  ODE  93 

Where,  twining  subtle  fears  with  hope, 
He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 

To  Caresbrooke's  narrow  case  ; 

That  thence  the  Royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn  ; 

While  round  the  armed  bands 

Did  clap  their  bloody  hands. 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene, 

But  with  his  keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did  try  ; 

Nor  call'd  the  gods,  with  vulgar  spite 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right ; 

But  bow'd  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 

This  was  that  memorable  hour 
Which  first  assured  the  forced  power  : 

So  when  they  did  design 

The  Capitol's  first  line, 

A  Bleeding  Head,  where  they  begun, 
Did  fright  the  architects  to  run  ; 

And  yet  in  that  the  State 

Foresaw  its  happy  fate  ! 

And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 

To  see  themselves  in  one  year  tamed  : 

So  much  one  man  can  do 

That  does  both  act  and  know. 


94  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best, 
And  have,  though  overcome,  confest 
How  good  he  is,  how  just 
And  fit  for  highest  trust. 

Nor  yet  grown  stiffer  with  command, 
But  still  in  the  republic's  hand — 

How  fit  he  is  to  sway 

That  can  so  well  obey  ! 

He  to  the  Commons'  feet  presents 
A  Kingdom  for  his  first  year's  rents, 
And,  what  he  may,  forbears 
His  fame,  to  make  it  theirs  : 

And  has  his  sword  and  spoils  ungirt 
To  lay  them  at  the  public's  skirt. 
So  when  the  falcon  high 
Falls  heavy  from  the  sky, 

She,  having  kilPd,  no  more  doth  search 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch  ; 
Where,  when  he  first  does  lure, 
The  falconer  has  her  sure. 

What  may  not  then  our  Isle  presume 
While  victory  his  crest  does  plume  ? 
What  may  not  others  fear, 
If  thus  he  crowns  each  year  ? 

As  Caesar  he,  ere  long,  to  Gaul, 
To  Italy  an  Hannibal, 

And  to  all  States  not  free 

Shall  climacteric  be. 


AN  HORATIAN  ODE  96 

The  Pict  no  shelter  now  shall  find 
Within  his  particolour'd  mind, 

But,  from  this  valour,  sad 

Shrink  underneath  the  plaid  ; 

Happy,  if  in  the  tufted  brake 
The  English  hunter  him  mistake, 

Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  near 

The  Caledonian  deer. 

But  thou,  the  war's  and  fortune's  son, 
March  indefatigably  on  ; 

And  for  the  last  effect, 

Still  keep  the  sword  erect : 

Besides  the  force  it  has  to  fright 
The  Spirits  of  the  shady  night, 

The  same  arts  that  did  gain 

A  power,  must  it  maintain. 

Andrew  Marvell. 


96  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


UPON  THE  DEATH  OF  KING 
CHARLES  I 

GREAT,  good,  and  just !  could  I  but  rate 

My  griefs  and  thy  too  rigid  fate, 

I'd  weep  the  world  to  such  a  strain, 

As  it  should  deluge  once  again. 

But  since  thy  loud-tongued  blood  demands  supplies 

More  from  Briareus'  hands  than  Argus'  eyes, 

I'll  sing  thy  obsequies  with  trumpet  sounds, 

And  write  thy  epitaph  with  blood  and  wounds. 

James  Graham,  Marquis  of  Montrose. 


A  JACOBITE'S   EPITAPH  97 


41 
A   JACOBITE'S   EPITAPH 

To  my  true  king  I  offer'd  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  languish'd  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Grey-hair'd  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  fever'd  sleep, 
Each  morning  started  from  the  dream  to  weep  ; 
Till  God,  who  saw  me  tried  too  sorely,  gave 
The  resting  place  I  ask'd,  an  early  grave. 
0  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  spake  like  thee, 
Forget  all  feuds,  and  shed  one  English  tear 
O'er  English  dust.     A  broken  heart  lies  here. 

Thomas  Babington,  Lord  Macaulay. 


H 


98  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

42 

A   GARDEN 
WRITTEN    AFTER   THE    CIVIL   WARS 

SEE  how  the  flowers,  as  at  parade, 
Under  their  colours  stand  display 'd  : 
Each  regiment  in  order  grows, 
That  of  the  tulip,  pink,  and  rose. 
But  when  the  vigilant  patrol 
Of  stars  walks  round  about  the  pole, 
Their  leaves,  that  to  the  stalks  are  curl'd, 
Seem  to  their  staves  the  ensigns  f url'd. 
Then  in  some  flower's  beloved  hut 
Each  bee,  as  sentinel.,  is  shut, 
And  sleeps  so  too  ;  but  if  once  stirr'd, 
She  runs  you  through,  nor  asks  the  word. 
0  thou,  that  dear  and  happy  Isle, 
The  garden  of  the  world  erewhile, 
Thou  Paradise  of  the  four  seas 
Which  Heaven  planted  us  to  please, 
But,  to  exclude  the  world,  did  guard 
With  wat'ry  if  not  flaming  sword  ; 
What  luckless  apple  did  we  taste 
To  make  us  mortal  and  thee  waste  ! 
Unhappy  !  shall  we  never  more 
That  sweet  militia  restore, 
When  gardens  only  had  their  towers, 
And  all  the  garrisons  were  flowers  ; 
When  roses  only  arms  might  bear, 
And  men  did  rosy  garlands  wear  ? 

Andrew  Mar  veil. 


BERMUDAS  99 

43 

BERMUDAS 

WHERE  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  row'd  along 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song  : 

*  What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
Where  He  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks, 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms'  and  prelates'  rage  : 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  Spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything, 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air : 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows  : 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 
But  apples  plants  of  such  a  price, 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars  chosen  by  His  hand 
From  Lebanon  He  stores  the  land  ; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 


100  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast ; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  His  name. 
0,  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt 
Till  it  arrive  at  Heaven's  vault, 
Which  thence  (perhaps)  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay  ! ' 

Thus  sung  they  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note  : 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

Andrew  MarvelL 


TO  THE   VIRGINIAN  VOYAGE  101 


44 
TO   THE   VIRGINIAN   VOYAGE 

You  brave  heroic  minds 

Worthy  your  country's  name, 
That  honour  still  pursue  ; 
Go  and  subdue  ! 
Whilst  loitering  hinds 

Lurk  here  at  home  with  shame. 

Britons,  you  stay  too  long  : 
Quickly  aboard  bestow  you, 
And  with  a  merry  gale 
Swell  your  stretch'd  sail 
With  vows  as  strong 

As  the  winds  that  blow  you. 

Your  course  securely  steer, 

West  and  by  south  forth  keep  ! 
Kocks,  lee-shores,  nor  shoals 
When  Eolus  scowls 
You  need  not  fear  ; 
So  absolute  the  deep. 

And  cheerfully  at  sea 
Success  you  still  entice 
To  get  the  pearl  and  gold, 
And  ours  to  hold 
Virginia, 
Earth's  only  paradise. 


102  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Where  nature  hath  in  store 
Fowl,  venison,  and  fish, 
And  the  fruitfull'st  soil 
Without  your  toil 
Three  harvests  more, 

All  greater  than  your  wish. 

And  the  ambitious  vine 

Crowns  with  his  purple  mass 
The  cedar  reaching  high 
To  kiss  the  sky, 
The  cypress,  pine, 
And  useful  sassafras. 

To  whom  the  Golden  Age 
Still  nature's  laws  doth  give, 
No  other  cares  attend, 
But  them  to  defend 
From  winter's  rage, 

That  long  there  doth  not  live. 

When  as  the  luscious  smell 
Of  that  delicious  land 
Above  the  seas  that  flows 
The  clear  wind  throws, 
Your  hearts  to  swell 

Approaching  the  dear  strand  ; 

In  kenning  of  the  shore 
(Thanks  to  God  first  given) 
0  you  the  happiest  men, 
Be  frolic  then  ! 
Let  cannons  roar, 

Frighting  the  wide  heaven. 


TO  THE  VIRGINIAN  VOYAGE          103 

And  in  regions  far, 

Such  heroes  bring  ye  forth 

As  those  from  whom  we  came  ; 
And  plant  our  name 
Under  that  star 
Not  known  unto  our  North. 

And  as  there  plenty  grows 
Of  laurel  everywhere — 
Apollo's  sacred  tree — 
You  it  may  see 
A  poet's  brows 

To  crown,  that  may  sing  there. 

Thy  Voyages  attend 
Industrious  Hakluyt, 

Whose  reading  shall  inflame 
Men  to  seek  fame, 
And  much  commend 
To  after  times  thy  wit. 

Michael  Drayton. 


104  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

45 
THE   CANADIAN   BOAT-SONG 

LISTEN  to  me,  as  when  ye  heard  our  father 
Sing  long  ago  the  song  of  other  shores — 
Listen  to  me,  and  then  in  chorus  gather 
All  your  deep  voices  as  ye  pull  your  oars  : 

Fair  these  broad  meads — these  hoary  woods  are  grand ; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  fathers'  land. 

From  the  lone  shieling  of  the  misty  island 

Mountains  divide  us,  and  the  waste  of  seas- 
Yet  still  the  blood  is  strong,  the  heart  is  Highland, 
And  we  in  dreams  behold  the  Hebrides  : 

Fair  these  broad  meads — these  hoary  woods  are  grand; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  fathers'  land. 

We  ne'er  shall  tread  the  fancy-haunted  valley, 

Where  'tween,  the  dark  hills  creeps  the  small  clear 

stream, 

In  arms  around  the  patriarch  banner  rally, 
Nor  see  the  moon  on  royal  tombstones  gleam  : 
Fair  these  broad  meads — these  hoary  woods  are  grand; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  fathers'  land. 

When  the  bold  kindred,  in  the  time  long  vanish'd, 

Conquer'd  the  soil  and  fortified  the  keep, — 
No  seer  foretold  the  children  would  be  banish'd, 
That  a  degenerate  Lord  might  boast  his  sheep  : 
Fair  these  broad  meads — these  hoary  woods  are  grand; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  fathers'  land. 


THE  CANADIAN  BOAT-SONG  105 

Come  foreign  rage — let  Discord  burst  in  slaughter  ! 
0  then  for  clansman  true,  and  stern  claymore — 
The   hearts  that  would  have  given  their  blood  like 

water, 
Beat  heavily  beyond  the  Atlantic  roar  : 

Fair  these  broad  meads — these  hoary  woods  are  grand  ; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  fathers'  land. 

Anonymous. 


106  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


46 


0,  MY  Dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep  ! 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  Deep. 
There's  wine  from  the  royal  Pope, 

Upon  the  ocean  green  : 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope, 
Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and  hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Over  hills,  and  through  dales, 

Have  I  roamed  for  your  sake  ; 
All  yesterday  I  sailed  with  sails 

On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne  at  its  highest  flood, 

I  dashed  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

Oh  !  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
Red  lightning  lighten'd  through  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 


DARK  ROSALEEN  107 

All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro,  do  I  move, 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love  ! 
The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  Queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Eosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 


Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon, 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen  ; 
JTis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

'Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 


Over  dews,  over  sands, 
Will  I  fly  for  your  weal : 

Your  holy  delicate  white  hands 
Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 

At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers, 
From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en, 


108 


You'll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen  ! 

You'll  think  of  me  through  daylight's  hours 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
Oh,  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 
And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen  ! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

0  !  the  Erne  shall  run  red, 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  head, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood, 
And  gun-peal  and  slogan-cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

James  Clarence  Mangan. 


THE   WEST'S   ASLEEP  109 

47 
THE  WESTS   ASLEEP 

WHEN  all  around  their  vigil  keep 
The  West's  asleep,  the  West's  asleep, 
Alas  !  and  well  may  Erin  weep 
That  Connaught  lies  in  slumber  deep. 

For  lake  and  plain  smile  fair  and  free 
Mid  rocks,  their  guardian  chivalry ; 
Sing  oh  !  let  man  learn  liberty 
From  crashing  wind  and  slashing  sea. 

For  often  in  O'Connor's  van 
To  triumph  dashed  each  Connaught  clan, 
And  fleet  as  deer  the  Normans  ran 
Through  Curlew's  pass  and  Ardrahan. 

And  later  days  saw  deeds  as  brave 
And  glory  guards  Clanrickarde's  grave : 
Sing  oh !  they  died,  their  land  to  save 
On  Augh rim's  slopes  and  Shannon's  wave. 

But  if  when  all  their  vigil  keep, 
The  West's  asleep,  the  West's  asleep, 
Alas  !  and  well  may  Erin  weep 
That  Connaught  lies  in  slumber  deep. 

But  hark  !  a  voice  like  thunder  spake, 
The  West's  awake,  the  West's  awake  ! 
We'll  watch  till  death  for  Erin's  sake — 
The  West's  awake,  let  England  quake  ! 

Thomas  Davis* 


110  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


48 
MY   COUNTRY 

WHEN  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Great  Nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 
When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 
The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 
I  had,  my  Country  ! — am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 
But  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art, 
Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 
But  dearly  must  we  prize  thee  ;  we  who  find 
In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men  ; 
And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled. 
What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 
Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 
Pelt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child  ! 

William  Wordsvwrth. 


Ill 


49 
THE  BATTLE   OF  BLENHEIM 


IT  was  a  summer  evening, 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done  ; 

And  he  before  his  cottage  door 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun, 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

n 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Eoll  something  large  and  round, 

That  he  beside  the  rivulet, 
In  playing  there,  had  found  ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

Ill 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
3Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,  said  he, 
Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 


112  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

IV 

I  find  them  in  the  garden,  for 
There's  many  here  about, 

And  often  when  I  go  to  plough, 
The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 

For  many  thousand  men,  said  he, 

Were  slain  in  the  great  victory. 


Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about, 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries, 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes ; 
Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  kill'd  each  other  for. 


VI 

It  was  the  English,  Kaspar  cried, 
That  put  the  French  to  rout  ; 

But  what  they  kill'd  each  other  for, 
I  could  not  well  make  out. 

But  everybody  said,  quoth  he, 

That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

VII 

My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by  ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground. 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly  : 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 


THE   BATTLE   OF  BLENHEIM  113 

VIII 

With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then, 

And  new-born  infant,  died. 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

IX 

They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight, 

After  the  field  was  won, 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 


Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won, 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene. — 
Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  ! 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. — 
Nay — nay — my  little  girl,  quoth  he, 
It  was  a  famous  victory. 

XI 

And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 

Who  such  a  fight  did  win. — 
But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ? 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. — 
Why  that  I  cannot  tell,  said  he, 
But  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

Robert  Southey. 


114  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


50 
THE   ISLAND   OF   THE   SCOTS 

THE  Rhine  is  running  deep  and  red, 

The  island  lies  before — 
"  Now  is  there  one  of  all  the  host 

Will  dare  to  venture  o'er  ? 
For  not  alone  the  river's  sweep 

Might  make  a  brave  man  quail : 
They  are  on  the  farther  side, 

Their  shot  comes  fast  as  hail. 
God  help  us,  if  the  middle  isle 

"We  may  not  hope  to  win  ! 
Now  is[there  any  of  the  host 

Will  dare  to  venture  in  ? 

The  ford  is  deep,  the  banks  are  steep, 

The  island  shore  lies  wide  : 
Nor  man  nor  horse  could  stem  its  force, 

Or'reach  the  farther  side. 
See^there  !  amidst  the  willow-boughs 

The  serried  bayonets  gleam  ; 
They've  flung  their  bridge — they've  won  the  isle  ; 

The!foe  have  crossed  the  stream  ! 

B 

Their  volley  flashes  sharp  and  strong — 

By  all  the  Saints  !  I  trow 
There  never  yet  was  soldier  born 

Could'force  that  passage  now  ! J> 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SCOTS  115 

So  spoke  the  bold  French  Mareschal 

With  him  who  led  the  van, 
Whilst  rough  and  red  before  their  view 

The  turbid  river  ran. 
Nor  bridge  nor  boat  had  they  to  cross 

The  wild  and  swollen  Rhine, 
And  thundering  on  the  other  bank 

Far  stretched  the  German  line. 
Hard  by  there  stood  a  swarthy  man 

Was  leaning  on  his  sword, 
And'a  saddened  smile  lit  up  his  face 

As  he  heard  the  Captain's  word. 
"  I've  seen  a  wilder  stream  ere  now 

Than  that  which  rushes  there  ; 
I've  stemmed  a  heavier  torrent  yet, 

And  never  thought  to  dare. 
If  German  steel  be  sharp  and  keen, 

Is  ours  not  strong  and  true  ? 
There  may  be  danger  in  the  deed, 

But  there  is  honour  too." 


The  old  lord  in  his  saddle  turned, 

And  hastily  he  said — 
"  Hath  bold  Duguesclin's  fiery  heart 

Awakened  from  the  dead? 
Thou  art  a  leader  of  the  Scots — 

Now  well  and  sure  I  know, 
That  gentle  blood  in  dangerous  hour 

Ne'er  yet  ran  cold  nor  slow, 
And  I  have  seen  ye  in  the  fight 

Do  all  that  mortal  may  : 
If  honour  is  the  boon  ye  seek, 

It  may  be  won  this  day — 


116  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

The  prize  is  in  the  middle  isle. 
There  lies  the  adventurous  way. 

