SOUND, SOUND THE CLARION, FHA THE FIFE: TO ALL THE SENSUAL. WORLD PROCIAIM ONE CROWDED HOUR OF GLORIOUS L.IFE IS WORTH AN AGE WITHOUT A NAME: S/JK WALTER SCOTT, f SERKElfY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF ^CALIFORNIA LYRA HEROICA LYRA HEROICA A BOOK OF VERSE FOR BOYS SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! To all the sensual -world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age wit/tout a name. Sir Walter Scott. LONDON Published by DAVID NUTT in the Strand 1893 I TO WALTER BLAIKIE ARTIST PRINTER MY PART IN THIS BOOK W. E. H. July 1891 132 FIRST (LIBRARY) EDITION Printed October 1891 ORDINARY ISSUE 3000 copies SPECIAL ISSUE (a) Hand-made, reimposed Royal 8vo 100 copies (b) Japanese Vellum, 20 copies SECOND (SCHOOL) EDITION Printed February 1892 5000 copies THIRD (LIBRARY) EDITION Printed September 1893 3000 copies PREFACE This book of verse for boys is, I believe, the first of its kind in English. Plainly, it were labour lost to go glean- ing where so many experts have gone harvesting; and for what is rarest and best in English Poetry the world must turn, as heretofore, to the several ' Golden Treasuries ' of Professor Palgrave and Mr. Coventry Patmore, and to the excellent ' Poets' Walk 'of Mr. Mowbray Morris. My purpose has been to choose and sheave a certain number of those achievements in verse which, as expressing the simpler sentiments and the more elemental emotions, might fitly be addressed to such boys and men, for that matter a* are privileged to use our noble English tongue. To set forth, as only art can, the beauty and the joy of living, the beauty and the blessedness of death, the glory of battle and adventure, the nobility of devotion to a cause, an ideal, a passion even the dignity of resistance, the sacred quality of patriotism, that is my ambition here. Now, to read poetry at all is to have an ideal anthology of one's own, and in that possession to be incapable of content with the anthologies of all the world besides. That is, the personal equation is ever to be reckoned withal, and I have had my preferences, as those that went before me had theirs. I have omitted much, as Aytoun's 'Lays,' whose absence many will resent; I have viii PREFACE included much, as that brilliant piece of doggerel of Frederick Marryat's, whose presence some will regard with distress. This without reference to enforcements due to the very nature of my work. I have adopted the birth-day order : for that is the sim- plest. And I have begun with not Chaucer, nor Spenser, nor the ballads, but Shakespeare and Agincourt ; for it seemed to me that a book of heroism could have no better starting-point than that heroic pair of names. As for the ballads, I have placed them, after much considering, in the gap between old and new, between classic and romantic, in English verse. The witness of Sidney and Drayton's example notwithstanding, it is not until 1765, when Percy publishes the f Reliques,' that the ballad spirit begins to be the master influence that Wordsworth confessed it was; while as for the history of the matter, there are who hold that f Sir Patrick Spens,' for example, is the work of Lady Wardlaw, which to others, myself among them, is a thing preposterous and distraught. It remains to add that, addressing myself to boys, I have not scrupled to edit my authors where editing seemed desir- able, and that I have broken up some of the longer pieces for convenience in reading. Also, the help I have received while this book of ' Noble Numbers ' was in course of growth help in the way of counsel, suggestion, remonstrance, permission to use has been such that it taxes gratitude and makes complete acknowledgment impossible. W. E. H. CONTENTS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) and MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631). I. AGINCOURT PAGE Introit I Interlude ...... 2 Harfleur .3 The Eve 4 The Battle 6 After . . . . ' . .10 SIR HENRY WOTTON (1568-1639). II. LORD OF HIMSELF . . . . .II BEN JONSON (1574-1637). III. TRUE BALM . . . . . .12 IV. HONOUR IN BUD 13 JOHN FLETCHER (1576-1625). V. THE JOY OF BATTLE . . . .13 FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1586-1616). VI. IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY . . . 1 5 ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674). VII. GOING A-MAYING 15 VIII. TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY- THING 1 8 x CONTENTS GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633)- IX. MEMENTO MORI 19 JAMES SHIRLEY (1594-1666). X. THE KING OF KINGS . . . . 2O JOHN MILTON (1608-1674). XI. LYCIDAS . . . . . .21 XII. ARMS AND THE MUSE . . . .27 XIII. TO THE LORD GENERAL .... 28 XIV. THE LATE MASSACRE .... 28 XV. ON HIS BLINDNESS ..... 29 XVI. EYELESS AT GAZA 30 XVII. OUT OF ADVERSITY . . . . -31 JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE (1612-1650). XVIII. HEROIC LOVE . . . . . 31 RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658). XIX. GOING TO THE WARS . . . .32 XX. FROM PRISON 33 ANDREW MARVELL (1620-1678). XXI. TWO KINGS ...... 34 XXII. IN EXILE 39 JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1701). xxiii. ALEXANDER'S FEAST .... 40 SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784;. XXIV. THE QUIET LIFE 45 CONTENTS xi BALLADS XXV. CHEVY CHASE PAGE The Hunting 47 The Challenge 49 The Battle 5 1 The Slain 54 The Tidings 56 XXVI. SIR PATRICK SPENS . . . . -57 XXVII. BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY . . . 60 XXVIII. HUGIIIE THE GR^ME . . . . 64 XXIX. KINMONT WILLIE The Capture 66 The Keepers Wrath .... 67 The March 69 The Rescue 71 XXX. THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL 73 XXXI. HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL .... 77 XXXII. THE TWA CORBIES 79 THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771). XXXIII. THE BARD ...... 80 WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800). XXXIV. THE ROYAL GEORGE . . . 85 XXXV. BOADICEA 86 GRAHAM OF GARTMORE (1735-1797)- XXXVI. TO HIS LADY . . . . . .88 CHARLES DIBDIN (1745-1814). XXXVII. CONSTANCY ...... 89 XXXVIII. THE PERFECT SAILOR 9O JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN (1750-1817). XXXIX. THE DESERTER 91 xii CONTENTS PRINCE HOARE (1755-1834). PAGE XL. THE ABETHUSA 92 WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827). XLI. THE BEAUTY OF TERROR .... 94 ROBERT BURNS 0759-1796). XLII, DEFIANCE . . . . . .95 XLIII. THE GOAL OF LIFE 96 XLIV. BEFORE PARTING ..... 97 XLV. DEVOTION 98 XLVI. TRUE UNTIL DEATH .... 99 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850;. XLVII. VENICE IOO XLVIII. DESTINY . . . . . . IOI XLIX. THE MOTHERLAND . . . . .IOI L. IDEAL 102 LI. TO DUTY ...... IO3 LII. TWO VICTORIES 1 05 SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832;. LIII. IN MEMORIAM IO7 LIV. LOCHINVAR . . . . . .112 LV. FLODDEN The March 114 The Attack . . . . . . Il6 The Last S '{and 119 LVI. THE CHASE . . . . .121 LVII. THE OUTLAW . . . .126 LVIII. PIBROCH . . . . . .129 LIX. THE OMNIPOTENT I3O LX. THE RED HARLAW . . . . -131 LXI. FAREWELL 133 LXII. BONNY DUNDEE . . . . .134 CONTENTS xiii SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834). PAGE LXIII. ROMANCE 136 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775-1864). LXIV. SACRIFICE . ... 