And  armies  twain  are  on  the  plain, 
The  daring  deed  to  see — 

Now  ask  the  gallant  company 
If  they  will  follow  thee  ! " 

Right  gladsome  looked  the  Captain  then, 

And  nothing  did  he  say, 
But  he  turned  him  to  his  little  band- 

0  few,  I  ween,  were  they  ! 
The  relics  of  the  bravest  force 

That  ever  fought  in  fray. 
No  one  of  all  that  company 

But  bore  a  gentle  name, 
Not  one  whose  fathers  had  not  stood 

In  Scotland's  fields  of  fame. 
All  they  had  marched  with  great  Dundee 

To  where  he  fought  and  fell, 
And  in  the  deadly  battle-strife 

Had  venged  their  leader  well ; 
And  they  had  bent  the  knee  to  earth 

When  every  eye  was  dim, 
As  o'er  their  hero's  buried  corpse 

They  sang  the  funeral  hymn  ; 
And  they  had  trod  the  Pass  once  more, 

And  stooped  on  either  side 
To  pluck  the  heather  from  the  spot 

Where  he  had  dropped  and  died  ; 
And  they  had  bound  it  next. their  hearts, 

And  ta'en  a  last  farewell 
Of  Scottish  earth  and  Scottish  sky, 

Where  Scotland's  glory  fell. 


THE    ISLAND  OF  THE  SCOTS          117 

Then  went  they  forth  to  foreign  lands 

Like  bent  and  broken  men, 
Who  leave  their  dearest  hope  behind, 

And  may  not  turn  again. 
"  The  stream,"  he  said,  "  is  broad  and  deep, 

And  stubborn  is  the  foe- 
Yon  island-strength  is  guarded  well — 

Say,  brothers,  will  ye  go  ? 
From  home  and  kin  for  many  a  year 

Our  steps  have  wandered  wide, 
And  never  may  our  bones  be  laid 

Our  fathers'  graves  beside. 
No  children  have  we  to  lament, 

No  wives  to  wail  our  fall ; 
The  traitor's  and  the  spoiler's  hand 

Have  reft  our  hearths  of  all. 
But  we  have  hearts,  and  we  have  arms, 

As  strong  to  will  and  dare 
As  when  our  ancient  banners  flew 

Within  the  northern  air. 
Come,  brothers  !  let  me  name  a  spell 

Shall  rouse  your  souls  again, 
And  send  the  old  blood  bounding  free 

Through  pulse,  and  heart,  and  vein. 
Call  back  the  days  of  bygone  years — 

Be  young  and  strong  once  more  ; 
Think  yonder  stream  so  stark  and  red 

Is  one  we've  crossed  before. 
Kise,  hill  and  glen  !  rise,  crag  and  wood  ! 

Rise  up  on  either  hand — 
Again  upon  the  Garry's  banks 

On  Scottish  soil  we  stand  ! 
Again  I  see  the  tartans  wave, 


118 


Again  the  trumpets  ring  ; 
Again  I  hear  our  leader's  call — 

c  Upon  them  for  the  King  ! ' 
Stayed  we  behind  that  glorious  day 

For  roaring  flood  or  linn  ? 
The  soul  of  Graeme  is  with  us  still — 

Now,  brothers  !  will  ye  in  ? " 

No  stay — no  pause.    With  one  accord 

They  grasped  each  other's  hand, 
Then  plunged  into  the  angry  flood, 

That  bold  and  dauntless  band. 
High  flew  the  spray  above  their  heads, 

Yet  onward  still  they  bore, 
Midst  cheer,  and  shout,  and  answering  yell, 

And  shot,  and  cannon-roar — 
"  Now,  by  the  Holy  Cross  !  I  swear, 

Since  earth  and  sea  began, 
Was  never  such  a  daring  deed 

Essayed  by  mortal  man  ! n 

Thick  blew  the  smoke  across  the  stream, 

And  faster  flashed  the  flame  : 
The  water  plashed  in  hissing  jets 

As  ball  and  bullet  came. 
Yet  onwards  pushed  the  Cavaliers 

All  stern  and  undismayed, 
With  thousand  armed  foes  before, 
And  none  behind  to  aid. 
Once,  as  they  neared  the  middle  stream, 

So  strong  the  torrent  swept, 
That  scarce  that  long  and  living  wall 

Their  dangerous  footing  kept. 


THE  ISLAND  OF  THE  SCOTS  119 

Then  rose  a  warning  cry  behind, 

A  joyous  shout  before  : 
u  The  current's  strong — the  way  is  long — 

They'll  never  reach  the  shore  ! 
See,  see  !  they  stagger  in  the  midst, 

They  waver  in  their  line  ! 
Fire  on  the  madmen  !  break  their  ranks, 

And  whelm  them  in  the  Rhine  ! }) 


Have  you  seen  the  tall  trees  swaying 

When  the  blast  is  sounding  shrill, 
And  the  whirlwind  reels  in  fury 

Down  the  gorges  of  the  hill ; 
How  they  toss  their  mighty  branches, 

Struggling  with  the  tempest's  shock  ; 
How  they  keep  their  place  of  vantage, 

Cleaving  firmly  to  the  rock  ? 
Even  so  the  Scottish  warriors 

Held  their  own  against  the  river  ; 
Though  the  water  flashed  around  them, 

Not  an  eye  was  seen  to  quiver  ; 
Though  the  shot  flew  sharp  and  deadly, 

Not  a  man  relaxed  his  hold  : 
For  their  hearts  were  big  and  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  thoughts  of  old. 
One  word  was  spoke  among  them, 

And  through  the  ranks  it  spread— 
"  Remember  our  dead  Claverhouse  ! " 

Was  all  the  Captain  said. 
Then  sternly  bending  forward, 

They  wrestled  on  awhile, 
Until  they  cleared  the  heavy  stream, 

Then  rushed  towards  the  isle. 


120  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

The  German  heart  is  stout  and  true, 

The  German  arm  is  strong  ; 
The  German  foot  goes  seldom  back 

Where  armed  foemen  throng. 
But  never  had  they  faced  in  field 

So  stern  a  charge  before, 
And  never  had  they  felt  the  sweep 

Of  Scotland's  broad  claymore. 
Not  fiercer  pours  the  avalanche 

Adown  the  steep  incline, 
That  rises  o'er  the  parent-springs 

Of  rough  and  rapid  Rhine — 
Scarce  swifter  shoots  the  bolt  from  heaven 

Than  came  the  Scottish  band 
Right  up  against  the  guarded  trench, 

And  o'er  it  sword  in  hand. 
In  vain  their  leaders  forward  press — 

They  meet  the  deadly  brand  ! 


0  lonely  island  of  the  Rhine — 

Where  seed  was  never  sown, 
What  harvest  lay  upon  thy  sands, 

By  those  strong  reapers  thrown  1 
What  saw  the  winter  moon  that  night 

As,  struggling  through  the  rain, 
She  poured  a  wan  and  fitful  light 

On  marsh,  and  stream,  and  plain  ? 
A  dreary  spot  with  corpses  strewn, 

And  bayonets  glistening  round  ; 
A  broken  bridge,  a  stranded  boat, 

A  bare  and  battered  mound  ; 
And  one  huge  watch-fire's  kindled  pile 


THE   ISLAND   OF  THE  SCOTS  121 

That  sent  its  quivering  glare 
To  tell  the  leaders  of  the  host 
The  conquering  Scots  were  there  ! 

And  did  they  twine  the  laurel- wreath 

For  those  who  fought  so  well  ? 
And  did  they  honour  those  who  lived, 

And  weep  for  those  who  fell  ? 
What  meed  of  thanks  was  given  to  them 

Let  aged  annals  tell. 
Why  should  they  bring  the  laurel-wreath — 

Why  crown  the  cup  with  wine "? 
It  was  not  Frenchmen's  blood  that  flowed 

So  freely  on  the  Rhine — 
A  stranger  band  of  beggared  men 

Had  done  the  venturous  deed  : 
The  glory  was  to  France  alone, 

The  danger  was  their  meed. 
And  what  cared  they  for  idle  thanks 

From  foreign  prince  and  peer  ? 
What  virtue  had  such  honied  words 

The  exiled  heart  to  cheer  ? 
What  mattered  it  that  men  should  vaunt, 

And  loud  and  fondly  swear, 
That  higher  feat  of  chivalry 

Was  never  wrought  elsewhere  ? 
They  bore  within  their  breasts  the  grief 

That  fame  can  never  heal — 
The  deep,  unutterable  woe 

Which  none  save  exiles  feel. 
Their  hearts  were  yearning  for  the  land 

They  ne'er  might  see  again — 
For  Scotland's  high  and  heathered  hills, 


122  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

For  mountain,  loch,  and  glen— 
For  those  who  haply  lay  at  rest 

Beyond  the  distant  sea, 
Beneath  the  green  and  daisied  turf 

Where  they  would  gladly  be  ! 
Long  years  went  by.     The  lonely  isle 

In  Rhine's  impetuous  flood 
Has  ta'en  another  name  from  those 

Who  bought  it  with  their  blood  : 
And,  though  the  legend  does  not  live — 

For  legends  lightly  die — 
The  peasant,  as  he  sees  the  stream 

In  winter  rolling  by, 
And  foaming  o'er  its  channel-bed 

Between  him  and  the  spot 
Won  by  the  warriors  of  the  sword, 
Still  calls  that  deep  and  dangerous  ford 

The  Passage  of  the  Scot. 

William  Edmonstone^Aytoun. 


THE  PRIVATE   OF  THE   BUFFS          123 


51 
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  ? 


124  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

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. 


THE  BRITISH   GRENADIERS  125 


52 
THE   BRITISH   GRENADIERS 

SOME  talk  of  Alexander,  and  some  of  Hercules, 

Of  Hector  and  Lysander,  and  such  great  names  as  these, 

But  of  all  the  world's  great  heroes,  there's  none  that 

can  compare, 
With  a  tow,  row,  row,  row,  row,  row,  to  the  British 

Grenadier  ! 

Those  heroes  of  antiquity  ne'er  saw  a  cannon  ball, 

Or  knew  the  force  of  powder  to  slay  their  foes  withal ; 

But  our  brave  boys  do  know  it,  and  banish  all  their 

fears, 
With  a  tow,  row,  row,  row,  row,  row,  for  the  British 

Grenadiers  ! 

Whene'er  we  are  commanded  to  storm  the  palisades, 
Our  leaders  march  with  fuses,   and   we  with  hand 

grenades, 

We  throw  them  from  the  glacis,  about  the  enemies'  ears, 
Sing    tow,    row,  row,    row,    row,    row,    the    British 

Grenadiers  ! 

And  when  the  siege  is  over,  we  to  the  town  repair, 
The   townsmen    cry,    *  Hurrah,   boys,   here    comes   a 

Grenadier  ! 
Here  come  the  Grenadiers,  my  boys,  who  know  no 

doubts  or  fears  ! ' 
Then  sing  tow,  row,  row,  row,  row,  row,  the  British 

Grenadiers  ! 


126  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

Then  let  us  fill  a  bumper,  and  drink  a  health  to  those 
Who  carry  caps  and  pouches,  and  wear  the  louped 

clothes, 
May  they  and  their  commanders  live  happy  all  their 

years, 
With  a  tow,  row,  row,  row,  row,  row,  for  the  British 

Grenadiers  ! 

Anonymous. 


THE  HONOUR  OF  BRISTOL  127 


53 
THE   HONOUR  OF  BRISTOL 

ATTEND  you,  and  give  ear  awhile, 

And  you  shall  understand, 
Of  a  battle  fought  upon  the  seas 

By  a  ship  of  brave  command. 
The  fight  it  was  so  glorious 

Men's  hearts  it  did  fulfil, 
And  it  made  them  cry,  '  To  sea,  to  sea, 

With  the  Angel  Gabriel ! ' 

This  lusty  ship  of  Bristol 

Sailed  out  adventurously 
Against  the  foes  of  England, 

Her  strength  with  them  to  try  : 
Well  victualled,  rigged,  and  manned  she  was, 

With  good  provision  still, 
Which  made  men  cry,  <  To  sea,  to  sea, 

With  the  Angel  Gabriel  I1 

The  Captain,  famous  Netherway 

(That  was  his  noble  name)  : 
The  Master — he  was  called  John  Mines — 

A  mariner  of  fame  : 
The  gunner,  Thomas  Watson, 

A  man  of  perfect  skill : 
With  many  another  valiant  heart 

In  the  Angel  Gabriel. 


128  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

They  waving  up  and  down  the  seas 

Upon  the  ocean  main, 
*  It  is  not  long  ago,'  quoth  they, 

'  That  England  fought  with  Spain  : 
0  would  the  Spaniard  we  might  meet 

Our  stomachs  to  fulfil ! 
We  would  play  him  fair  a  noble  bout 

With  our  A  ngel  Gabriel ! ' 

They  had  no  sooner  spoken 

But  straight  appeared  in  sight 
Three  lusty  Spanish  vessels 

Of  warlike  trim  and  might : 
With  bloody  resolution 

They  thought  our  men  to  spill, 
And  they  vowed  that  they  would  make  a  prize 

Of  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

Our  gallant  ship  had  in  her 

Full  forty  fighting  men  : 
With  twenty  piece  of  ordnance 

We  played  about  them  then, 
With  powder,  shot,  and  bullets 

Right  well  we  worked  our  will, 
And  hot  and  bloody  grew  the  fight 

With  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

Our  Captain  to  our  Master  said, 

'  Take  courage,  Master  bold  ! ' 
Our  Master  to  the  seamen  said, 

'  Stand  fast,  my  hearts  of  gold  ! ' 
Our  gunner  unto  all  the  rest, 

4  Brave  hearts,  be  valiant  still ! 
Fight  on,  fight  on  in  the  defence 

Of  our  Angel  Gabriel ! ' 


THE  HONOUR  OF  BRISTOL  129 

We  gave  them  such  a  broadside, 

It  smote  their  mast  asunder, 
And  tore  the  bowsprit  off  their  ship, 

Which  made  the  Spaniards  wonder, 
And  caused  them  in  fear  to  cry, 

With  voices  loud  and  shrill, 
4  Help,  help,  or  sunken  we  shall  be 

By  the  Angel  Gabriel  /' 

So  desperately  they  boarded  us 

For  all  our  valiant  shot, 
Three  score  of  their  best  fighting  men 

Upon  our  decks  were  got ; 
And  lo  !  at  their  first  entrances 

Full  thirty  did  we  kill, 
And  thus  we  cleared  with  speed  the  deck 

Of  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

With  that  their  three  ships  boarded  us 

Again  with  might  and  main, 
But  still  our  noble  Englishmen 

Cried  out,  *  A  fig  for  Spain  ! ' 
Though  seven  times  they  boarded  us 

At  last  we  showed  our  skill, 
And  made  them  feel  what  men  we  were 

On  the  Angel  Gabriel. 

Seven  hours  this  fight  continued  : 

So  many  men  lay  dead, 
With  Spanish  blood  for  fathoms  round 

The  sea  was  coloured  red. 
Five  hundred  of  their  fighting  men 

We  there  outright  did  kill, 
And  manv  more  were  hurt  and  maimed 

w 

By  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

K 


130  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Then,  seeing  of  these  bloody  spoils, 

The  rest  made  haste  away  : 
For  why,  they  said  it  was  no  boot 

The  longer  there  to  stay. 
Then  they  fled  into  Gales, 

Where  lie  they  must  and  will 
For  fear  lest  they  should  meet  again 

With  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

We  had  within  our  English  ship 

But  only  three  men  slain, 
And  five  men  hurt,  the  which  I  hope 

Will  soon  be  well  again. 
At  Bristol  we  were  landed, 

And  let  us  praise  God  still, 
That  this  hath  blest  our  lusty  hearts 

And  our  Angel  Gabriel. 

Anonymous. 


THE  'ARETHUSA'  131 

54 

THE   'ARETHUSA1 

COME,  all  ye  jolly  sailors  bold, 

Whose  hearts  are  cast  in  honour's  mould, 

While  English  glory  I  unfold, 

Huzza  for  the  Arethusa ! 
She  is  a  frigate  tight  and  brave, 
As  ever  stemmed  the  dashing  wave  ; 

Her  men  are  staunch 

To  their  fav'rite  launch, 
And  when  the  foe  shall  meet  our  fire, 
Sooner  than  strike,  we'll  all  expire 

On  board  of  the  Arethusa. 

'Twas  with  the  spring  fleet  she  went  out 
The  English  Channel  to  cruise  about, 
When  four  French  sail,  in  show  so  stout, 

Bore  down  on  the  Arethusa. 
The  famed  Belle  Poule  straight  ahead  did  lie, 
The  Arethusa  seemed  to  fly. 

Not  a  sheet,  or  a  tack, 

Or  a  brace,  did  she  slack  ; 

Though  the  Frenchmen  laughed  and  thought  it  stuff, 
But  they  knew  not  the  handful  of  men,  how  tough, 

On  board  of  the  Arethusa. 

On  deck  five  hundred  men  did  dance, 
The  stoutest  they  could  find  in  France  ; 
We  with  two  hundred  did  advance 
On  board  of  the  Arethusa. 


132  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Our  captain  hailed  the  Frenchman,  '  Ho  ! ' 
The  Frenchman  then  cries  out  '  Hallo  ! ' 

'Bear  down,  d'ye  see, 

To  our  Admiral's  lee  ! ' 

'  No,  no,'  says  the  Frenchman,  *  that  can't  be  ! ' 
Then  I  must  lug  you  along  with  me,' 

Says  the  saucy  Arethusa. 

The  fight  was  off  the  Frenchman's  land, 
We  forced  them  back  upon  their  strand, 
For  we  fought  till  not  a  stick  could  stand 

Of  the  gallant  Arethusa. 
And  now  we've  driven  the  foe  ashore 
Never  to  fight  with  Britons  more, 

Let  each  fill  his  glass 

To  his  fav'rite  lass  : 

A  health  to  our  captain  and  officers  true, 
And  all  that  belong  to  the  jovial  crew 

On  board  of  the  Arethusa. 

Prince  Hoare. 


THE  OLD  NAVY  133 


55 
THE   OLD   NAVY 

THE  captain  stood  on  the  carronade  :  *  First  lieutenant,' 

says  he, 
'  Send  all  my  merry  men  aft  here,  for  they  must  list 

to  me ; 
I  haven't  the  gift  of  the  gab,  my  sons — because  Fm  bred 

to  the  sea ; 
That  ship  there  is  a  Frenchman,  who  means  to  fight 

with  we, 
And  odds  bobs,  hammer  and  tongs,  long  as  I've 

been  to  sea, 
I've  fought  'gainst  every  odds — but  I've  gained  the 

victory  ! 

'  That  ship  there  is  a  Frenchman,  and  if  we  don't  take 

she, 

JTis  a  thousand  bullets  to  one,  that  she  will  capture  we  ; 
I  haven't  the  gift  of  the  gab,  my  boys  :  so  each  man  to 

his  gun  : 
If    she's  not  mine  in  half    an  hour,   I'll  flog  each 

mother's  son. 
For  odds  bobs,  hammer  and  tongs,  long  as  I've 

been  to  sea, 
I've  fought  'gainst  every  odds — and  I've  gained  the 

victory  ! ' 


134  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

We  fought  for  twenty  minutes,  when  the  Frenchman 

had  enough ; 
'  I  little  thought,'  said  he,  c  that  your  men  were  of  such 

stuff' ; 
Our  captain  took  the  Frenchman's  sword,  a  low  bow 

made  to  he  ; 
'  I  haven't  the  gift  of  the  gab,  monsieur,  but  polite  I 

wish  to  be. 
And  odds  bobs,  hammer  and  tongs,  long  as  I've 

been  to  sea, 
I've  fought  'gainst  every  odds — and  I've  gained  the 

victory  ! ' 

Our  captain  sent  for  all  of  us  :  'My  merry  men,'  said  he, 

'  I  haven't  the  gift  of  the  gab,  my  lads,  but  yet  I  thank- 
ful be  : 

You've  done  your  duty  handsomely,  each  man  stood  to 
his  gun  ; 

If  you  hadn't,  you  villains,  as  sure  as  day,  I'd  have 

flogged  each  mother's  son. 
For  odds  bobs,  hammer  and  tongs,  as  long  as  I'm 

at  sea, 
I'll  fight  'gainst  every  odds — and   I'll  gain   the 

victory  ! ' 

Frederick  Marryat. 


SONG  135 

56 
SONG 

WRITTEN  AT  SEA,  IN  THE  FIRST  DUTCH  WAR  (1665), 
THE    NIGHT    BEFORE    AN    ENGAGEMENT 

To  all  you  ladies  now  on  land, 

We  men  at  sea  indite  ; 
But  first  would  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write  ; 
The  Muses  now,  and  Neptune  too, 

We  must  implore  to  write  to  you. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la — la — la. 

For  though  the  Muses  should  prove  kind, 

And  fill  our  empty  brain  ; 
Yet  if  rough  Neptune  rouse  the  wind, 

To  wave  the  azure  main, 
Our  paper,  pen  and  ink,  and  we 

Roll  up  and  down  our  ship  at  sea. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la — la — la. 

Then,  if  we  write  not  by  each  post, 

Think  not  we  are  unkind  ; 
Nor  yet.  conclude  our  ships  are  lost 

By  Dutchman  or  by  wind  : 
Our  tears  we'll  send  a  speedier  way, 

The  tide  shall  bring  them  twice  a  day. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la — la — la. 

The  King  with  wonder  and  surprise, 

Will  swear  the  seas  grow  bold  ; 
Because  the  tides  will  higher  rise, 

Than  e'er  they  did  of  old  ; 


136  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

But  let  him  know  it  is  our  tears 

Bring  floods  of  grief  to  Whitehall  stairs. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la — la — la. 

Should  foggy  Opdam  chance  to  know 

Our  sad  and  dismal  story  ; 
The  Dutch  would  scorn  so  weak  a  foe 

And  quit  their  fort  at  Goree, 
For  what  resistance  can  they  find 

From  men  who've  left  their  hearts  behind  ? 
With  a  fa,  la,  la — la — la. 

Let  wind  and  weather  do  its  worst, 

Be  you  to  us  but  kind, 
Let  Dutchmen  vapour,  Spaniards  curse, 

No  sorrows  shall  we  find, 
Tis  then  no  matter  how  things  go 

Or  who's  our  friend,  or  who's  our  foe. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la — la — la. 

To  pass  our  tedious  hours  away, 

We  throw  a  merry  main  ; 
Or  else  at  serious  ombre  play. 

But  why  should  we  in  vain 
Each  other's  ruin  thus  pursue  1 

We  were  undone  when  we  left  you. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la — la — la. 

But  now  our  fears  tempestuous  grow, 

And  cast  our  hopes  away  ; 
Whilst  you,  regardless  of  our  woe, 

Sit  careless  at  a  play  ; 
Perhaps,  permit  some  happier  man 

To  kiss  your  hand,  or  flirt  your  fan. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la — la — la. 


SONG  137 

When  any  mournful  tune  you  hear, 

That  dies  at  every  note  ; 
As  if  it  sigh'd  with  each  man's  care, 

For  being  so  remote  ; 
Think  how  often  love  we've  made 

To  you,  when  all  those  tunes  were  play'd. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la — la — la. 

In  justice  you  cannot  refuse 

To  think  of  our  distress, 
When  we  for  hopes  of  honour  lose 

Our  certain  happiness  ; 
All  these  designs  are  but  to  prove 

Ourselves  were  worthy  of  your  love. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la— la — la. 

And  now  we've  told  you  all  our  loves, 

And  likewise  all  our  fears, 
In  hopes  this  declaration  moves 

Some  pity  from  your  tears  ; 
Let's  hear  of  no  inconstancy, 

We  have  too  much  of  that  at  sea. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la— la — la. 

Charles  Sackwlle,  Earl  of  Dorset. 


138  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

57 
THE   SONG   OF  THE   WESTERN    MEN 

A  GOOD  sword  and  a  trusty  hand  ! 

A  merry  heart  and  true  ; 
King  James's  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do. 

And  have  they  fixed  the  where  and  when  ? 

And  shall  Trelawny  die  1 
Here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why  ! 

Out  spake  their  captain  brave  and  bold, 

A  merry  wight  was  he  : 
'  If  London  Tower  were  Michael's  hold, 

We'll  set  Trelawny  free  ! 

*  Well  cross  the  Tamar,  land  to  land, 

The  Severn  is  no  stay, 
With  "  one  and  all,"  and  hand  in  hand, 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay  ? 

4  And  when  we  come  to  London  Wall, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view, 
Come  forth  !  come  forth,  ye  cowards  all, 

Here's  men  as  good  as  you  ! 

1  Trelawny  he's  in  keep  and  hold, 

Trelawny  he  may  die  : 
But  here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold, 

Will  know  the  reason  why  ! ' 

Robert  Stephen  Hawker. 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  139 


58 
THE   HAPPY   WARRIOR 

WHO  is  the  happy  "Warrior  ?    Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 
— It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought : 
Whose  high  endeavours  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright : 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn  ; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care  ; 
Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train  ! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain  ; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower  ; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives  : 
By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate  : 
Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice  ; 
More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 
As  tempted  more  ;  more  able  to  endure, 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress  ; 
Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 


140  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

— 'Tis  he  whose  law  is  reason  ;  who  depends 

Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends  ; 

Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 

To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 

Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 

He  labours  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 

To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows  : 

— Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 

Kises  by  open  means  ;  and  there  will  stand 

On  honourable  terms,  or  else  retire, 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire  ; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim  ; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honours,  or  for  worldly  state  ; 

Whom  they  must  follow  ;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all ; 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace  ; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind, 

Is  happy  as  a  Lover  ;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  Man  inspired  ; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw  ; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need  ; 

— He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 

And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 

Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR  141 

To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes  ; 

Sweet  images  !  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 

Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 

It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve  ; 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love  : — 

'Tis,  finally,  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high, 

Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 

Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity, — 

Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 

Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not — 

Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 

Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won  : 

Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 

Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray  ; 

Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stands  fast, 

Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 

From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast ; 

Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 

For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 

Or  he  must  fall,  to  sleep  without  his  fame, 

And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name — 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause  ; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause  : 

This  is  the  happy  Warrior  ;  this  is  he 

That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

William  Wordsworth. 


142  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


59 

INVOCATION:   TO  THE  DWELLERS 
ON   PARNASSUS 

REVELE  to  me  the  sacred  noursery 
Of  vertue,  which  with  you  doth  there  reinaine, 
Where  it  in  silver  bowre  does  hidden  lie 
From  view  of  men,  and  wicked  worlds  disdaine  : 
Since  it  at  first  was  by  the  gods  with  paine 
Planted  in  earth,  being  derived  at  f urst 
From  heavenly  seedes  of  bounty  soveraine, 
And  by  them  long  with  careful  labour  nurst, 
Till  it  to  ripeness  grew,  and  forth  to  honour  burst. 

Amongst  them  all  growes  not  a  fayrer  flowre 
Then  is  the  bloosme  of  comely  courtesie  ; 
Which  though  it  on  a  lowly  stalke  doe  bowre, 
Yet  brancheth  forth  in  brave  nobilitie, 
And  speeds  it  selfe  through  all  civilitie  : 
Of  which  though  present  age  doe  plenteous  seeme, 
Yetj  being  matcht  with  plaine  Antiquitie, 
Ye  will  with  them  all  but  fayned  showes  esteeme, 
Which  carry  colours  faire  that  feeble  eyes  misdeeme. 

But  in  the  trials  of  true  courtesie 
Its  now  so  farre  from  that  which  then  it  was, 
That  it  indeed  is  nought  but  forgerie, 
Fashion'd  to  please  the  eies  of  them  that  pas, 
Which  see  not  perfect  things  but  in  a  glas  : 


INVOCATION  143 

Yet  is  that  glasse  so  gay,  that  it  can  blynd 
The  wisest  sight  to  thinke  gold  that  is  bras  ; 
But  vertues  seat  is  deepe  within  the  mynd, 
And  not   in   outward   shows,    but   inward    thoughts 
defyned. 

But  where  shall  I  in  all  Antiquitye 
So  faire  a  patterne  finde,  where  may  be  seene 
The  goodly  praise  of  Princely  curtesie, 
As  in  your  selfe,  0  soveraine  Lady  Queene  1 
In  whose  pure  minde,  as  in  a  mirror  sheene, 
It  showes,  and  with  her  brightness  doth  inflame 
The  eyes  of  all  which  thereon  fixed  beene, 
But  meriteth  indeede  an  higher  name  : 
Yet  so  from  low  to  high  uplifted  is  your  fame. 

Then  pardon  me,  most  dreaded  Soveraine, 
That  from  your  selfe  I  doe  this  vertue  bring, 
And  to  your  selfe  doe  it  returne  againe. 
So  from  the  Ocean  all  rivers  spring, 
And  tribute  backe  repay  as  to  their  King  : 
Right  so  from  you  all  goodly  vertues  well 
Into  the  rest  which  round  about  you  ring, 
Faire  Lords  and  Ladies  which  about  you  dwell, 
And  doe  adorne  your  Court  where  courtesies  excell. 

Edmund  Spenser. 


144  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


60 

TO   HONOUR 

BRIGHT  and  majestic  Spirit !  faithful  mate 
Of  all  true  Virtue,  and  that  generous  Fame 
Which  guards  a  spotless,  seeks  a  glorious  name 
From  Love  not  Pride  ;  but  seeks  content  to  wait, 
And  prompt  to  share  it — Angel  of  the  State  ! 
Sanctioning  Order  with  religious  awe  ; 
Taking  the  harshness  and  the  sting  from  Law, 
Scorn  from  the  lowly,  envy  from  the  great ; — 
Come  to  this  region  of  thine  ancient  sway  ! 
With  thine  heroic  and  inspiring  smile 
Illume  our  perils  and  our  fears  beguile  ! 
Was  it  not  here  that  Alfred  built  his  throne, 
And  high-souled  Sydney  waived  a  throne  away  ? — 
The  land  is  strong  which  thou  hast  made  thine  own. 

Aubrey  de  Vere. 


THE  RED  THREAD   OF  HONOUR       145 


61 
THE   RED   THREAD  OF  HONOUR 

ELEVEN  men  of  England 

A  breastwork  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  ; 
4  Bring  here,'  at  length  he  shouted, 

1  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. 


146  POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 

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,  0  gallant  hillmen, 

For  these,  whose  life  has  fled, 
Which  is  the  fitting  colour, 

The  green  one  or  the  red  ? ' 

1  Our  brethren,  laid  in  honoured  graves,  may  wear 
Their  green  reward,3  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  their  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, 
Bat  though  the  red  be  given, 

Have  we  not  more  to  do  ? 


THE   RED  THREAD   OF  HONOUR       147 

*  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, 

Thev  called  him  Mehrab  Khan. 

V 

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  Rustum 

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  Rustum 

Have  climbed,  like  these,  the  hill  ? ' 


148  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

And  they  replied,  '  Though  Mehrab  Khan  was  brave, 
As  chief,  he  chose  himself  what  risks  to  run  ; 

Prince  Rustum  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  1 ' 

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. 

The  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. 

Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doyle. 


YE  GENTLEMEN   OF  ENGLAND        149 

62 
YE   GENTLEMEN   OF  ENGLAND 

YE  gentlemen  of  England 

That  live  at  home  at  ease, 
Ah  !  little  do  you  think  upon 

The  dangers  of  the  seas. 
Give  ear  unto  the  mariners, 

And  they  will  plainly  shew 
All  the  cares  and  the  fears 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow — 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

If  enemies  oppose  us 

When  England  is  at  war 
With  any  foreign  nation, 

We  fear  not  wound  or  scar  ; 
Our  roaring  guns  shall  teach  'em 

Our  valour  for  to  know, 
Whilst  they  reel  on  the  keel, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow — 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Then  courage,  all  brave  mariners, 

And  never  be  dismay'd  ; 
While  we  have  bold  adventurers, 

We  ne'er  shall  want  a  trade  : 
Our  merchants  will  employ  us 

To  fetch  them  wealth,  we  know  ; 
Then  be  bold — work  for  gold, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow — 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Martyn  Parker. 


150  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

63 
ADMIRALS   ALL 

EPFINGHAM,  Grenville,  Raleigh,  Drake, 

Here's  to  the  bold  and  free  ! 
Benbow,  Collingwood,  Byron,  Blake, 

Hail  to  the  Kings  of  the  Sea  ! 
Admirals  all,  for  England's  sake, 

Honour  be  yours  and  fame  ! 
And  honour,  as  long  as  waves  shall  break, 

To  Nelson's  peerless  name  ! 

Admirals  all,  for  England's  sake, 
Honour  be  yours  and  fame  ! 

And  honour,  as  long  as  waves  shall  break. 
To  Nelson's  peerless  name !  *• 

Essex  was  fretting  in  Cadiz  Bay 

With  the  galleons  fair  in  sight ; 
Howard  at  last  must  give  him  his  way, 

And  the  word  was  passed  to  fight. 
Never  was  schoolboy  gayer  than  he, 

Since  holidays  first  began  : 
He  tossed  his  bonnet  to  wind  and  sea, 

And  under  the  guns  he  ran. 

Drake  nor  devil  nor  Spaniard  feared, 

Their  cities  he  put  to  the  sack  : 
He  singed  His  Catholic  Majesty's  beard, 

And  harried  his  ships  to  wrack. 
He  was  playing  at  Plymouth  a  rubber  of  bowls 

When  the  great  Armada  came  ; 


ADMIRALS    ALL  151 

But  he  said,  '  They  must  wait  their  turn,  good  souls,' 
And  he  stooped,  and  finished  the  game. 

Fifteen  sail  were  the  Dutchmen  bold, 

Duncan  he  had  but  two  ; 
But  he  anchored  them  fast  where  the  Texel  shoaled 

And  his  colours  aloft  he  flew. 
'  Pre  taken  the  depth  to  a  fathom,'  he  cried, 

4  And  I'll  sink  with  a  right  good  will, 
For  I  know  when  we're  all  of  us  under  the  tide 

My  flag  will  be  fluttering  still.' 

Splinters  were  flying  above,  below, 

When  Nelson  sailed  the  Sound  : 
'  Mark  you,  I  wouldn't  be  elsewhere  now,' 

Said  he,  4  for  a  thousand  pound  ! ' 
The  Admiral's  signal  bade  him  fly, 

But  he  wickedly  wagged  his  head, 
He  clapped  the  glass  to  his  sightless  eye 

And  '  I'm  damned  if  I  see  it,'  he  said. 

Admirals  all,  they  said  their  say, 

(The  echoes  are  ringing  still), 
Admirals  all,  they  went  their  way 

To  the  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  they  left  us  a  kingdom  none  can  take, 

The  realm  of  the  circling  sea, 
To  be  ruled  by  the  rightful  sons  of  Blake 

And  the  Kodneys  yet  to  be. 

Admirals  all,  for  England's  sake, 

Honour  be  yours  and  fame  ! 
And  honour,  as  long  as  waves  shall  break, 

To  Nelson's  peerless  name  ! 

Henry  Newbolt. 


152  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


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  flush'd 

To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 

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. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC         153 

Again  !  again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  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  shatter'd  sail, 

Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then 

As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave  : 

'  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save  : — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring  : 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King.'  .  .  . 

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. 


154  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


65 
HAWKE 

IN  seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-nine, 
When  Hawke  came  swooping  from  the  West, 

The  French  King's  Admiral  with  twenty  of  the  line, 
Was  sailing  forth,  to  sack  us,  out  of  Brest. 

The  ports  of  France  were  crowded,  the  quays  of  France 
a-hum 

With  thirty  thousand  soldiers  marching  to  the  drum, 

For  bragging  time  was  over  and  fighting  time  was  come 
When  Hawke  came  swooping  from  the  West. 