138 THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844). LXV. SOLDIER AND SAILOR . . . .140 LXVI. ( YE MARINERS ' . . . .143 LXVII. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC . . -144 EBENEZER ELLIOTT (1781-1849). LXVIII. BATTLE SONG . . . . . .146 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1785-1842). LXIX. LOYALTY . . . . . .147 LXX. A SEA-SONG 148 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (1787-1874). LXXI. A SONG OF THE SEA . . . . .149 GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824). LXXII. SENNACHERIB . . . . . .150 LXXIII. THE STORMING OF CORINTH The Signal 151 The Assault . . . . 1 53 The Magazine 156 LXXFV. ALHAMA . . . . . . . l6o LXXV. FRIENDSHIP 164 LXXVI. THE RACE WITH DEATH . . . .165 LXXVJI. THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE . . .167 LXXVIII. HAIL AND FAREWELL . . . .17! CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823). LXXIX. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE . .172 xiv CONTENTS FREDERICK MARRYAT (1792-1848). LXXX. THE OLD NAVY 1 74 FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1835)- LXXXI. CASABIANCA 175 LXXXII. THE PILGRIM FATHERS . . . . 177 JOHN KEATS (1796-1821). LXXXIII. TO THE ADVENTUROUS . . . -179 THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY (1800-1859). LXXXIV. HORATIUS The Try sting 179 The Trouble in Rome . . . .183 The Keeping of the Bridge . . .189 Father Tiber I9 6 LXXXV. THE ARMADA ...... 2OO LXXXVI. THE LAST BUCCANEER . . . .20$ LXXX vii. A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH . . . .206 ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER (1803-1875). LXXXVIII. THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN . . 2O7 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882). LXXXIX. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP The Model 208 The Builders 2IO In the Ship- Yard . . . .214 The Two Bridals . . . .217 XC. THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE . 221 XCI. THE CUMBERLAND . . . . .22$ XCII. A DUTCH PICTURE 226 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1807-1892). XCIII. BARBARA FRIETCHIE . . . .228 CONTENTS xv ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892). XCIV. A BALLAD OP THE FLEET . . . .230 XCV. THE HEAVY BRIGADE .... 237 SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE (1810-1888). XCVI. THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS . . . 240 XCVII. THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR . . . 242 ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889). XCVIII. HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA . . 246 XCIX. HERVE RIEL ...... 246 "WALT WHITMAN (1819-1892). C. THE DYING FIREMAN . . . . 2 $2 CI. A SEA-FIGHT 253 CII. BEAT ! BEAT ! DRUMS ! . 255 CHI. TWO VETERANS 256 CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875). CIV. THE PLEASANT ISLE OF AVES . . .258 CV. A WELCOME ...... 260 SIR HENRY YULE (1820-1889). CVI. THE BIRKENHEAD 262 MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888). CVII. APOLLO . . . . . . .263 CVIII. THE DEATH OF r OHRAB The Duel 265 Sohrab ...... 267 The Recognition ..... 270 Ruksh the Horse . . . . -273 Rustum ...... 275 Night 278 CIX. FLEE FRO' THE PRESS . . 280 xvi CONTENTS WILLIAM CORY (b. 1823). PAGE CX. SCHOOL FENCIBLES 282 CXI. THE TWO CAPTAINS ..... 283 GEORGE MEREDITH (b. 1828). CXII. THE HEAD OF BRAN .... 288 WILLIAM MORRIS (b. 1834). CXIII. THE SLAYING OF THE NIBLUNGS Hogni 291 Gunnar ...... 295 Gudrun 299 The Sons of Giuki . . . . 3 2 ALFRED AUSTIN (b. 1835). CXIV. IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? .... 306 SIR ALFRED LYALL (b. 1835). CXV. THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS .... 309 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (b. 1837). CXVI. THE OBLATION . . . . .314 CXVII. ENGLAND 315 cxvin. A JACOBITE'S EXILE . . . 317 BRET HARTE (b. 1839). CXIX. THE REVEILLE 32O CXX. WHAT THE BULLET SANG . . . -321 AUSTIN DOBSON (b. 1840). CXXI. A BALLAD OF THE ARMADA . . . 322 ANDREW LANG (b. 1844). CXXII. THE WHITE PACHA 323 CONTENTS xvii ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (6. 1850). PAGE CXXIII. MOTHER AND SON ... . 324 HENRY CHARLES BEECHING (6. 1859). CXXIV. PRAYERS 326 RUDYARD KIPLING (b. 1865). CXXV. A BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST . . 327 CXXVI. THE FLAG OF ENGLAND .... 333 NOTES 339 INDEX . 357 FOR I TRUST IF AN ENEMY S FLEET CAME YONDER ROUND BY THE HILL, AND THE RUSHING BATTLE-BOLT SANG FROM THE THREE-DECKER OUT OF THE FOAM, THAT THE SMOOTH-FACED SNUB-NOSED ROGUE WOULD LEAP FROM HIS COUNTER AND TILL, AND STRIKE, IF HE COULD, WERE IT BUT WITH HIS CHEATING YARDWAND, HOME. TENNYSON. LYRA HEROICA LYRA HEROICA AGINCOURT INTROIT O 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, Leashed in like hounds, should Famine, Sword and Fire Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all, The flat unraised spirits that have 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 O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt ? O 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, 2 SHAKESPEARE 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 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. INTERLUDE 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, Promised to Harry and his followers. The French, advised by good intelligence Of this most dreadful preparation, Shake in their fear, and with pale policy Seek to divert the English purposes. O England ! model to thy inward greatness, Like little body with a mighty heart, SHAKESPEARE 3 What mightst them 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, Hemy Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third, Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland, Have for the gilt of France O 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 ! HARFLEUR THUS with imagined wing our swift scene flies In motion of no less celerity Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen The well-appointed king at Hampton Pier Embark his royalty, and his brave fleet With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning : Play with your fancies, and in them behold Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing ; Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give To sounds confused ; behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think You stand upon the rivage and behold A city on the inconstant billows dancing ! 