'Twas  long  past  noon  of  a  wild  November  day 

When  Hawke  came  swooping  from  the  West ; 
He  heard  the  breakers  thundering  in  Quiberon  Bay, 

But  he  flew  the  flag  for  battle,  line  abreast. 
Down  upon  the  quicksands  roaring  out  of  sight 
Fiercely  beat  the  storm-wind,  darkly  fell  the  night, 
But  they  took  the  foe  for  pilot  and  the  cannon's  glare 

for  light 
When  Hawke  came  swooping  from  the  West. 

The  Frenchmen  turned  like  a  covey  down  the  wind 
When  Hawke  came  swooping  from  the  West ; 

One  he  sank  with  all  hands,  one  he  caught  and  pinned, 
And  the  shallows  and  the  storm  took  the  rest. 


HAWKE  155 

The  guns  that  should  have  conquered  us  they  rusted 

on  the  shore, 
The  men  that  would  have  mastered  us  they  drummed 

and  marched  no  more, 

For  England  was  England,  and  a  mighty  brood  she  bore 
When  Hawke  came  swooping  from  the  West. 

Henry  Newbolt. 


156  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

66 
THE   TWO   CAPTAINS 

WHEN  George  the  Third  was  reigning  a  hundred  years 

ago, 

He  ordered  Captain  Farmer  to  chase  the  foreign  foe. 
1  You're  not  afraid  of  shot,'  said  he,  '  you're  not  afraid 

of  wreck, 
So  cruise  about  the  west   of   France  in  the   frigate 

called  Quebec. 

1  Quebec  was  once  a  Frenchman's  town,  but  twenty 

years  ago 
King  George  the  Second  sent  a  man  called  General 

Wolfe,  you  know, 

To  clamber  up  a  precipice  and  look  into  Quebec, 
As  you'd  look  down  a  hatchway  when  standing  on  the 

deck. 

'  If  Wolfe  could  beat  the  Frenchmen  then  so  you  can 

beat  them  now. 

Before  he  got  inside  the  town  he  died,  I  must  allow, 
But  since  the  town  was  won  for  us  it  is  a  lucky  name, 
And  you'll  remember  Wolfe's  good  work,  and  you  shall 

do  the  same.' 

Then  Farmer  said,  Til  try,sir,'and  Farmer  bowed  so  low 
That  George  could  see  his  pigtail  tied  in  a  velvet  bow. 
George  gave  him  his  commission,  and  that  it  might  be 

safer, 
Signed  '  King  of  Britain,  King  of  France,'  and  sealed 

it  with  a  wafer. 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS  157 

Then  proud  was  Captain  Farmer  in  a  frigate  of  his  own, 
And  grander  on  his  quarter-deck  than  George  upon  the 

throne. 

He'd  two  guns  in  his  cabin,  and  on  the  spar-deck  ten, 
And  twenty  on  the  gun-deck,  and  more  than  ten  score 

men. 

And  as  a  huntsman  scours  the  brakes  with  sixteen  brace 

of  dogs, 

With  two-and-thirty  cannon  the  ship  explored  the  fogs. 
From  Cape  la  Hogue  to  Ushant,  from  Rochefort  to 

Belleisle, 
She  hunted  game  till  reef  and  mud  were  rubbing  on 

her  keel. 

The  fogs  are  dried,  the  frigate's  side  is  bright  with 

melting  tar, 

The  lad  up  in  the  f oretop  sees  square  white  sails  afar ; 
The  east  wind  drives  three  square-sailed  masts  from 

out  the  Breton  bay, 
And  '  Clear  for  action  ! '    Farmer  shouts,  and  reefers 

yell  '  Hooray  ! ' 

The  Frenchmen's  captain  had  a  name  I  wish  I  could 

pronounce  ; 
A  Breton  gentleman  was  he,  and  wholly  free  from 

bounce, 

One  like  those  famous  fellows  who  died  by  guillotine 
For  honour  and  the  fleurs-de-lys  and  Antoinette  the 

Queen. 

The  Catholic  for  Louis,  the  Protestant  for  George, 
Each  Captain  drew  as  bright  a  sword  as  saintly  smiths 
could  forge  ; 


158  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

And  both  were  simple  seamen,  but  both  could  under- 
stand 

How  each  was  bound  to  win  or  die  for  flag  and  native 
land. 

The  French  ship  was  la  Surveillante,  which  means  the 

watchful  maid  ; 

She  folded  up  her  head-dress,  and  began  to  cannonade. 
Her  hull  was  clean,  and  ours  was  foul,  we  had  to  spread 

more  sail. 
On  canvas,  stays,  and  topsail  yards  her  bullets  carne 

like  hail. 

Sore  smitten  were  both  Captains,  and  many  lads  beside, 
And  still  to  cut  our  rigging  the  foreign  gunners  tried. 
A  sail-clad  spar  came  flapping  down  athwart  a  blazing 

gun; 
We  could  not  quench  the  rushing  flames,  and  so  the 

Frenchman  won. 

Our  quarter-deck  was  crowded,  the  waist  was  all  aglow  ; 
Men  hung  upon  the  taffrail,  half-scorched  but  loth  to  go ; 
Our  Captain  sat  where  once  he  stood,  and  would  not 

quit  his  chair. 
He  bade  his  comrades  leap  for  life,  and  leave  him 

bleeding  there. 

The  guns  were  hushed  on  either  side,  the  Frenchmen 

lowered  boats, 
They  flung  us  planks  and  hencoops,  and  everything 

that  floats  ; 
They  risked  their  lives,  good  fellows  !  to  bring  their 

rivals  aid. 
'Twas  by  the  conflagration  the  peace  was  strangely 

made. 


THE  TWO   CAPTAINS  159 

La  Surveillante  was  like  a  sieve  ;  the  victors  had  no 

rest. 
They  had  to  dodge  the  east  wind  to  reach  the  port  of 

Brest, 
And  where  the  waves  leapt  lower,  and  the  riddled  ship 

went  slower, 
In  triumph,  yet  in  funeral  guise,  came  fisher-boats  to 

tow  her. 

They  dealt  with  us  as  brethren,  they  mourned  for 

Farmer  dead  ; 
And  as  the  wounded  captives  passed  each  Breton  bowed 

the  head. 
Then  spoke  the  French  Lieutenant,  "Twas  fire  that 

won,  not  we. 
*  You  never  struck  your  flag  to  us  ;  you'll  go  to  England 

free.' 

'Twas  the  sixth  day  of   October,  seventeen  hundred 

seventy-nine, 

A  year  when  nations  ventured  against  us  to  combine, 
Quebec  was  burnt  and  Farmer  slain,  by  us  remembered 

not ; 
But  thanks  be  to  the  French  book  wherein  they're  not 

forgot. 

Now  you,  if  you've  to  fight  the  French,  my  youngster, 

bear  in  mind 

Those  seamen  of  King  Louis  so  chivalrous  and  kind  ; 
Think  of  the  Breton  gentlemen  who  took  our  lads  to 

Brest, 
And  treat  some  rescued  Breton  as  a  comrade  and  a 

guest. 

William  Cory. 


160  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


67 
THE   FIGHTING   TEMERAIRE 

IT  was  eight  bells  ringing, 

For  the  morning  watch  was  done, 
And  the  gunner's  lads  were  singing 

As  they  polished  every  gun. 
It  was  eight  bells  ringing, 
And  the  gunner's  lads  were  singing, 
For  the  ship  she  rode  a-swinging, 
As  they  polished  every  gun. 

Oh !  to  see  the  linstock  lighting, 

Temeraire !     Temeraire ! 
Oh  !  to  hear  the  round-shot  biting, 

Temeraire  !     Temeraire ! 
Oh !  to  see  the  linstock  lighting, 
And  to  hear  the  round-shot  biting, 
For  we're  all  in  love  with  fighting, 
On  the  Fighting  Temeraire. 


It  was  noontide  ringing, 
And  the  battle  just  begun, 

When  the  ship  her  way  was  winging, 
As  they  loaded  every  gun. 

It  was  noontide  ringing 

When  the  ship  her  way  was  winging, 

And  the  gunner's  lads  were  singing 
As  they  loaded  every  gun. 


THE    FIGHTING  TEMERAIRE  161 

There'll  be  many  grim  and  gory, 

Temeraire  !     Temeraire  ! 
There'll  be  few  to  tell  the  story, 

Temeraire  I     Temeraire ! 
There'll  be  many  grim  and  gory, 
There'll  be  few  to  tell  the  story, 
But  we'll  all  be  one  in  glory 

With  the  Fighting  Temeraire. 


There's  a  far  bell  ringing 

At  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
And  a  phantom  voice  is  singing 

Of  the  great  days  done. 
There's  a  far  bell  ringing, 
And  a  phantom  voice  is  singing 
Of  renown  for  ever  clinging 

To  the  great  days  done. 

Now  the  sunset  breezes  shiver, 
Temeraire  !     Temeraire  ! 
And  she's  fading  down  the  river, 

Tdmtfraire  I     Temeraire ! 
Now  the  sunset  breezes  shiver, 
And  she's  fading  down  the  river, 
But  in  England's  song  for  ever 
She's  the  Fighting  Temeraire. 

Henry  Newbolt. 


M 


162  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


68 
THE   LAST   BUCCANEER 

THE  winds  were  yelling,  the  waves  were  swelling, 

The  sky  was  black  and  drear, 

When  the  crew  with  eyes  of  flame  brought  the  ship 
without  a  name 

Alongside  the  last  Buccaneer. 

4  Whence  flies  your  sloop  full  sail  before  so  fierce  a  gale, 
When  all  others  drive  bare  on  the  seas  ? 

Say,  come  ye  from  the  shore  of  the  holy  Salvador, 
Or  the  gulf  of  the  rich  Caribbees  ? ' 

4  From  a  shore  no  search  hath  found,  from  a  gulf  no 
line  can  sound, 

Without  rudder  or  needle  we  steer  ; 
Above,  below,  our  bark  dies  the  sea-fowl  and  the  shark, 

As  we  fly  by  the  last  Buccaneer. 

'To-night  there  shall  be  heard  on  the  rocks  of  Cape 

de  Verde 

A  loud  crash  and  a  louder  roar  ; 
And  to-morrow  shall  the  deep  with  a  heavy  moaning 

sweep 
The  corpses  and  wreck  to  the  shore.' 

The  stately  ship  of  Clyde  securely  now  may  ride 

In  the  breadth  of  the  citron  shades  ; 
And  Severn's  towering  mast  securely  now  lies  fast, 

Through  the  seas  of  the  balmy  Trades. 


THE  LAST  BUCCANEER  163 

From  St.  Jago's  wealthy  port,  from  Havannah's  royal 
fort, 

The  seaman  goes  forth  without  fear  ; 
For  since  that  stormy  night  not  a  mortal  hath  had  sight 

Of  the  flag  of  the  last  Buccaneer. 

Thomas  Bdbington,  Lord  Macaulay. 


164  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


69 


THE  LAST  THREE  FROM 
TRAFALGAR 

AT  THE   ANNIVERSARY  BANQUET, 
21  OCTOBER,    187*. 

IN  grappled  ships  around  the  Victory, 

Three  boys  did  England's  Duty  with  stout  cheer, 
While  one  dread  truth  was  kept  from  every  ear, 

More  dire  than  deafening  fire  that  churned  the  sea 

For  in  the  flagship's  weltering  cockpit,  he 
Who  was  the  Battle's  Heart  without  a  peer, 
He  who  had  seen  all  fearful  sights  save  Fear, 

Was  passing  from  all  life  save  Victory. 

And  round  the  old  memorial  board  to-day, 

Three  greybeards — each  a  warworn  British  Tar- 
View  through  the  mist  of  years  that  hour  afar  : 
Who  soon  shall  greet,  'mid  memories  of  fierce  fray, 
The  impassioned  soul  which  on  its  radiant  way 
Soared  through  the  fiery  cloud  of  Trafalgar. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


TO    THE    MEN    OF    KENT  165 


70 


TO   THE   MEN   OF  KENT, 
OCTOBER,   1803 

VANGUARD  of  liberty,  ye  men  of  Kent ! 

Ye  children  of  a  soil  that  doth  advance 

Its  haughty  brow  against  the  coast  of  France, 
Now  is  the  time  to  prove  your  hardiment ! 
To  France  be  words  of  invitation  sent ! 

They  from  their  fields  can  see  the  countenance 

Of  your  fierce  war,  may  ken  the  glittering  lance, 
And  hear  you  shouting  forth  your  brave  intent. 
Left  single,  in  bold  parley,  ye,  of  yore, 

Did  from  the  Norman  win  a  gallant  wreath  : 
Confirm'd  the  charters  that  were  yours  before. 

No  parleying  now  !     In  Britain  is  one  breath  ; 
We  all  are  with  you  now  from  shore  to  shore  : 

Ye  men  of  Kent,  'tis  victory  or  death  ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


166  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


71 
NAPOLEON   AND   THE   SAILOR 

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 
Arm'd  in  our  island  every  freeman, 

His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffer'd  him — I  know  not  how— 
Unprison'd  on  the  shore  to  roam  ; 

And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 

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  banish'd  sleep, 

He  saw  one  morning — dreaming — doating, 

An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating  ; 


NAPOLEON  AND  THE  SAILOR         167 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 
The  livelong  day  laborious  ;  lurking 

Until  he  launch'd  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !  'twas  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched  :  such  a  wherry 

Perhaps  ne'er  ventur'd  on  a  pond, 
Or  cross'd  a  ferry. 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt  sea-field, 

It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder  ; 

Untarr'd,  uncompass'd,  and  unkeel'd, 
No  sail — no  rudder. 

From  neighbouring  woods  he  interlaced 
His  sorry  skiff  with  wattled  willows  ; 

And  thus  equipp'd  he  would  have  pass'd 
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, 
Address'd  the  stranger  : — 

'  Rash  man  that  wouldst  yon  channel  pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashion'd  ; 

Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassion'd.1 


168  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

*  I  have  no  sweetheart,5  said  the  lad  ; 

4  But — absent  long  from  one  another — 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 
To  see  my  mother  ! ' 

*  And  so  thou  shalt,'  Napoleon  said, 

'  Ye'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  shipp'd  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  Bonaparte. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE   WATERLOO      169 


THE    NIGHT    BEFORE    THE    BATTLE 
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  that  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, 


170  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

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  '  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 ! 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  WATERLOO      171 

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 ! 

George  Gordon,  Lord  Byron. 


172  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


73 

NAPOLEON  THE   GREAT 

WATERLOO 

THEN  there  rise  upon  my  view 
Those  gray  flats  of  Waterloo, 
Where  the  red  men  met  the  blue 
Like  a  wall ; 

Legions  flashing  in  the  sun, 
Sabre  clash,  and  vollied  gun, 
Till  the  world  our  Wellesley  won 
From  the  Gaul. 

Then  the  clarions  gave  their  peal, 
Then  the  wrestling  squadrons  reel, 
Silent  in  their  ranks  of  steel 
Soldiers  bled. 

Then,  as  clouds  of  gathering  night, 
Blucher's  morions  massed  the  height, 
And  the  tyrant  at  the  sight 
Turned  and  fled. 

Over  faces  of  the  slain, 

Through  the  cannon-cumbered  plain, 

Ah,  he  never  turned  again 

To  his  dead  ! 

All  his  retinue  of  kings 
Melt  on  panic-stricken  wings, 
While  his  dying  trooper  sings 
Marseillaise. 


NAPOLEON  THE  GREAT  178 

Mighty  Captain,  King  of  Rome, 
Mourn  thine  eagles  stamped  in  loam, 
Rifled  barn  and  ruined  home, 
Ricks  ablaze. 

Fly  by  sacked  and  burning  farms^ 
Fly  by  riddled  windmills3  arms, 
In  the  nightmare  and  alarms, 
Of  thy  pride. 

By  the  endless  poplar  lines, 
By  the  trampled  corn  and  vines, 
In  the  crash  of  great  designs 
Let  him  ride. 

John  Leicester  Warren,  Lord  de 


174  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


74 
A   FRAGMENT 

1  French  disappointment,  British  glory, 
Must  be  the  subject  of  the  story? 

IBERIA,  trembling  from  afar, 
Renounces  the  confederate  war  ; 
Her  efforts  and  her  arts  o'ercome, 
France  calls  her  shattered  navies  home  ; 
Repenting  Holland  learns  to  mourn 
The  sacred  treaties  she  has  torn  ; 
Astonishment  and  awe  profound 
Are  stamped  upon  the  nations  round  ; 
Without  one  friend,  above  all  foes, 
Britannia  gives  the  world  repose. 

William  Cowper. 


A   SOLDIER'S  DREAM  175 

75 
A   SOLDIER'S  DREAM 

»   • 

OUR  bugles  sang  truce — for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky  ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf -scaring  faggot  that  guarded  the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array 
Far,  far,  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track  : 

'Twas  Autumn — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young  ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 
And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn- reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore, 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

4  Stay,  stay  with  us  :  rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn.5 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay  ; 

But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


176  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


76 
BEAT!   BEAT!    DRUMS! 

BEAT  !  beat !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles  !  blow  ! 
Through  the  windows — through  doors— burst  like  a 

ruthless  force, 

Into  the  solemn  church,  and  scatter  the  congregation, 
Into  the  school  where  the  scholar  is  studying  ; 
Leave  not  the  bridegroom  quiet — no  happiness  now 

must  he  have  with  his  bride. 
Nor  the  peaceful  farmer  any  peace,  ploughing  his  field 

or  gathering  his  grain, 
So  fierce  you  whirr  and  pound,  you  drums — so  shrill 

you  bugles  blow. 

Beat !  beat !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles  !  blow  ! 

Over  the  traffic  of  cities — over  the  rumble  of  wheels 
in  the  streets  ; 

Are  beds  prepared  for  sleepers  at  night  in  the  houses  ? 
no  sleepers  must  sleep  in  those  beds, 

No  bargainers  bargain  by  day — no  brokers  or  specu- 
lators— would  they  continue  ? 

Would  the  talkers  be  talking?  would  the  singer 
attempt  to  sing  ? 

Would  the  lawyer  rise  in  the  court  to  state  his  case 
before  the  judge  ? 

Then  rattle  quicker,  heavier,  drums  —  you  bugles, 
wilder  blow. 


BEAT!  BEAT!  DRUMS!       177 

Beat !  beat !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles  !  blow  ! 

Make  no  parley — stop  for  no  expostulation, 

Mind  not  the  timid — mind  not  the  weeper  and  prayer, 

Mind  not  the  old  man  beseeching  the  young  man, 

Let  not  the  child's  voice  be  heard,  nor  the  mother's 

entreaties, 
Make  even  the  trestles  to  shake  the  dead  where  they 

lie  awaiting  the  hearses, 
So  strong  you  thump  you  terrible  drums— so  loud  you 

bugles  blow. 

Walt  Whitman. 


N 


178  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


77 

THE   SAVING  OF  THE   COLOURS 

'  In  their  death  they  vjere  not  divided.' 

1  FOR  victory  !  no,  all  hope  is  gone  ;  for  life  ! — let  that 

go  too  ; 
But  for  the  Colours  still  work  on — the  chance  is  left 

with  you. 
I  know  to  share  our  death  with  us  ye  both  desire  to 

stay, 
But  these  are  my  last  orders — Mount !  and  with  them 

force  your  way.' 

On  Coghill  and  on  Melvill  thus  these  last  commands 

were  laid  ; 
They  left  the  Colonel  where  he  stood,  and  without 

words  obeyed. 
In  silence,  then,  that  steadfast  pair  moved   onward 

side  by  side, 
And  lifting  with  its  staff  the  Flag  began  their  ghastly 

ride. 

Watched  through  that  wild  and  whirling  fight,  through 

wreaths  of  eddying  smoke, 
Their  horses  ridden  hard  and  straight,  on  those  bold 

foemen  broke  ; 
Amid  the  dark  lines  plunging  deep,  their  blades  flashed 

back  the  light, 
And  then,  like  divers  in  the  sea,  they  both  are  hid  from 

sight. 


THE  SAVING   OF  THE  COLOURS       170 

i 

But  now  we  know  they  died  not  there,  for  rising  up 

once  more, 
Through  the  rough  battle-tide  they  beat,  alive,  though 

wounded  sore  ; 
The   red  drops  fell  like  falling  rain,  but  still  their 

steeds  were  swift ; 
And  hope  is  strong  within  them  as  they  gallop  for  the 

drift. 

O'er  grinning  boulders  guided   safe,   forced   through 

fierce  tufts  of  thorn, 
Then  dashing  like  a  torrent  down  the  path  by  torrents 

worn  ; 
Well  handled  in  that  fearful  race,  and  never  slackening 

speed, 
The  chargers  struggle  gallantly,  nor  fail  them  at  their 

need. 

In  vain  the  dusky  giants  spread  all  over  that  rough 

ground  ; 
With  cruel  eyes  and  glittering  teeth,  like  panthers  leap 

around  ; 
Melvill's  skilled  bridle-hand  is  there,  and  Coghill's 

hovering  sword  ; 
A  new  escape  each  stride,  but  still,  they  foil  that 

furious  horde. 

Till  toiling,  through  the  reed-beds  dank,  and  up  the 

wild  ravine, 
They  gain  the  open  hill-top  whence  the  longed-for 

Drift  is  seen. 

Alas  !  the  rifles  flash  and  ring — alas  !  like  billows  roll 
Besieging  masses  to  and  fro  between  them  and  their 

goal. 


180  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

The  last  frail  chance  they  feel  is  gone,  and  turn  at 

once  aside  : 
But  turn  without  despairing,  since  not  for  themselves 

they  ride. 
Beyond  the  flood,  a  furlong's  breadth,   the  land  is 

English  land, 
And  they  must  bear  our  Colours  there,  though  in  a 

dying  hand. 

They  plunge  and  swirn,  the  stream  runs  on — runs  dark 

with  priceless  gore, 
But  that  high  purpose  in  the  heart  lends  life,  and 

something  more  ; 
For  though  their  best  blood  mingle  with  the  rain-swelled 

river's  foam, 
Death  has  no  power  to  stop  them  till  they  bring  their 

Colours  home. 

Death  had  not  power  to  stop  them.     No !  when  through 

spates  rolling  dim, 
Melvill,  half -drowned,  cried  out  aloud  to  help  the  Flag 

— not  him, 
When  Coghill,  crippled  and  outworn,  retreading  that 

grim  track, 
A  martyr  in  war's  noble  faith,  to  certain  fate  rode  back — 

They  had,  it  might  be  thought,  to  die,  leaving  their 

work  half  done, 

But  aids  unseen  rose  up  to  end  the  task  so  well  begun  ; 
It  was  as  if  the  intense  desire  through  earth,  air,  water 

wrought, 
Passed  from  them  with  their  passing,  souls,  and  home 

the  Colours  brought. 


THE  SAVING  OF  THE  COLOURS       181 

Those  Colours,  save  for  happier  days,  and  armed  with 

that  desire, 
Shall  feel  the  last  breath  of  the  dead  thrill  through 

their  folds  like  fire  ; 
And  by  the  spirit-memories  of  that  bold  ride  made 

strong, 
O'er  many  a  battle-field  in  power  shall  yet  be  borne 

along. 

But  those  who  shielded  them  from  shame,  and  through 

fierce  thousands  made 
A  passage  for  them  with  their  blood,  are  in  one  silence 

laid  ; 
Silence  between  the  strife  and  them,  between  them  and 

the  cheers 
That  greet  the  Flag  returning  slow,  the  welcome  and 

the  tears. 

For  now,  forgetting  that  wild  ride,  forgetful  of  all  pain 
High  amongst  those  who  have  not  lived,  who  have  not 

died  in  vain, 
By  strange  stars  watched,  they  sleep  afar,  within  some 

nameless  glen, 
Beyond  the  tumult  and  the  noise,  beyond  the  praise  of 

men. 

But  we  who  feel  what  wealth  of  hope  for  ever  there 

was  lost, 
What  bitter  sorrow  burns  for  them,  how  dear  those 

Colours  cost, 

Can  but  recall  the  sad  old  truth,  so  often  said  and  sung, 
That  brightest  lives  fade  first — that  those  whom  the 

gods  love  die  young. 

Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doyle. 


182  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


78 
AN   EPISODE   OF   BALACLAVA 

WHEN  slow  and  faint  from  off  the  plain 

Pale  wrecks  of  sword  and  gun, 
Torn  limbs,  and  faces  racked  with  pain, 

Crept  upwards,  one  by  one  ; 
When,  striving  as  the  hopeless  strive, 

Ascare  with  shot  and  flame, 
Few  pallid  riders  came  alive, 

And  marvelled  as  they  came  ; 

Dared  any,  while  with  corpses  rife 

Ked  gleamed  the  ghastly  track, 
Ride,  for  the  love  of  more  than  life, 

Into  the  valley  back  1 
Pierce,  where  the  bravest  tarried  not, 

Stand,  where  the  strongest  fell, 
Face  once  again  the  surge  of  shot, 

The  plunging  hail  of  shell  ? 

He  trod  of  old  the  hill  we  tread, 

He  played  the  games  we  play  ; 
The  part  of  him  that  is  not  dead 

Belongs  to  us  to-day  ; 
When  next  the  stranger  scans  the  wall 

Where  carved  our  heroes  are, 
Wits — poets — statesmen — show  them  all, 

And  then,  the  one  hussar. 


AN  EPISODE  OF  BALACLAVA          183 

He  sought  his  chief — a  dim  reply 

From  waving  hand  was  brought ; 
1  Passed  on ' — to  safety,  meant  the  cry  ; 

Amid  the  guns,  he  thought ; 
No  question  more  ;  in  purpose  clear 

His  soldier's  creed  was  strong  ; 
Where  rode,  he  knew,  the  brigadier, 

Must  ride  the  aide-de-camp  ! 

He  tossed  his  horse's  bridle  round, 

Ere  one  could  breathe  a  breath, 
And  fronted,  as  a  practice  ground, 

The  nearest  way  to  death. 
In  pride  of  manhood's  ripest  spring, 

Hopes  high,  and  honour  won, 
He  deemed  his  life  a  little  thing, 

And  rode,  a  soldier,  on. 

Up,  slow,  the  homeward  remnant  flew, 

Staggered,  and  fell,  and  ran  ; 
Down  moved,  through  flying  and  through  dead, 

One  hopeless,  splendid  man  ; 
Alone,  unrocked  in  heat  of  fray, 

He  stemmed  the  wave  of  flight, 
And  passed  in  smoke  and  flame  away 

From  safety  and  from  sight. 

So  ends  the  story  ;  comrade  none 

Saw  where  he  wounded  lay  ; 
No  brother  helped  with  cheering  tone 

His  stricken  life  away  ; 
Alone,  the  pain,  the  chill,  the  dread, 

Crept  on  him,  limb  by  limb  ; 
The  earth,  which  hides  the  nameless  dead, 

Closed  nameless  over  him. 


184  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

0  soldiers  of  a  bloodless  strife, 
0  friends  in  work  and  play, 

Bear  we  not  all  a  coward  life 
Some  moment  in  the  day  ? 

So,  lest  a  deed  of  gallant  faith 
Forgotten  fade  from  view, 

1  take  the  tale  of  LOCKWOOD'S  death, 
And  write  it  down  for  you. 


Edward  E.  Bowen. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE    185 


79 


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. 

II 

'  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! ' 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd  1 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

in 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 


186  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

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. 


IV 

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. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE     187 

VI 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
0  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  ! 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson. 


188  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


80 
BALACLAVA 

THIN  glancing  threads  of  English  horse, 
Why  do  your  haughty  trumpets  wake  ? 

Through  yon  grey  myriads,  massed  in  force, 
None  but  the  mad  could  hope  to  break  ! 

1  Men  may  be  mad,  or  men  be  wise, 
But  not  with  us  the  question  lies  ; 
Although  we  guess  not  their  intent, 

This  one  thing  well  we  know, 
That,  where  the  Light  Brigade  is  sent, 
The  Light  Brigade  will  go.' 

What  need  to  tell 

Of  splintering  shell, 
Of  cannon-shot,  and  rifle-ball  1 
The  death-hail  smites  them,  one  and  all, 
Through  smoke  that  wraps  them  like  a  pall, 
As  raindrops,  each  and  each,  they  fall. 

Horse  rolls  o'er  horse, 

Corse  hideth  corse, 
The  gaps  grow  wide,  and  wider, 

Deep-wounded  men 

Crawl  back  agen  ; 
Steeds  rush  without  a  rider  : 
But  still  against  the  wondering  foe, 
In  stubborn  silence  forward  go 
Unchecked,  unslackening,  undismayed, 
The  living  of  the  Light  Brigade, 


BALACLAVA  189 

Till  that  wild  onset  over-bears 

The  guns  in  front,  one  moment  theirs. 

Sudden  and  sharp  the  halt  is  made, 

They  seem,  in  mute  reproach,  to  say, 
1  Your  orders  have  been  now  obeyed, 

As  far  as  in  us  lay  ; 

Yours  are  these  guns,  with  life-blood  red. 
But  can  ye  hold  them  by  the  dead  1 ' 
Meanwhile  the  cannon,  from  each  hill, 
Keep  showering  slaughter  on  them  still, 

All  paths  with  death  are  lined  ; 
Dense  columns  bar  their  onward  course, 
And  long  blue  streaks  of  Russian  horse, 

Like  nets,  are  spread  behind. 
That  shattered  remnant  pauses  there, 

Blown  chargers,  wounded  men  : 
Oh  !  they  will  break,  like  yielding  air 

And  who  shall  blame  them  then 
Not  so — through  that  bewildered  throng 
Like  fire  the  leaders  glance  along 
From  rank  to  rank  ;  too  far  to  hear, 
We  seem  to  feel  an  English  cheer  ; 
Whilst  Fancy,  from  each  blade  waved  high, 
Each  gesture  fierce,  and  flashing  eye, 
Can  proud  words,  such  as  these,  supply  : — 
*  Gather  ye,  gather  ye,  close  up  once  more  ! 
Swords  red  to  the  wristband,  hearts  steel  to  the  core, 
Lance,  sabre,  and  carbine,  dragoon  and  Cossack, 
Are  strong  to  the  sight,  but  they  dare  not  attack  ; 
No  cutting,  give  point,  were  they  twenty  to  one, 
Men  who  wait  to  be  charged,  when  we  gallop,  will  run  ! ' 
They  gather,  they  gather,  they  close  up  once  more, 
Swords  red  to  the  wristband,  hearts  steel  to  the  core, 


190  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Though  wide  wounds  may  weaken,  though  horses  may 

blow, 

They  have  pace  enough  left  for  a  dash  at  the  foe  ; 
Then,  as  hawks  might  swoop  down  through  the  toils 

of  a  spider, 

Right  at  the  blue  line  goes  each  horse  and  his  rider. 
It  is  rent  like  a  rag,  burst  like  bubbles  asunder, 
Whilst  down  from  each  height  roars  redoubled  the 

thunder  ; 
Still  unstayed   and   unbroken,   they    cut    their    way 

through, 

Past  spears  that  outflank  them,  from  swords  that  pursue. 
With  cannon  and  riflemen  hot  on  their  track, 
Destroyed,  but  unconquered,  we  welcome  them  back  : 
Not  a  man  in  that  death-charge  his  chief  hath  forsaken, 
And  the  guns  which  ye  flung  them  at — were  they  not 

taken  ? 

And  though,  beneath  yon  fatal  hill, 

Their  dead  the  valley  strew, 
Grimly,  with  cold  hands,  clutching  still 

The  broken  swords  they  drew, 
We  will  not  call  their  lives  ill  spent, 

If  to  all  time  they  show, 
That  where  the  Light  Brigade  was  sent, 

The  Light  Brigade  would  go. 

Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doyle. 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   CAPTAIN  WYNN     191 


81 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

CAPTAIN    ARTHUR    WATKIN    WILLIAMS 

WYNN 

Of  the  23rd  Royal  Welsh  Fusiliers,  who  fell 
gloriously  at  Alma,  20th  September,  1854 

'There  lay  Colonel  Chester,  and  four  of  his  gallant  officers,  with 
their  faces  to  the  sky.' — Morning  Paper. 
1  He  had  gone  right  up  to  the  gun.' — Private  letter, 

WHEN,  from  grim  Alma's  bloodstain'd  height, 

There  came  the  sound  of  woe, 
And  in  thy  first  and  latest  fight 

That  noble  head  was  low  : 
As  those  who  loved  and  trembled,  knew 
That  all  their  darkest  fears  were  true  ; 
Each  fond  heart,  clinging  to  the  dead, 
Felt  fiery  thirst  within  it  burn— 
A  restless  throbbing  hope  to  learn 
How  in  those  hours,  each  gloomy  thread  of  waning  life 
was  spun. 

And  yearnings  from  thine  English  home 
Bounded  across  the  ocean  foam  : — 

'  Where  did  ye  find  my  son  1 ' 
The  answer,  from  that  fatal  ground, 
Came  pealing,  with  a  trumpet  sound, 

4  Close  to  the  Russian  gun, 
With  many  a  gallant  friend  around  him, 
In  one  proud  death,  'twas  thus  we  found  him. 


192  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

He  lay,  where  dense  the  war-cloud  hung, 

Where  corpse  on  corpse  was  thickest  flung — 

Just  as  a  British  soldier  should  ; 
The  sword  he  drew, 
Still  pointing  true 

To  where  the  boldest  foeman  stood. 

His  look,  though  soft,  was  calm  and  high  ; 

His  face  was  gazing  on  the  sky, 

As  if  he  said,  "  Man  cannot  die, 
Though  all  below  be  done." 

Thus  was  it  that  we  saw  him  lie, 
Beneath  the  Kussian  gun.' 

Right  up  the  hill  our  columns  sped, 
No  hurrying  in  their  earnest  tread  ; 
The  iron  thunder  broke  in  storms, 

Again,  and  yet  again— 
On  their  firm  ranks,  and  stately  forms 

It  did  but  break  in  vain  ; 
Though  all  untrained  by  war  to  bear 

The  battle's  deadly  brunt, 
The  ancient  heart  of  Wales  was  there, 

Still  rushing  to  the  front. 
Their  blood  flowed  fast  along  those  steeps, 

But  the  proud  goal  was  won, 
And  the  moon  shone  on  silent  heaps, 

Beyond  the  Russian  gun. 
For  there,  with  friends  he  loved  around  him, 
Among  the  foremost  dead — they  found  him. 

Oh,  there  are  bitter  tears  for  thee, 
Young  sleeper  by  the  Eastern  sea, 
Grief  that  thy  glory  cannot  tame  ; 
It  will  not  cease  to  ache, 


TO  THE  MEMORY   OF  CAPTAIN  WYNN    193 

And  anguish  beyond  any  name, 

In  hearts  that  fain  would  break  : 
Still,  thy  brave  bearing  on  that  day 
Sends  to  those  mourners  strength  to  say, 

•Thy  will,  0  God,  be  done. 
We  bow  before  Thy  living  throne, 
And  thank  Thee  for  the  mercy  shown, 
Even  when  Thy  summons  dread  was  thrown 
Forth  from  the  Russian  gun.' 