4 SHAKESPEARE For so appears this fleet majestical, Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow : Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, And leave your England, as dead midnight still, Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women, Or passed or not arrived to pith and puissance ; For who is he, whose chin is but enriched With one appearing hair, that will not follow These culled and choice-drawn cavaliers to France . Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege : Behold the ordnance on their carriages, With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur. Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back; Tells Harry that the king doth offer him Katharine his daughter, and with her to dowiy Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms. The offer likes not : and the nimble gunner With linstock now the devilish cannon touches, And down goes all before them ! THE EVE 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 fixed 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 umbered face ; SHAKESPEARE j Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night's dull ear, and from the tents The armourers, accomplishing the knights, 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. O now, who will behold The royal captain of this ruined 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 weaiy and all-watched night, But freshly looks and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty, DRAYTON That eveiy 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, Behold, as may unworthiness define, A little touch of Harry in the night And so our scene must to the battle fly. Shakespeare. THE BATTLE 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, Furnished in warlike sort, Marched towards Agincourt In happy hour, Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French geii'ral lay With all his power : Which, in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending ; DRAYTON Which he neglects the while As from a nation vile, Yet with an angiy smile Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, ' 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. 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 Lopped the French lilies/ DRAYTON The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led ; With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen ; Excester had the rear, A braver man not there :" O 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 veiy earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham, Which did tire signal aim To our hid forces ! When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Struck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather ; DRAYTON 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 ; 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. Glo'ster, 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 ! 10 SHAKESPEARE 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. O, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry ? Dray ton. AFTER Now we bear the king Toward Calais : grant him there ; there seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouthed sea, Which like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king Seems to prepare his way : so let him land, And solemnly see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought that even now WOTTON 11 You may imagine him upon Blackheath ; Where that his lords desire him to have borne His bruised helmet and his bended sword Before him through the city : he forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride, Giving full trophy, signal and ostent, Quite from himself to God. But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens ! The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, Like to the senators of the antique Rome, With the plebeians swanning at their heels, Go forth and fetch their conquering Caesar in ! Shakespeare. ii LORD OF HIMSELF How happy is he born or taught W T ho serveth not another's will ; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his highest skill ; Whose passions not his masters are ; Whose soul is still prepared for death Not tied unto the world with care Of prince's ear or vulgar breath ; Who hath his ear from rumours freed ; Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great ; 12 JONSON Who envies none whom chance doth raise, Or vice ; who never understood How deepest wounds are given with praise, Nor rules of state but rules of good ; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend This man is free from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall : Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all. Wotton. in TRUE BALM HIGH-SPIRITED friend, I send nor balms nor corsives to your w T ound ; Your faith hath found A gentler and more agile hand to tend The cure of that which is but corporal, And doubtful days, which were named critical, Have made their fairest flight And now are out of sight. Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind, Wrapped in this paper lie, Which in the taking if you misapply You are unkind. JONSON : FLETCHER 13 Your covetous hand, Happy in that fair honour it hath gained, Must now be reined. True valour doth her own renown commend In one full action ; nor have you now more To do than be a husband of that store. Think but how dear you bought This same which you have caught Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth. 'Tis wisdom, and that high, For men to use their fortune reverently, Even in youth. IV HONOUR IN BUD IT is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be : A lily of a day Is fairer far in May : Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. Jonson. v THE JOY OF BATTLE 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 ! 14 JOHN FLETCHER Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring ; O 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 : O how they cry ! O how they die ! Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder ! 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 J Brave Diocles is dead, And all his soldiers fled ; The battle's won, and lost, That many a life hath cost. BEAUMONT : HERRICK 15 VI IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY MORTALITY, behold and fear ! What a change of flesh is here ! Think how many royal bones Sleep beneath this heap of stones ! Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands. Here from their pulpits sealed with dust They preach, ' In greatness is no trust/ Here is an acre sown indeed With the richest, royall'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in, Since the first man died for sin. Here the bones of birth have cried, 1 Though gods they were, as men they died/ Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. Here 's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate. Beaumont. VII GOING A-MAYING GET up, get up for shame ! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn : See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air : 16 HERRICK Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew-bespangled herb and tree ! Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east, Above an hour since, yet you not drest, Nay, not so much as out of bed ? When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, Wheiias a thousand virgins on this day Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May. Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth like the spring-time fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair : Fear not ; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you : Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night, And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying : Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. Come, my Corinna, come ; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park, Made green and trimmed with trees ! see how Devotion gives each house a bough HERRICK 17 Or branch ! each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see 't ? Come, we '11 abroad : and let 's obey The proclamation made for May, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, But, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying. There 's not a budding boy or girl this day, But is got up and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth ere this is come Back and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream : And some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : Many a green-gown has been given, Many a kiss, both odd and even : Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament : Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked : yet we 're not a-Maying. Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time ! We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. B 18 HERRICK Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun. And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, Once lost can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight, Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying. VIII TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING BID me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be ; Or bid me love and I will give A loving heart to thee. A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free, As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I '11 give to thee. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honour thy decree ; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep While I have eyes to see j And, having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee. HERBERT 19 Bid me despair, and I '11 despair Under that cypress-tree ; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee. Herrick. IX MEMENTO MORI SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright The bridal of the earth and sky The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul Like seasoned timber never gives, But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. 20 SHIRLEY THE KING OF KINGS THE glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things : There is no armour against fate : Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down. And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field. And plant fresh laurels when they kill, But their strong nerves at last must yield : They tame but one another still. Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on their brow Then boast no more your mighty deeds ! Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds ! All heads must come To the cold tomb : Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. MILTON 21 XI LYCIDAS YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due : For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter, to the parching wind Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin, then, sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string ; Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse : So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn, And, as he passes, turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud ! For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn 22 MILTON Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Towards heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute ; Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long ; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return ! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes, mourn. The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white-thorn blows, Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds' ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : Ay me ! I fondly dream ' Had ye been there,' . . . for what could that have done ? MILTON 23 What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? Alas ! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair ? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. ' But not the praise/ Phrebus replied, and touched my trembling ears : ' Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.' O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood ! But now my oat proceeds, 24 MILTON And listens to the Herald of the Sea That came in Neptune's plea. He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain ? And questioned every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory : They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed : The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe. ' Ah ! who hath reft/ quoth he, ' my dearest pledge ? ' Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean Lake ; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ! Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; MILTON 25 Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped ; And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said : But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more/ Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks ; Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And purple all the ground with venial flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine, The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensfre head, 26 MILTON And every flower that sad embroidery wears : Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For, so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise ; Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled ; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep' st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold ; Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth : And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. MILTON 27 There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops and sweet societies That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals grey ; He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay : At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue ; To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. XII ARMS AND THE MUSE WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED ON THE CITY CAPTAIN, or Colonel, or Knight in Anns, 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 knoM'S the charms That call fame on such gentle acts as these, And he can spread thy name o'er land and seas, Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower : 28 MILTON 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. XIII TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath : yet much remains To conquer still ; peace hath her victories No less renowned than war : new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw. XIV THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, MILTON 29 When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not : in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. xv ON HIS BLINDNESS WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide ; ' Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? ' I fondly ask : but patience, to prevent That murmur soon replies : ' God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; They also serve who only stand and wait.' 30 MILTON XVI EYELESS AT GAZA THIS, this is he ; softly a while ; Let us not break in upon him. O change beyond report, thought, or belief ! See how he lies at random, carelessly diffused With languished head unpropt, As one past hope, abandoned, And by himself given over, In slavish habit, ill-fitted weeds O'er-worn and soiled. Or do my eyes misrepresent ? Can this be he, That heroic, that renowned, Irresistible Samson ? whom unarmed No strength of man or fiercest wild beast could withstand ; Who tore the lion, as the lion tears the kid ; Ran on embattled armies clad in iron, And, weaponless himself, Made arms ridiculous, useless the forgery Of brazen shield and spear, the hammered cuirass, Chalybean-tempered steel, and frock of mail Adamantean proof : But safest he who stood aloof, When insupportably his foot advanced, In scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools, Spurned them to death by troops. The bold Ascalonite Fled from his lion ramp ; old warriors turned Their plated backs under his heel, Or grovelling soiled their crested helmets in the dust. MONTROSE 31 XVII OUT OF ADVERSITY O HOW comely it is, and how reviving To the spirits of just men long oppressed, When God into the hands of their deliverer Puts invincible might To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, The brute and boisterous force of violent men, Hardy and industrious to support Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue The righteous and all such as honour truth ! He all their ammunition And feats of war defeats, With plain heroic magnitude of mind And celestial vigour armed ; Their armouries and magazines contemns, Renders them useless, while With winged expedition Swift as the lightning glance he executes His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, Lose their defence, distracted and amazed. Milton. XVIII HEROIC LOVE MY dear and only love, I pray That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchy ; LOVELACE For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I '11 never love thee more. Like Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone : My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all. But, if thou wilt prove faithful then And constant of thy word, I '11 make thee glorious by my pen, And famous by my sword ; I '11 serve thee in such noble ways Was never heard before ; I '11 crown and deck thee all with bays And love thee more and more. Mont rose. XIX GOING TO THE WARS TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. LOVELACE True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field, And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore : I could not love thee, Dear, so much Loved I not Honour more. xx FROM PRISON WHEN Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye, The Gods that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. c 34 MARVELL When, linnet-like confined, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King ; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty. Stone Avails do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage : If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty. Lovelace, XXI TWO KINGS 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 corselet of the hall. MARVELL 35 So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urged his active star ; And, like the three-forked 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 inclose Is more than to oppose ; 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 Into another mould. 36 MARVELL 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 hated 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, Where, twining subtile fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook'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 called the gods with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right, But bowed his comely head Down, as upon a bed. MARVELL 37 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 doth both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confessed 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, MARVELL She, having killed, 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. The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his party-coloured 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. MARVELL XXII IN EXILE WHERE the remote Bermudas ride In the Ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along The listening winds received this song. 'What should we do but sing his praise That led us through the watery maze, Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own ? 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 ambergrease on shore. 40 DRYDEN 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. O let our voice his praise exalt Till it arrive at heaven's vault, Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!' Thus sang 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. Marvett. XXIII ALEXANDER'S FEAST 'TWAS at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son : Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne ; His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (So should desert in arms be crowned) ; The lovely Thais by his side Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair ! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair ! DRYDEN 41 Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touched the lyre : The trembling notes ascend the sky And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove Who left his blissful seats above, Such is the power of mighty love ! A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; Sublime on radiant spires he rode When he to fair Olympia pressed, And while he sought her snowy breast, Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ; A present deity ! they shout around : A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound : With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god ; Affects to nod And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young : The jolly god in triumph comes ; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ! Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face : 42 DRYDEN Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes ! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain ; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain ! The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; And while he heaven and earth defied Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful Muse Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood ; Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of Chance below ; DRYDEN 43 And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree ; 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move. For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sang, is toil and trouble, Honour but an empty bubble ; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying ; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think, it worth enjoying : Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So love was crowned, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again : At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. Now strike the golden lyre again : A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! Break his bands of sleep asunder And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 44 DRYDEN Hark, hark ! the horrid sound Has raised up his head : As awaked from the dead, And amazed he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the Furies arise ! See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand ! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain : Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew ! Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes And glittering temples of their hostile gods. The princes applaud with a furious joy : And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way To light him to his prey, And like another Helen fired another Troy ! Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage or kindle soft desire. JOHNSON 45 At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame ; The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown : He raised a mortal to the skies ; She drew an angel down. Dry den. XXIV THE QUIET LIFE CONDEMNED to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blast or slow decline Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year, See Levett to the grave descend : Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind ; Nor, lettered arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. 46 JOHNSON When fainting Nature called for aid, And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed The power of art without the show. In misery's darkest caverns known, His ready help was ever nigh, Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, And lonely want retired to die. No summons mocked by chill delay, No petty gains disdained by pride : The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walked their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; And sure the eternal Master found His single talent well employed. The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ; His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then, with no throbs of fiery pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way. BALLADS 47 XXV CHEVY CHACE THE HUNTING GOD prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all ; A woeful hunting once there did In Chevy-Chace befall ; To drive the deer 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 48 BALLADS 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 appeare ; And long before high noone 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 younge gentleman Thus to the Erie did say : BALLADS 49 ' 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 Tivydale, Fast by the river Tweede ' : f O, 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 ever did on horsebacke come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, And with him break a speare.' THE CHALLENGE Erie Douglas on his milke-white steede, Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of his company, Whose armour shone like gold. ' Show me/ 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 Percy he ; D 50 BALLADS Who sayd, ' We list not to declare, Nor shew whose men we be, Yet we will spend our dearest blood, Thy chiefest harts to slay.' Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, And thus in rage did say : ( Ere thus I will out-braved be, One of us two shall dye : I know thee well, an erle thou art ; Lord Percy, so am I. But trust me, Percy, pittye 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.' ' Accurst be he/ Erie Percy said, ' By whom this is denied/ Then stept a gallant squier forth, Witherington was his name, Who said, ' I wold not have it told To Henry our king for shame, That ere my cap tain e fought on foote, And I stood looking on. Ye be two erles,' said Witherington, ' And I a squier alone : lie do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand : BALLADS 61 While I have power to wield my sword, He fight witli heart and hand.' THE BATTLE Our English archers bent their bowes, Their hearts were good and trew, 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 Bare down on eveiy 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. 62 BALLADS Christ ! it was a griefe to see, And likewise for to heare, The cries of men lying in their gore, And scattered here and there ! 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 ; 1 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 : BALLADS Who never spake more words than these, ' Fight on, my merry men all ; For why, my life is at an end ; Lord Percy sees my fall.' 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 ! O 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 wrath 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 through the other side A large cloth-yard, and more. 54 BALLADS So thus did both these nobles dye, Whose courage none could staine ! An English archer then perceived The noble Erie was slaine : 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 bloode 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. THE SLAIN With stout Erie Percy, there was slaine Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold baron. ; And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 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 ; BALLADS 55 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 ; 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 slaine in Chevy-Chase, 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 them dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay. 56 BALLADS THE TIDINGS The newes was brought to Eddenborrow, Where Scotland's king did raigne, That brave Erie Douglas suddenlye Was with an arrow slaiiie : ' O heavy newes/ King James did say, ' Scotland may witnesse be, I have not any captaine more Of such account as he.' Like tydings to King Henry came, Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slaine in Chevy-Chace : f Now God be with him/ said our king, ' Sith it will no better be ; I trust I have, within my realme, Five hundred as good as he : Yet shall not Scots nor Scotland say, But I will vengeance take : I '11 be revenged on them all, For brave Erie Percy's sake.' 