No  agony  that  gasps  for  breath 
Lengthened  his  hopeless  hours  of  death, 
No  quenchless  longing  woke  in  vain 
For  those  he  ne'er  could  see  again. 
By  noble  thoughts  and  hopes  befriended, 
By  Honour  to  the  last  attended, 
His  haughty  step  the  hill  ascended  ; 
At  once — his  hand  and  brain  reposed, 
At  once — his  dauntless  life  was  closed  ; 
One  mystic  whirl  of  mighty  change — 
One  sea-like  rush  of  blackness  strange — 
And  all  the  roaring  tumult  dim 
Was  cold,  and  dark,  and  still,  for  him, 
Pain  cannot  rack,  or  fever  parch, 

Now  that  his  course  is  run, 
And  ended  that  majestic  inarch 

Up  to  the  Russian  gun  ; 
For  there,  with  friends  he  loved  around  him, 
Serene  as  sleep — they  sought  and  found  him. 

And  still  for  ever  fresh  and  young, 
His  honoured  memory  shall  shine, 

A  light  that  never  sets,  among 
The  trophies  of  his  ancient  line. 


194  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Yea,  though  the  sword  may  seem  to  kill, 
Each  noble  name  is  living  still, 

A  ray  of  Glory's  sun. 
And  many  a  child,  remembering  well 
How  by  sad  Alma's  stream  he  fell, 
His  tale  with  boyish  pride  shall  tell, 

*  I  bear  the  name  of  one 
Who,  in  that  first  great  fight  of  ours 
Against  the  tyrant's  servile  powers, 
Upon  the  red  Crimean  sod 
Went  down  for  liberty  and  God, 

Close  to  the  Russian  gun  ; 
"  For  there,  with  friends  he  loved  around  him, 
Among  the  free-born  dead — they  found  him.": 

Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doyle. 


COMRADES  195 

82 
COMRADES 

(TO    MARMADUKE    LANGDALE) 

AT  least,  it  was  a  life  of  swords, 

Our  life  !  nor  lived  in  vain  : 
We  fought  the  fight  with  mighty  lords, 

Nor  dastards  have  we  slain. 

We  stirred  at.  morn,  and  through  bright  air 

Swept  to  the  trysting  place  : 
Winds  of  the  mountains  in  our  hair, 

And  sunrise  on  each  face. 

No  need  to  spur  !  our  horses  knew 

The  joy,  to  which  we  went : 
Over  the  brightening  lands  they  flew 

Forward,  and  were  content. 

On  each  man's  lips,  a  happy  smile  ; 

In  each  man's  eyes,  delight : 
So,  fired  with  foretaste,  mile  on  mile, 

We  thundered  to  the  fight. 

Let  death  come  now,  and  from  the  sun 

Hide  me  away  :  what  then  1 
My  days  have  seen  more  prowess  done, 

Than  years  of  other  men. 

Oh,  warriors  of  the  rugged  heights, 

We,  where  the  eagles  nest : 
They,  courtly  soldiers,  gentle  knights, 

By  kings  and  dames  caressed. 


196  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Not  theirs,  the  passion  of  the  sword, 

The  fire  of  living  blades  ! 
Like  men,  they  fought :  and  found  reward 

In  dance  and  feast,  like  maids. 

We,  on  the  mountain  lawns  encamped, 

Close  under  the  great  stars, 
Turned,  when  the  horses  hard  by  stamped, 

And  dreamed  again,  of  wars  : 

Or,  if  one  woke,  he  saw  the  gleam 

Of  moonlight,  on  each  face, 
Touch  its  tumultuary  dreain 

With  moments  of  mild  grace. 

We  hated  no  man  ;  but  we  fought 
With  all  men  :  the  fierce  wind 

Lashes  the  wide  earth  without  thought ; 
Our  tempest  scourged  mankind. 

They  cursed  us,  living  without  laws  ! 

They,  in  their  pride  of  peace  : 
Who  bared  no  blade,  but  in  just  cause  ; 

Nor  grieved,  that  war  should  cease. 

0  spirit  of  the  wild  hill-side  ! 

0  spirit  of  the  steel ! 
We  answered  nothing,  when  they  cried, 

But  challenged  with  a  peal. 

And,  when  the  battle  blood  had  poured 

To  slake  our  souls'  desire  : 
Oh,  brave  to  hear,  how  torrents  roared 

Beside  the  pinewood  fire  ! 


COMRADES  197 

My  brothers,  whom  in  warrior  wise 

The  death  of  deaths  hath  stilled  ! 
Ah,  you  would  understand  these  eyes, 

Although  with  strange  tears  filled  ! 

Lionel  Johnson. 


198  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GUARDS 

YES,  tliev  return — but  who  return  ? 

V 

The  many  or  the  few  ? 
Clothed  with  a  name,  in  vain  the  same. 
Face  after  face  is  new. 

We  know  how  beat  the  drum  to  muster, 

We  heard  the  cheers  of  late, 
As  that  red  storm,  in  haste  to  form, 

Burst  through  each  barrack  gate. 

The  first  proud  mass  of  English  manhood. 

A  very  sea  of  life, 
With  strength  untold,  was  eastward  rolled,— 

How  ebbs  it  back  from  strife  ? 

The  steps  that  scaled  the  Heights  of  Alma 

Wake  but  faint  echoes  here  ; 
The  flags  we  sent  come  back,  though  rent, 

For  other  hands  to  rear. 

Through  shouts,  that  hail  the  shattered  banner, 

Home  from  proud  onsets  led, 
Through  the  glad  roar,  which  greets  once  more 

Each  bronzed  and  bearded  head  ; 

Hushed  voices,  from  the  earth  beneath  us, 

Thrill  on  the  summer  air, 
And  claim  a  part  of  England's  heart 

For  those  who  are  not  there. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GUARDS   199 

Not  only  these  have  marched  to  battle 

Into  the  realms  of  peace — 
A  home  attained — a  haven  gained, 

Where  wars  and  tumults  cease. 

Whilst  thick  on  Alma's  blood-stained  river 

The  war-smoke  lingered  still, 
A  long,  low  beat  of  unseen  feet 

Rose  from  her  shrouded  hill. 

By  a  swift  change,  to  music,  nobler 

Than  e'er  was  heard  by  man, 
From  those  red  banks,  the  gathered  ranks 

That  other  march  began. 

On,  on,  through  wild  and  wondrous  regions, 

Echoed  their  iron  tread, 
Whilst  voices  old  before  them  rolled — 

1  Make  way  for  Alma's  dead.' 

Like  mighty  winds  before  them  ever, 

Those  ancient  voices  rolled  ; 
Swept  from  their  track,  huge  bars  run  back, 

And  giant  gates  unfold  ; 

Till,  to  the  inmost  home  of  heroes 

They  led  that  hero  line, 
Where  with  a  flame  no  years  can  tame 

The  stars  of  honour  shine. 

As  forward  stepped  each  fearless  soldier, 

So  stately,  firm,  and  tall, 
Wide,  wide  outflung,  grim  plaudits  rung 

On  through  that  endless  hall. 


200  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

Next,  upon  gloomy  phantom  chargers, 

The  self -devoted  came, 
Who  rushed  to  die,  without  reply, 

For  duty,  not  for  fame. 

Then,  from  their  place  of  ancient  glory, 
All  sheathed  in  shining  brass, 

Three  hundred  men,  of  the  Grecian  glen, 
Marched  down  to  see  them  pass. 

And  the  long-silent  flutes  of  Sparta 
Poured  haughty  welcome  forth, 

Stern  hymns  to  crown,  with  just  renown, 
Her  brethren  of  the  North. 

Yet  louder  at  the  solemn  portal, 
The  trumpet  floats  and  waits  ; 

And  still  more  wide,  in  living  pride, 
Fly  back  the  golden  gates. 

And  those  from  Inkerm,an  swarm  onwards, 

Who  made  the  dark  fight  good- 
One  man  to  nine,  till  their  thin  line 
Lay,  where  at  first  it  stood. 

But  though  cheered  high  by  mailed  millions 
Their  steps  were  faint  and  slow, 

In  each  proud  face  the  eye  might  trace 
A  sign  of  coming  woe. 

A  coming  woe  which  deepened  ever, 
As  down  that  darkening  road, 

Our  bravest,  tossed  to  plague  and  frost, 
In  streams  of  ruin  flowed. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GUARDS   201 

All  through  that  dim  despairing  winter, 

Too  noble  to  complain, 
Bands  hunger- worn,  in  raiment  torn, 

Came,  not  by  foemen  slain. 

And  patient,  from  the  sullen  trenches 

Crowds  sunk  by  toil  and  cold — 
Then  murmurs  slow,  like  thunders  low, 

Wailed  through  the  brave  of  old. 

Wrath  glided  o'er  the  Hall  of  Heroes, 

Anguish,  and  shame,  and  scorn, 
As  clouds  that  drift,  breathe  darkness  swift 

O'er  seas  of  shining  corn. 

Wrath  glided  o'er  the  Hall  of  Heroes, 

And  veiled  it  like  a  pall, 
Whilst  all  felt  fear,  lest  they  should  hear 

The  Lion-banner  fall. 

And  if  unstained  that  ancient  banner 

Keep  yet  its  place  of  pride, 
Let  none  forget  how  vast  the  debt 

We  owe  to  those  who  died. 

Let  none  forget  The  Others,  marching 

With  steps  we  feel  no  more, 
Whose  bodies  sleep,  by  that  grim  deep 

Which  shakes  the  Euxine  shore. 

Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doyle. 


202  POEMS  OF   PATRIOTISM 


84 
THE   GUIDES   AT   CABUL,  1879 

SONS  of  the  Island  race,  wherever  ye  dwell, 

Who  speak  of  your  fathers5  battles  with  lips  that 

burn, 
The  deed  of  an  alien  legion  hear  me  tell, 

And  think  not  shame  from  the  hearts  ye  tamed  to 

learn, 
When  succour  shall  fail  and  the  tide  for  a  season 

turn 

To  fight  with  a  joyful  courage,  a  passionate  pride, 
To  die  at  last  as  the  Guides  at  Cabul  died. 

For  a  handful  of  seventy  men  in  a  barrack  of  mud, 

Foodless,  waterless,  dwindling  one  by  one, 
Answered  a  thousand  yelling  for  English  blood 

With  stormy  volleys  that  swept  them  gunner  from 

gun, 
And  charge  on  charge  in  the  glare  of  the  Afghan 

sun, 
Till  the  walls  were  shattered  wherein  they  crouched  at 


And  dead  or  dying  half  of  the  seventy  lay. 

Twice  they  had  taken  the  cannon  that  wrecked  their 

hold, 

Twice  toiled  in  vain  to  drag  it  back, 
Thrice  they  toiled,  and  alone,  wary  and  bold, 


THE  GUIDES   AT  CABUL,   1879          203 

Whirling  a  hurricane  sword  to  scatter  the  rack, 
Hamilton,  last  of  the  English,  covered  their  track. 
'  Never  give  in  ! '  he  cried,  and  he  heard  them  shout, 
And  grappled  with  death  as  a  man  that  knows  not  doubt. 

And  the  Guides  looked  down  from  their  smouldering 

barrack  again, 
And  behold,  a  banner  of  truce,  and  a  voice  that 

spoke  : 

'  Come,  for  we  know  that  the  English  all  are  slain, 
We  keep  no  feud  with  men  of  a  kindred  folk  ; 
Rejoice  with  us  to  be  free  of  the  conqueror's  yoke.' 
Silence  fell  for  a  moment,  then  was  heard 
A  sound  of  laughter  and  scorn,  and  an  answering  word. 

'  Is  it  we  or  the  lords  we  serve  who  have  earned  this 

wrong, 
That  ye  call  us  to  flinch  from  the  battle  they  bade 

us  fight  ? 

We  that  live — do  ye  doubt  that  our  hands  are  strong  ? 
They  that  are  fallen — ye  know  that  their  blood  was 

bright ! 

Think  ye  the  Guides  will  barter  for  lust  of  the  light 
The  pride  of  an  ancient  people  in  warfare  bred, 
Honour  of  comrades  living,  and  faith  to  the  dead  ? ' 

Then  the  joy  that  spurs  the  warrior's  heart 
To  the  last  thundering  gallop  and  sheer  leap 

Came  on  the  men  of  the  Guides  :  they  flung  apart 
The  doors  not  all  their  valour  could  longer  keep  ; 
They  dressed  their  slender  line  ;  they  breathed  deep, 

And  with  never  a  foot  lagging  or  head  bent, 

To  the  clash  and  clamour  and  dust  of  death  they  went. 

Henry  Newbolt. 


204  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


85 
FREEDOM 

IT  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood 
Of  British  freedom,  which,  to  the  open  sea 
Of  the  world's  praise,  from  dark  antiquity 

Hath  flow'd,  l  with  pomp  of  waters,  unwithstood,' — 

Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 

Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands, — 
That  this  most  famous  stream  in  bogs  and  sands 

Should  perish  ;  and  to  evil  and  to  good 

Be  lost  for  ever.     In  our  halls  is  hung 

Armoury  of  the  invincible  Knights  of  old  ; 

We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue 
That  Shakespeare  spake ;  the  faith  and  morals  hold 

Which  Milton  held. — In  everything  we  are  sprung 
Of  Earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 

William  Wordsworth. 


MILTON!  THOU  SHOULDST  BE   LIVING     205 


86 


MILTON!    THOU   SHOULDST    BE 
LIVING   AT  THIS   HOUR 

MILTON  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  : 
England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men  ; 
0  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again, 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power  ! 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 

In  cheerful  godliness  ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

William  Wordsworth. 


206  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


87 

A   FAREWELL   TO   ARMS 

(TO  QUEEN  ELIZABETH) 

His  golden  locks  Time  hath  to  silver  turn'd  ; 

0  Time  too  swift,  0  swiftness  never  ceasing  ! 
His  youth  'gainst  time  and  age  hath  ever  spurn'd, 

But  spurn'd  in  vain  ;  youth  waneth  by  increasing  : 
Beauty,  strength,  youth,  are  flowers  but  fading  seen  ; 
Duty,  faith,  love,  are  roots,  and  ever  green. 

His  helmet  now  shall  make  a  hive  for  bees  ; 

And,  lovers'  sonnets  turn'd  to  holy  psalms, 
A  man-at-arms  must  now  serve  on  his  knees, 

And  feed  on  prayers,  which  are  Age  his  alms  : 
But  though  from  court  to  cottage  he  depart 
His  Saint  is  sure  of  his  unspotted  heart. 

And  when  he  saddest  sits  in  homely  cell, 

He'll  teach  his  swains  this  carol  for  a  song, — 

'  Blest  be  the  hearts  that  wish  my  sovereign  well, 
Curst  be  the  souls  that  think  her  any  wrong.' 

Goddess,  allow  this  aged  man  his  right 

To  be  your  beadsman  now  that  was  your  knight. 

George  Peele. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  DRAKE  207 


88 
THE   BURIAL   OF  DRAKE 

HOVE  to  off  Puerto  Bello  the  Queen's  Defiance  lay, 
The  sun  went  down  to  Darien  and  crimsoned  all  the 
bay. 

Yet  once  more  Dame  Adventure,  the  witch  that  knows 

no  ruth, 
Hath  smiled  from  out  the  sunset  world  the  siren  smile 

of  youth. 

But  the  merry  main  was  silent  now,  no  more  in  care- 
less ease 

The  treasure  transports  plied  unscarred  through  those 
enchanted  seas, 

And  fleets  of  war  sailed  to  and  fro  between  the  island 

ports, 
The  peaceful  cities  of  the  west  were  grim  with  battled 

forts  ; 

For  many  a  year  had  coine  and  gone  since  Drake's 

unconquered  hand, 
The  magic  of  his  name  had  changed  the  face  of  all 

that  land. 

Of  five  that  sailed  from  Plymouth  shall  one  see  home 

again, 
For  storm  and  death  and  sickness  have  fought  the 

fight  for  Spain. 


208  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

The  dauntless  eyes  had  lost  their  mirth,  the  stricken 

ranks  grew  less, 
But  till  the  end  he  hugged  his  dream  and  scoffed  at 

ill-success. 

Defeat  nor  failure  had  not  taught  that  stubborn  will 

to  break, 
But  life-long  toil  and  fever  breath  wore  out  the  heart 

of  Drake. 

So,  grave  and  heavy-hearted,  they  watched  the  setting 

sun, 
His  crews  that  leave  untenanted  the  isles  that  he  had 

won. 

The  skies  were  red  and  angry,  the  heaving  waves  were 

red, 
And  in  his  leaden  coffin  lay  the  great  sea-captain  dead. 

Old  friends  stood  ringed  about  him,  and  every  head 

was  bowed, 
St.  George's  red-cross  banner  lay  over  him  for  shroud. 

The   cradle  of   his  childhood's  dream  rocked  on  an 

English  wave, 
Here  billows  no  more  alien  shall  guard  an  English  grave. 

He  ploughed  the  longest  furrow  that  ever  split  the  foam, 
From  sunset  round  to  sunrise  he  brought  the  good 
ship  home. 

His  soul  was  wide  as  ocean,  unfettered  as  the  breeze, 
He  left  us  for  inheritance  the  freedom  of  the  seas. 

The  death-guns  echoed  landward,  the  last  brief  prayer 

was  said, 
4  'Neath  some  great  wave '  they  left  him  there,  till  the 

sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

Sir  Eennell  Rodd. 


SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE  209 


89 
SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

SIR  DRAKE,  whom  well  the  world's  end  knew, 

Which  thou  did  compasse  round, 
And  whom  both  poles  of  heaven  once  saw, 

Which  north  and  south  do  bound. 

The  starres  above  would  make  thee  known, 

If  men  here  silent  were  ; 
The   sun  himselfe  cannot  forget 

His  fellow-traveller. 

Anonymous. 