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. BALLADS 57 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 foule debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease ! XXVI SIR PATRICK SPENS THE King sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine : ( O whaur will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship o' mine ? ' O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the King's right knee : { Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea.' Our King has written a braid letter And sealed it wi' his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. ' To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem ; The King's daughter to Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame.' The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud, loud lauched he ; 58 BALLADS The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his ee. ' O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the King of me, To send us out at this time o' year To sail upon the sea ? Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem ; The King's daughter to Noroway, 'Tis we must bring her hame.' They hoysed their sails on Monday morn Wi' a' the speed they may ; They hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say : ' Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's goud And a' our Queenis fee/ ' Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, Fu' loud I hear ye lie ! For I brought as mickle white monie As gane my men and me, And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud Out-o'er the sea wi' me. Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a' ! Our gude ship sails the morn.' BALLADS 59 ' Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. I saw the new moon late yestreen Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; And, if we gang to sea, master, I fear we '11 come to harm.' They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. ' O where will I get a gude sailor To tak' my helm in hand, Till I gae up to the tall topmast To see if I can spy land ? ' ' O here am I, a sailor gude, To tak' the helm in hand, Till you gae up to the tall topmast ; But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.' He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bolt flew out o' our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. ( Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And letna the sea come in.' They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, 60 BALLADS And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea cam' in. O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their milk-white hands ; But lang ere a' the play was ower They wat their gowden bands. O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heeled shoon ; But lang ere a' the play was played They wat their hats aboon. O lang, lang may the ladies sit Wi' their fans intill their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand ! And lang, lang may the maidens sit Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves ! For them they'll see nae mair. Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, It's fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. XXVII BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY THE fifteenth day of July, With glistering spear and shield, A famous fight in Flanders Was foughten in the field : BALLADS 61 The most conspicuous officers Were English captains three, But the bravest man in battel 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. ' Stand to it, noble pikemen, And look you round about : And shoot you right, you bow-men, And we will keep them out : You musquet and cailiver men, Do you prove true to me, I '11 be the bravest man in fight/ Says brave Lord Willoughby. 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. 62 BALLADS For seven hours to all men's view This fight endured sore,, Until our men so feeble grew That they could fight no more ; And then upon dead horses Full savourly they 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 Spaniard, 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. Then quoth the Spanish general, ' Come, let us march away, I fear we shall be spoiled all If that we longer stay : BALLADS G3 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 : ' 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. ' O ! 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. 64 BALLADS 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. XXVIII HUGHIE THE GR^IME GOOD Lord Scroope to the hills is gane, Hunting of the fallow deer ; And he has grippit Hughie the Graeme For stealing of the Bishop's mare. f Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be ! Here hangs a broadsword by my side ; And if that thou canst conquer me, The matter it may soon be tried.' * I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief; Although thy name be Hughie the Graeme, I '11 make thee repent thee of thy deeds, If God but grant me life and time/ But as they were dealing their blows so free, And both so bloody at the time, Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall, All for to take bold Hughie the Graeme. BALLADS 65 O then they grippit Hughie the Graeme, And brought him up through Carlisle town : The lads and lasses stood on the walls, Crying, 'Hughie the Graeme, thou'se ne'er gae down ! ' ' O loose my right hand free/ he says, ' And gie me my sword o' the metal sae fine, He 's no in Carlisle town this day Daur tell the tale to Hughie the Graeme.' Up then and spake the brave Whitefoord, As he sat by the Bishop's knee,, ' Twenty white owsen, my gude lord, If ye '11 grant Hughie the Graeme to me.' ' O baud your tongue,' the Bishop says, ' And wi' your pleading let me be ; For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, They suld be hangit a' for me.' Up then and spake the fair Whitefoord, As she sat by the Bishop's knee, ( A peck o' white pennies, my good lord, If ye '11 grant Hughie the Graeme to me/ ' O baud your tongue now, lady fair, Forsooth, and so it sail na be ; Were he but the one Graham of the name, He suld be hangit high for me.' They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe, He looked to the gallows tree, Yet never colour left his