210  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


90 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  'THE  ROYAL 
GEORGE ' 

TOLL  for  the  brave  ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more  ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore  ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side  ; 

A  land  breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  The  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone  ; 
His  last  sea  fight  is  fought ; 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock  ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak  ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock  : 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath  ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down, 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 


THE   LOSS   OF   'THE   ROYAL   GEORGE'      211 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes  ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again. 
Full-charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone  ; 

His  victories  are  o'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 

William  Cowper. 


212  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


91 

THE   BURIAL   OF   SIR   JOHN   MOORE 
AFTER   CORUNNA 

NOT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  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  lanthorn  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  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  smooth'd  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. 


THE  BURIAL  OF   SIR  JOHN  MOORE     213 

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. 


214  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


92 
SOLDIER,   REST! 

SOLDIER,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking  ! 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  streams  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more  ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 
The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world  ; 
A  wildering  forest  feathered  o'er 
His  ruined  sides  and  summit  hoar, 
While  on  the  earth,  through  middle  air, 
Ben-an  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 

From  the  steep  promontory  gazed 
The  stranger,  raptured  and  amazed, 
And  'What  a  scene  were  here/  he  cried, 
'  For  princely  pomp  or  churchman's  pride  ! 
On  this  bold  brow,  a  lordly  tower  ; 
In  that  soft  vale,  a  lady's  bower  ; 
On  yonder  meadow,  far  away, 
The  turrets  of  a  cloister  grey  ; 


SOLDIER,    REST!  215 

How  blithely  might  the  bugle-horn 

Chide,  on  the  lake,  the  lingering  morn  ! 

How  sweet,  at  eve,  the  lover's  lute, 

Chime,  when  the  groves  are  still  and  mute  ! 

And,  when  the  midnight  moon  should  lave 

Her  forehead  in  the  silver  wave, 

How  solemn  on  the  ear  would  come 

The  holy  matins'  distant  hum, 

While  the  deep  peal's  commanding  tone 

Should  wake,  in  yonder  islet  lone, 

A  sainted  hermit  from  his  cell, 

To  drop  a  bead  with  every  knell — 

And  bugle,  lute,  and  bell,  and  all, 

Should  each  bewildered  stranger  call 

To  friendly  feast  and  lighted  hall.' 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


216  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


93 
O   CAPTAIN!    MY   CAPTAIN! 

0  CAPTAIN  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought 

is  won, 

The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and 
daring ; 

But  0  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
0  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

0  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells  ; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle 

trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the 

shores  a- crowding, 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 
turning ; 

Here  Captain  !  dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head  ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You're  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor 
will. 


O  CAPTAIN!    MY   CAPTAIN!  217 

The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object 
won  : 

Exult,  0  shores,  and  ring,  0  bells  ! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

Walt  Whitman. 


218  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


94 
HOW   SLEEP   THE   BRAVE 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung  ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung  ; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  grey, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there  ! 

William  Collins. 


WHEN   HE  WHO   ADORES  THEE      219 


95 
WHEN   HE    WHO   ADORES   THEE 

WHEN  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind, 
Oh  !  say,  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resigned  ? 
Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree  ; 
For  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee. 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love  ; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine  ; 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above, 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine. 
Oh  !  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see  ; 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee. 

Thomas  Moore. 


220  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


96 
LAST   POST 

THE  day's  high  work  is  over  and  done, 

And  these  no  more  will  need  the  sun  : 

Blow,  you  bugles  of  England,  blow  ! 

These  are  gone  whither  all  must  go, 

Mightily  gone  from  the  field  they  won. 

So  in  the  workaday  wear  of  battle, 

Touched  to  glory  with  God's  own  red, 

Bear  we  our  chosen  to  their  bed  ! 

Settle  them  lovingly  where  they  fell, 

In  that  good  lap  they  loved  so  well ; 

And,  their  deliveries  to  the  dear  Lord  said, 

And  the  last  desperate  volleys  ranged  and  sped, 

Blow,  you  bugles  of  England,  blow, 

Over  the  camps  of  her  beaten  foe — 

Blow  glory  and  pity  to  the  victor  Mother, 

Sad,  0  sad  in  her  sacrificial  dead  ! 

Labour,  and  love,  and  strife,  and  mirth, 

They  gave  their  part  in  this  kindly  earth — 

Blow,  you  bugles  of  England,  blow  ! — 

That  her  Name  as  a  sun  among  stars  might  glow, 

Till  the  dusk  of  time,  with  honour  and  worth 

That,  stung  by  the  lust  and  the  pain  of  battle, 

The  One  Race  ever  might  starkly  spread, 

And  the  One  Flag  eagle  it  overhead  ! 

In  a  rapture  of  wrath  and  faith  and  pride, 

Thus  they  felt  it,  and  thus  they  died  ; 


LAST  POST  221 

So  to  the  Maker  of  homes,  to  the  Giver  of  bread, 

For  whose  dear  sake  their  triumphing  souls  they  shed% 

Blow,  you  bugles  of  England,  blow, 

Though  you  break  the  heart  of  her  beaten  foe, 

Glory  and  praise  to  the  everlasting  Mother, 

Glory  and  peace  to  her  lovely  and  faithful  dead  ! 

William  Ernest  Henley. 


222  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


97 
NELSON,   PITT,  FOX 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 

New  life  revolving  summer  brings  ; 

The  genial  call  dead  Nature  hears, 

And  in  her  glory  reappears. 

But  oh,  my  Country's  wintry  state 

What  second  spring  shall  renovate  ? 

What  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 

The  buried  warlike  and  the  wise  ; 

The  mind  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal, 

The  hand  that  grasp'd  the  victor  steel  ? 

The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows 

Even  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  ; 

But  vainly,  vainly  may  he  shine 

Where  glory  weeps  o'er  NELSON'S  shrine  ; 

And  vainly  pierced  the  solemn  gloom 

That  shrouds,  0  PITT,  thy  hallow'd  tomb  ! 

Deep  graved  in  every  British  heart, 
O  never  let  those  names  depart ! 
Say  to  your  sons, — Lo,  here  his  grave, 
Who  victor  died  on  Gadite  wave  ! 
To  him,  as  to  the  burning  levin, 
Short,  bright,  resistless  course  was  given. 
Where'er  his  country's  foes  were  found 
Was  heard  the  fated  thunder's  sound, 


NELSON,   PITT,   FOX  223 

Till  burst  the  bolt  on  yonder  shore, 
Roll'd,  blazed,  destroy'd — and  was  no  more. 

Nor  mourn  ye  less  his  perish'd  worth, 
Who  bade  the  conqueror  go  forth, 
And  launched  that  thunderbolt  of  war 
On  Egypt,  Hafnia,  Trafalgar  ; 
Who,  born  to  guide  such  high  emprise, 
For  Britain's  weal  wras  early  wise  ; 
Alas  !  to  whom  the  Almighty  gave, 
For  Britain's  sins  an  early  grave  ! 
--His  worth,  who  in  his  mightiest  hour 
A  bauble  held  the  pride  of  power, 
Spurn'd  at  the  sordid  lust  of  pelf, 
And  served  his  Albion  for  herself  ; 
Who,  when  the  frantic  crowd  amain 
Strain'd  at  subjection's  bursting  rein, 
O'er  their  wild  mood  full  conquest  gain'd, 
The  pride  he  would  not  crush,  restrain'd, 
Show'd  their  fierce  zeal  a  worthier  cause, 
And  brought  the  freeman's  arm  to  aid  the  freeman's  laws. 

Hadst  thou  but  lived,  though  stripp'd  of  power, 

A  watchman  on  the  lonely  tower, 

Thy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  the  land, 

When  fraud  or  danger  were  at  hand  ; 

By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon-light, 

Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright ; 

As  some  proud  column,  though  alone, 

Thy  strength  had  propp'd  the  tottering  throne. 

Now  is  the  stately  column  broke, 

The  beacon-light  is  quench'd  in  smoke, 

The  trumpet's  silver  voice  is  still, 

The  warder  silent  on  the  hill ! 


224  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

0  think,  how  to  his  latest  day, 

When  Death,  just  hovering,  claim'd  his  prey, 

With  Palinure's  unalter'd  mood 

Firm  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood  ; 

Each  call  for  needful  rest  repell'd, 

With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held, 

Till  in  his  fall  with  fateful  sway 

The  steerage  of  the  realm  gave  way. 

Then — while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains 

One  unpolluted  church  remains, 

Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 

The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound, 

But  still  upon  the  hallow'd  day 

Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray  ; 

While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 

Grace  this  cold  marble  with  a  tear  :— 

He  who  preserved  them,  PITT,  lies  here  ! 

Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh, 
Because  his  rival  slumbers  nigh  ; 
Nor  be  thy  Requiescat  dumb 
Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Fox's  tomb. 
For  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost, 
When  best  employ'd,  and  wanted  most ; 
Mourn  genius  high,  and  lore  profound, 
And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound  ; 
And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine 
To  penetrate,  resolve,  combine  ; 
And  feelings  keen,  and  fancy's  glow— 
They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below  : 
And,  if  thou  mourn'st  they  could  not  save 
From  error  him  who  owns  this  grave, 
Be  every  harsher  thought  suppress'd, 
And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest. 


NELSON,   PITT,   FOX  225 

Here,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 
Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  kings  ; 
Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue, 
Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung  ; 
Here,  where  the  fretted  vaults  prolong 
The  distant  notes  of  holy  song, 
As  if  some  angel  spoke  agen, 
'  All  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men ' ; 
If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 
0,  here  let  prejudice  depart, 
And,  partial  feeling  cast  aside, 
Record  that  Fox  a  Briton  died  ! 
When  Europe  crouch'd  to  France's  yoke, 
And  Austria  bent,  and  Prussia  broke, 
And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave 
Was  barter'd  by  a  timorous  slave — 
Even  then  dishonour's  peace  he  spurn'd, 
The  sullied  olive-branch  return'd, 
Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast, 
And  nail'd  her  colours  to  the  mast ! 
Heaven,  to  reward  his  firmness,  gave 
A  portion  in  this  honoured  grave  ; 
And  ne'er  held  marble  in  its  trust 
Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust. 


With  more  than  mortal  powers  endow'd, 
How  high  they  soar'd  above  the  crowd  ! 
Theirs  was  no  common  party  race, 
Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place  ; 
Like  fabled  gods,  their  mighty  war 
Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar  ; 
Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand, 
Look'd  up  the  noblest  of  the  land, 

Q 


226  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 

Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 

The  names  of  PITT  and  Fox  alone. 

Spells  of  such  force  no  wizard  grave 

E'er  framed  in  dark  Thessalian  cave, 

Though  his  could  drain  the  ocean  dry, 

And  force  the  planets  from  the  sky. 

These  spells  are  spent,  and,  spent  with  these, 

The  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees. 

Genius,  and  taste,  and  talent  gone, 

For  ever  tomb'd  beneath  the  stone, 

Where — taming  thought  to  human  pride  ! — 

The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 

Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 

'Twill  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier  ; 

O'er  PITT'S  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 

And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 

The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry, 

'  Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die. 

Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom 

Whom  fate  made  Brothers  in  the  tomb  ; 

But  search  the  land  of  living  men, 

Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  agen  ? ' 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  THE  SEA      227 


98 
HOME -THOUGHTS,    FROM    THE    SEA 

NOBLY,  nobly  Cape  Saint  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  dawn'd  Gibraltar 

grand  and  gray  ; 
( 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. 


228  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


99 
GIBRALTAR 

SEVEN  weeks  of  sea,  and  twice  seven  days  of  storm 

Upon  the  huge  Atlantic,  and  once  more 

We  ride  into  still  water  and  the  calm 

Of  a  sweet  evening,  screen'd  by  either  shore 

Of  Spain  and  Barbary.     Our  toils  are  o'er, 

Our  exile  is  accomplished.     Once  again 

We  look  on  Europe,  mistress  as  of  yore 

Of  the  fair  earth  and  of  the  hearts  of  men. 

Ay,  this  is  the  famed  rock  which  Hercules 
And  Goth  and  Moor  bequeath'd  us.     At  this  door 
England  stands  sentry.     God  !  to  hear  the  shrill 
Sweet  treble  of  her  fifes  upon  the  breeze, 
And  at  the  summons  of  the  rock  gun's  roar 
To  see  her  red  coats  marching  from  the  hill ! 

Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt. 


ENGLAND,   MY  ENGLAND  229 

100 
ENGLAND,   MY  ENGLAND 

WHAT  have  I  done  for  you, 

England,  my  England  ? 
What  is  there  I  would  riot  do, 

England,  my  own  ? 
With  your  glorious  eyes  austere, 
As  the  Lord  were  walking  near, 
Whispering  terrible  things  and  dear 

As  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

Round  the  world  on  your  bugles  blown  ! 

Where  shall  the  watchful  sun, 

England,  my  England, 
Match  the  master- work  you've  done, 

England,  my  own  1 
When  shall  he  rejoice  agen 
Such  a  breed  of  mighty  men 
As  come  forward,  one  to  ten, 

To  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 

England — 
Down  the  years  on  your  bugles  blown  ? 

Ever  the  faith  endures, 

England,  my  England  : — 
'  Take  and  break  us  :  we  are  yours, 

England,  my  own  ! 
Life  is  good,  and  joy  runs  high 
Between  English  earth  and  sky  : 


230  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

Death  is  death  ;  but  we  shall  die 
To  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 

England — 
To  the  stars  on  your  bugles  blown  ! ' 

They  call  you  proud  and  hard, 

England,  my  England  : 
You  with  worlds  to  watch  and  ward, 

England,  my  own  ! 

You  whose  mail'd  hand  keeps  the  keys 
Of  such  teeming  destinies, 
You  could  know  nor  dread  nor  ease 

Were  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England, 

Round  the  Pit  on  your  bugles  blown  ! 

Mother  of  Ships  whose  might, 

England,  my  England, 
Is  the  fierce  old  Sea's  delight, 

England,  my  own, 
Chosen  daughter  of  the  Lord, 
Spouse-in-Chief  of  the  ancient  Sword, 
There's  the  menace  of  the  Word 

In  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

Out  of  heaven  on  your  bugles  blown  ! 

William  Ernest  Henley. 


GREEN  FIELDS  OF  ENGLAND          231 


101 
GREEN   FIELDS   OF  ENGLAND 

GREEN  fields  of  England  !  wheresoe'er 
Across  this  watery  waste  we  fare. 
Your  image  at  our  hearts  we  bear, 
Green  fields  of  England,  everywhere. 

Sweet  eyes  in  England,  I  must  flee 
Past  where  the  waves'  last  confines  be 
Ere  your  loved  smile  I  cease  to  see, 
Sweet  eyes  in  England,  dear  to  me. 

Dear  home  in  England,  safe  and  fast 
If  but  in  thee  my  lot  lie  cast, 
The  past  shall  seem  a  nothing  past 
To  thee,  dear  home,  if  won  at  last ; 
Dear  home  in  England,  won  at  last. 

Arthur  Hugh  Glough. 


232  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 


102 

LETTY'S   GLOBE 

WHEN  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad  year, 
And  her  young  artless  words  began  to  flow, 

One  day  we  gave  the  child  a  colour'd  sphere 
Of  the  wide  earth,  that  she  might  mark  and  know, 

By  tint  and  outline,  all  its  sea  and  land. 

She  patted  all  the  world  ;  old  empires  peep'd 

Between  her  baby  fingers  ;  her  soft  hand 
Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers.     How  she  leap'd, 
And  laugh'd  and  prattled  in  her  world-wide  bliss  ; 

But  when  we  turn'd  her  sweet  unlearned  eye 

On  our  own  isle,  she  raised  a  joyous  cry — 

'  Oh  !  yes,  I  see  it,  Letty's  home  is  there  ! ' 
And  while  she  hid  all  England  with  a  kiss, 

Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair. 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 


EX  OCCIDENTE  VOX  233 

103 
EX   OCCIDENTE   VOX 

MANY  a  year  have  my  sons  gone  forth  ; 

Their  bones  are  bleaching  in  field  and  flood  ; 
They  have  carried  my  name  from  the  ancient  North, 

They  have  borne  it  high  through  water  and  Wood. 

While  the  mariner's  strength,  and  his  ship,  might  last 
Steering  straight  for  the  Orient  lands  ; 

Nor  sweeping  billow  nor  tearing  blast 

Could  wrench  the  helm  from  his  straining  hands  ; 

And  the  onward  march  of  my  soldiers'  line, 
Where  was  it  broken  by  sword  or  sun  ? 

The  toil  was  theirs,  and  the  prize  was  mine — 
Thus  was  an  empire  lost  and  won. 

Now  my  frontiers  march  on  the  Himalay  snow, 
And  my  landmarks  stand  on  its  loftiest  crest ; 

Where  the  winds  blow  soft  on  the  pines  below, 
There  shall  my  legions  halt  and  rest ; 

And  the  men  of  the  cities  in  all  the  plain 
From  the  silent  hills  to  the  sounding  sea, 

And  a  thousand  tribes  in  the  vast  champaign, 
They  follow  no  leader  or  lord  but  me. 

Sir  Alfred  Lyall. 


234  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


104 
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. 

0  ye  by  wandering  tempest  sown 

'Neath  every  alien  star, 
Forget  not  whence  your  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. 


GOD   SAVE  THE  KING  235 


105 
GOD   SAVE   THE   KING 

GOD  save  our  gracious  King, 
Long  live  our  noble  King, 

God  save  the  King. 
Send  him  victorious, 
Happy  and  glorious, 
Long  to  reign  over  us, 

God  save  the  King. 

0  Lord  our  God,  arise  ! 
Scatter  his  enemies, 

And  make  them  fall ! 
Confound  their  politics, 
Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks  ; 
On  Thee  our  hopes  we  fix — 

God  save  us  all. 

Thy  choicest  gifts  in  store 
On  him  be  pleased  to  pour, 

Long  may  he  reign  ! 
May  he  defend  our  laws, 
And  ever  give  us  cause 
To  sing,  with  heart  and  voice, 

God  save  the  King  ! 

Henry  Carey. 


236  POEMS   OF  PATRIOTISM 


106 
ON  THE  KING'S   RECOVERY,  1789 

OH,  Queen  of  Albion,  queen  of  isles  ! 
Since  all  thy  tears  were  changed  to  smiles, 
The  eyes,  that  never  saw  thee,  shine 
With  joy  not  unallied  to  thine, 
Transports  not  chargeable  with  art 
Illume  the  land's  remotest  part, 
And  strangers  to  the  air  of  courts 
Both  in  their  toils  and  at  their  sports, 
The  happiness  of  answered  prayers, 
That  gilds  thy  features,  show  in  theirs. 

If  they  who  on  thy  state  attend, 
Awe-struck,  before  thy  presence  bend, 
JTis  but  the  natural  effect 
Of  grandeur  that  ensures  respect ; 
But  she  is  something  more  than  Queen 
Who  is  beloved  where  never  seen. 

William  Cowper. 


TO  THE  CHRISTIANS  237 


107 
TO   THE   CHRISTIANS 

ENGLAND  !  awake  !  awake  !  awake  ! 

Jerusalem  thy  sister  calls  ! 
Why  wilt  thou  sleep  the  sleep  of  death, 

And  close  her  from  thy  ancient  walls  ? 

Thy  hills  and  valleys  felt  her  feet 

Gently  upon  their  bosoms  move  : 
Thy  gates  beheld  sweet  Zion's  ways  ; 

Then  was  a  time  of  joy  and  love. 

And  now  the  time  returns  again ; 

Our  souls  exult,  and  London's  towers 
Receive  the  Lamb  of  God  to  dwell 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  bowers. 

William  Blake. 


238  POEMS  OF  PATRIOTISM 

108 
RECESSIONAL 

22  JUNE,  1897 

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-call'd  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 ! 


RECESSIONAL  239 

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  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord  ! 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


INDEX  OF   WRITERS 

ANONYMOUS  PAGE 

Agincourt,  Agincourt !  58 

Arm,  arm,  arm,  arm  !  the  scouts  are  all  come  in 


Attend  you,  and  give  ear  awhile 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king     . 

Listen  to  me,  as  when  ye  heard  our  fathers 

Long  the  proud  Spaniards  had  vaunted  to  conquer  us 

Oh  where,  and  oh  where,  is  your  Highland  laddie  gone 

Old  England  to  thyself  be  true  . 

Sir  Drake,  whom  well  the  world's  end  knew    . 

Some  talk  of  Alexander  and  some  of  Hercules 

Some  years  of  late,  in  eighty-eight 

The  fifteenth  day  of  July 


33 

127 
38 
85 

104 
81 
23 
20 

209 

125 
72 
60 


AYTOUN,  WILLIAM  EDMONSTONK  (1813-1865) 

The  Rhine  is  running  deep  and  red        ....    114 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM  (1757-1827) 

And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time       '.  .  .  .2 

England  !  awake  !  awake !  awake  !  237 

O  sons  of  Trojan  Brutus  clothed  in  war  .  .  .13 

BLUNT,  WILFRID  SCAWEN  (1840) 

Seven  weeks  of  sea,  and  twice  seven  days  of  storm    .  .    228 

BOWEN,  EDWARD  E. 

When  slow  and  faint  from  off  the  plain  .  .  .    182 

BROWNING,  ROBERT  (1812-1889) 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King     .  .  .  .87 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now  ?    .  .  .89 

Nobly,  nobly,  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  North-west  died  away    227 

BURNS,  ROBERT  (1759-1796) 

Scots  wha  hae  wi1  Wallace  bled  .  .  .  .  .37 

BYRON,  GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  (1788-1824) 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night .  .  .  169 

R  241 


242  INDEX   OF  WRITERS 

CAMPBELL,  THOMAS  (1777-1844)  PAGE 

I  love  contemplating,  apart        .....     166 
Men  of  England  !  who  inherit    .  .  .  .  .21 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North  .  .  .  .  .152 

Our  bugles  sang  truce — for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered        .    175 
Ye  Mariners  of  England  .  .  .  .  .  .18 

CAREY,  HENRY  (1693?-! 743) 

God  save  our  gracious  king         .....    235 

CLOUOH,  ARTHUR  HUGH  (1819-1861) 

Green  fields  of  England  !  wheresoe'er   ....    231 

COLLINS,  WILLIAM  (1721-1759) 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest  .  .  .     218 

CORY,  WILLIAM  (1823-1892) 

We  come  in  arms,  we  stand  ten  score    .  .  .  .35 

When  George  the  Third  was  reigning  one  hundred  years  ago      156 

COWPER,  WILLIAM  (1731-1800) 

Iberia,  trembling  from  afar         .  .  .  .  .174 

Oh,  Queen  of  Albion,  queen  of  isles  ....    236 

Toll  for  the  brave  .  .  .  .  .  .210 

When  the  British  warrior  queen  ....        9 

DAVIS,  THOMAS  (1814-1845) 

When  all  around  their  vigil  keep  ....    109 

DOBSON,  AUSTIN  (1840) 

King  Philip  had  vaunted  his  claims      .  .  .  .79 

DORSET,  CHARLES  SACKVILLE,  EARL  OF  (1638-1706) 

To  all  you  ladies  now  on  land     .....    135 

DOYLE,  SIR  FRANCIS  HASTINGS  (1810-1888) 

Eleven  men  of  England  ......    145 

'  For  victory,'  no,  all  hope  is  gone  ;  for  life ! — let  that  go  too    178 
Last  night  among  his  fellow  roughs       .  .  .  .123 

Thin  glancing  threads  of  English  horse  .  .  .     188 

When  from  grim  Alma's  bloodstain'd  height    .  .  .     191 

Yes,  they  return — but  who  return  ?  198 

DRAYTON,  MICHAEL  (1563-1631) 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France  .  .  .  .  .53 

You  brave  heroic  minds  ......    101 

ELLIOT,  EBENEZER  (1781-1849) 

Day  like  our  souls  is  fiercely  dark         .  .  .  .31 

GARRICK,  DAVID  (1717-1779) 

Come,  cheer  up,  my  lads,  'tis  to  glory  we  steer          .  .      84 


INDEX  OF   WRITERS  243 

GIFFORD,  HUMPHRY  (fl.  1580)  PAGE 

Ye  buds  of  Brutus'  land,  courageous  youths,  now  play  your 
parts       ........      16 

HAWKER,  ROBERT  STEPHEN  (1804-1875) 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand  ....     138 

HENLEY,  WILLIAM  ERNEST  (1849-1903) 

Sons  of  Shannon,  Tamar,  Trent  .  .  .  .22 

The  day's  high  work  is  over,  and  done  ....     220 
What  have  I  done  for  you  .....    229 

HERRICK,  ROBERT  (1591-1674) 

Store  of  courage  to  me  grant      .  .  .  .  .27 

HOARE,  PRINCE  (1755-1834) 

Come  all  ye  jolly  sailors  bold      .  .  .  .  .131 

JOHNSON,  LIONEL  (1867-1903) 

At  least,  it  was  a  life  of  swords  .  .  .  .1 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD  (1865) 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old          .  .  .  .2 

LYALL,  SIR  ALFRED  (1835) 

Many  a  year  have  my  sons  gone  forth    ....    233 

MACAULAY,  THOMAS  BABINGTON,  LORD  (1800-1859) 

Attend,  all  ye  who  list  to  hear  our  noble  England's  praise    .      74 
The  winds  were  yelling,  the  waves  were  swelling        .  .     162 

To  my  true  king  I  otter'd  free  from  stain          .  .  .97 

MANGAN,  JAMES  CLARENCE  (1803-1849) 

O  my  dark  Rosaleen         ......     106 

MARRYAT,  FREDERICK  (1792-1848) 

The  captain  stood  on  the  carronade  :    'First  lieutenant,' 
says  he    ........    133 

MARVELL,  ANDREW  (1621-1678) 

See  how  the  flowers,  as  at  parade 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear   . 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride          .  .99 

MILTON,  JOHN  (1608-1674) 

Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  Arms  .  .  .90 

MONTROSE,  JAMES  GRAHAM,  MARQUIS  OF  (1612-1650) 

Great,  good,  and  just !  could  I  but  rate  .  .  .96 


244  INDEX   OF   WRITERS 

MOORE,  THOMAS  (1779-1852)  PAGE 

The  Minstrel-boy  to  the  war  is  gone      .  .  .  .24 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name         .  .    219 

MOTHERWELL,    WlLLIAM  (1797-1835) 

A  steed  !  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed   .  .  .  .28 

NEWBOLT,  HENRY  (1862) 

Effingham,  Grenville,  Raleigh,  Drake    .  .  .  .150 

In  seventeen  hundred  and  fifty -nine      .  .  .  .154 

It  was  eight  bells  ringing  .....     160 

Sons  of  the  Island  race,  wherever  ye  dwell      .  .  .     202 

PARKER,  MARTYN  (d.  1656  ?) 

Ye  gentlemen  of  England  .....     149 

PEELE,  GEORGE  (155S?-1597?) 

His  golden  locks  Time  hath  to  silver  turn'd     .  .  .206 

RODD,  SIR  RENNELL  (1858) 

Hove  to  off  Puerto  Bello  the  Queen's  Defiance  lay        .  .    207 

ROSSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL  (1828-1882) 

In  grappled  ships  around  the  Victory    ....     164 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER  (1771-1832) 

Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead  1 


Next  morn  the  Baron  climbed  the  tower 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dim    . 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er    . 

To  horse  !  To  horse  !  the  standard  flies 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 


64 
25 

214 
29 

222 


SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM  (1564-1616) 

O  for  a  muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend  .  .  .48 

This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  sceptr'd  isle  .  .        7 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT  (1774-1843) 

It  was  a  summer  evening  .  .  .  .  .111 

SPENSER,  EDMUND  (1553-1598) 

Revele  to  me  the  sacred  noursery          ....     142 

STILL,  JOHN  (1543?-1608) 

From  mercilesse  invaders  .  .  .  .  .71 

TABLEY,  JOHN  LEICESTER  WARREN,  LORD  DE  (1835-1895) 

Then  there  rise  upon  my  view    .....     172 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS  245 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED  LORD  (1809-1892)  PAGE 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league        .....    185 
Love  thou  thy  land  with  love  far-brought 

THOMSOK,  JAMES  (1700-1748) 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command         .  .  .11 

TURNER,  CHARLES  TENNYSON  (1808-1879) 

When  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad  year      .  .    232 

VERB,  AUBREY  DE  (1814-1902) 

Bright  and  majestic  spirit !  faithful  mate        .  .  .    144 

WATSON,  WILLIAM  (1858) 

She  stands  a  thousand-wintered  tree     ....    234 

WHITMAN,  WALT  (1819-1892) 

Beat !  beat !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles  !  blow  !  .  .  .    176 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done       .  .    216 

WOLFE,  CHARLES  (1791-1823) 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note        .  .  .    212 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM  (1770-1850) 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood  .  .  204 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  .  .  205 

Vanguard  of  liberty,  ye  men  of  Kent    .  .  .  165 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed  .  110 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?    Who  is  he  .  .  139 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

A  GOOD  sword  and  a  trusty  hand !  .  .  .  .     138 

A  steed  !  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed  .  .  .  .28 

Agincourt,  Agincourt !  .  .  .  .  .  .58 

And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time    .  .  .  .  .2 

Arm,  arm,  arm,  arm  !  the  scouts  are  all  come  in    .  .  .33 

At  least,  it  was  a  life  of  swords         .....     195 

Attend,  all  ye  who  list  to  hear  our  noble  England's  praise  .      74 

Attend  you,  and  give  ear  awhile        .....    127 

BEAT  !  beat !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles  !  blow  !  176 

Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead  1 

Bright  and  majestic  Spirit !  faithful  mate   ....    144 

CAPTAIN  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  Arms        .  .  .  .90 

Come,  all  ye  jolly  sailors  bold  .....    131 

Come,  cheer  up,  my  lads,  'tis  to  glory  we  steer       .  .  .84 

DAY,  like  our  souls,  is  fiercely  dark  .  .  .  .  .31 

EFFINGHAM,  Grenville,  Raleigh,  Drake        .  .  .  .150 

Eleven  men  of  England  ......     145 

England  !  awake !  awake  !  awake  !    .  .  .  .  .    237 

FAIR  stood  the  wind  for  France        .  .  .  .  .53 

For  victory  !  no,  all  hope  is  gone  ;  for  life  ! — let  that  go  too        .    178 

From  mercilesse  invaders       ...  .71 


GOD  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old 
God  prosper  long  our  noble  king 
God  save  our  gracious  King    . 
Great,  good,  and  just ;  could  I  but  rate 
Green  fields  of  England  !  Avheresoe'er 


238 
38 

235 
96 

231 


HALF  a  league,  half  a  league  .  .  .  .  .  .185 

His  golden  locks  Time  hath  to  silver  turn'd            .                       .  206 

Hove  to  off  Puerto  Bello  the  Queen's  Defiance  lay    .            .            .  207 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest         ....  218 

I  LOVE  contemplating,  apart  ....                       .  166 

Iberia,  trembling  from  afar     ......  174 

In  grappled  ships  around  the  Victory 

In  seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-nine  .....  154 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  247 

PAGE 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood       ....    204 

It  was  a"  for  our  rightfu'  King  .  .  .  .  .85 

It  was  a  summer  evening       .  .  .  .  .  .111 

It  was  eight  bells  ringing       ......    160 

KENTISH  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King  .  .  .  .87 

King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now?  .  .  .89 

King  Philip  had  vaunted  his  claims  .  .  .  .  .79 

LAST  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs            ....  123 

Listen  to  me,  as  when  ye  heard  our  fathers             .           .           .  104 

Long  the  proud  Spaniards  had  vaunted  to  conquer  us       .           .  81 

Love  thou  thy  land  with  love  far-brought   ....  3 

MANY  a  year  have  my  sons  gone  forth          ....    233 
Men  of  England !  who  inherit  .  .  .  .  .21 

Milton  !  thou  should  st  be  living  at  this  hour          .  .  .     205 

NKXT  morn  the  Baron  climbed  the  tower    .  .  .  .64 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  North-west  died  away    .    227 
Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note   ....    212 

O  CAPTAIN  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done  .  .  .     216 

O  for  a  muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend  .  .  .48 


O,  my  dark  Rpsaleen 

O  Sons  of  Trojan  Brutus  clothed  in  war 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Oh,  Queen  of  Albion,  queen  of  isles  ! 


The  fifteenth  day  of  July 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear 

The  Minstrel-boy  to  the  war  is  gone . 

The  Rhine  is  running  deep  and  red   . 

The  winds  were  yelling,  the  waves  were  swelling 


106 
13 
152 
236 


Oh  where,  and  oh  where,  is  your  Highland  laddie  gone?  .  .      23 

Old  England  to  thyself  be  true          .  .  .  .  .20 

Our  bugles  sang  truce  —for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered  .  .    175 

PIBROCH  of  Donuil  Dim          ......      25 

REVELE  to  me  the  sacred  noursery    .....    142 

SCOTS  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled         .  .  .  .  .37 

See  how  the  flowers,  as  at  parade      .  .  .  .  .98 

Seven  weeks  of  sea,  and  twice  seven  days  of  storm  .  .    228 

She  stands  a  thousand-wintered  tree  ....     234 

Sir  Drake,  whom  well  the  world's  end  knew  .  .  .    209 

Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er  .....    214 

Some  talk  of  Alexander,  and  some  of  Hercules       .  .  .    125 

Some  years  of  late,  in  eighty-eight    .  .  .  .  .72 

Sons  of  Shannon,  Tamar,  Trent         .  .  .  .  .22 

Sons  of  the  Island  race,  wherever  ye  dwell  .  .  .  .    202 

Store  of  courage  to  me  grant .  .  .  .  .  .27 

THE  captain  stood  on  the  carronade :  '  First  lieutenant,'  says  he.    133 
The  day's  high  work  is  over  and  done  .    220 


60 
91 
24 
114 
162 


248  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Then  there  rise  upon  my  view  .....    172 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night          .  .  '          .  .     169 

Thin  glancing  threads  of  English  horse        ....     188 
This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  sceptr'd  isle  .  .  .7 

To  all  you  ladies  now  on  land  .....    135 

To  horse !  to  horse !  the  standard  flies  .  .  .29 

To  mute  and  to  material  things         .....     222 
To  my  true  king  I  offer'd  free  from  stain      .  .  .  .97 

Toll  for  the  brave !       ...  .10 

VANGUARD  of  liberty,  ye  men  of  Kent !  .  .  .165 

WE  come  in  arms,  we  stand  ten  score  .  .  .35 

What  have  I  done  for  you       ......     229 

When  all  around  their  vigil  keep       .....     109 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command    .  .  .  .11 

When,  from  grim  Alma's  bloodstain'd  height  .  .     191 

When  George  the  Third  was  reigning  a  hundred  years  ago  .     156 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name  .     219 


When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
When  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad  year 
When  slow  and  faint  from  off  the  plain 
When  the  British  warrior  queen 
Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?    Who  is  he 


V    OF  THE 


VERSiTY 


PLYMOUTH 
WILLIAM    BHENDON    AND   SON,    LTD.,    PRINTERS 


110 
232 

182 
9 

99 
139 


YE  buds  of  Brutus'  land,  courageous  youths,  now  play  your  parts      16 
Ye  gentlemen  of  England        .  .  .  .  .  .    149 

Ye  Mariners  of  England          .  .  .  .  .  .18 

Yes,  they  return — but  who  return  ?  .  .    198 

You  brave  heroic  minds  .    101 


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