cheek, Nor ever did he blink his e'e. E 06 BALLADS He looked over his left shoulder To try whatever he could see, And he was aware of his auld father, Tearing his hair most piteouslie. ' O hand your tongue, my father dear, And see that ye dinna weep for me ! For they may ravish me o' my life, But they canna banish me fro' Heaven hie. And ye may gie my brither John My sword that's bent in the middle clear, And let him come at twelve o'clock, And see me pay the Bishop's mare. And ye may gie my brither James My sword that 's bent in the middle brown, And bid him come at four o'clock, And see his brither Hugh cut down. And ye may tell my kith and kin I never did disgrace their blood ; And when they meet the Bishop's cloak, To mak' it shorter by the hood.' XXIX KINMONT WILLIE THE CAPTURE O HAVE ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde ? O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope ? How they hae ta'en bold Kinmont Willie, On Haribee to hang him up ? BALLADS 67 Had Willie had but twenty men, But twenty men as stout as he, Pause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, Wi' eight score in his cumpanie. They band his legs beneath the steed, They tied his hands behind his back ; They guarded him fivesome on each side, And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, And also thro' the Carlisle sands ; They brought him on to Carlisle castle To be at my Lord Scroope's commands. ' My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, And wha will dare this deed avow ? Or answer by the Border law ? Or answer to the bold Buccleuch ? ' ' Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver ! There 's never a Scot shall set thee free : Before ye cross my castle yett, I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.' c Fear na ye that, my lord/ quo' Willie : ' By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope,' he said, 1 1 never yet lodged in a hostelrie But I paid my lawing before I gaed.' THE KEEPER'S WRATH Now word is gane to the bold Keeper, In Branksome Ha' where that he lay, 3 BALLADS That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, Between the hours of night and day. He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, He garred the red wine spring on hie : ' Now a curse upon my head/ he said, ' But avenged of Lord Scroope I '11 be ! O is my basnet a widow's curch ? Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree ? Or my arm a lady's lily hand, That an English lord should lightly me ! And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Against the truce of Border tide? And forgotten that the bold Buccleuch Is keeper here on the Scottish side ? And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Withouten either dread or fear ? And forgotten that the bold Buccleuch Can back a steed or shake a spear ? were there war between the lands, As well I wot that there is none, 1 would slight Carlisle castle high, Though it were builded of marble stone. I would set that castle in a lowe, And slockeii it with English blood ! There 's never a man in Cumberland Should ken where Carlisle castle stood. But since nae war's between the lands, And there is peace, and peace should be, BALLADS I '11 neither harm English lad or lass, And yet the Kinmont freed shall be ! ' THE MARCH He has called him forty Marchmen bold, I trow they were of his ain name, Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, called The Laird of Stobs, I mean the same. He has called him forty Marchmen bold, Were kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch ; With spur on heel, and splent on spauld, And gluves of green, and feathers blue. There were five and five before them a', Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright : And five and five cam' wi' Buccleuch, Like warden's men, arrayed for fight. And five and five like a mason gang That carried the ladders lang and hie ; And five and five like broken men ; And so they reached the Woodhouselee. And as we crossed the 'Bateable Land, When to the English side we held, The first o' men that we met wi', Whae suld it be but fause Sakelde ? ' Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen ? ' Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell to me ! ' ' We go to hunt an English stag Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.' TO BALLADS ' Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men ? ' Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell me true ! ' ' We go to catch a rank reiver Has broken faith wi' the bold Buccleuch.' ' Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, Wi' a' your ladders lang and hie ? ' ' We gang to herry a corbie's nest That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.' ' Where be ye gaun, ye broken men ? ' Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell to me ! ' Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band, And the never a word of lear had he. ' Why trespass ye on the English side ? Row-footed outlaws, stand ! ' quo' he ; The never a word had Dickie to say, Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie. Then on we held for Carlisle toun, And at Staneshaw-Bank the Eden we crossed ; The water was great and meikle of spait, But the never a horse nor man we lost. And when we reached the Staneshaw-Bank, The wind was rising loud and hie ; And there the Laird garred leave our steeds, For fear that they should stamp and neigh. And when we left the Staneshaw-Bank, The wind began full loud to blaw ; But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, When we came beneath the castle wa'. BALLADS 71 We crept on knees, and held our breath, Till we placed the ladders against the wa' ; And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell To mount the first before us a*. He has ta'eii the watchman by the throat, He flung him down upon the lead : ' Had there not been peace between our lands Upon the other side thou 'dst gaed ! Now sound out, trumpets ! ' quo' Buccleuch ; ' Let 's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie ! ' Then loud the warden's trumpet blew wha dare meddle wi' me ? THE RESCUE Then speedilie to wark we gaed, And raised the slogan aiie and a', And cut a hole through a sheet of lead, And so we wan to the castle ha'. They thought King James and a' his men Had won the house wi' bow and spear; It was but twenty Scots and ten That put a thousand in sic a stear ! Wi' coulters and wi' forehammers We garred the bars bang merrilie, Until we came to the inner prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie. And when we cam' to the lower prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie : 72 BALLADS * O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, Upon the morn that thou 's to die ? ' ' O I sleep saft, and I wake aft ; It's lang since sleeping was fleyed frae me ! Gie my service back to my wife and bairns, And a' gude fellows that spier for me/ Then Red Rowan has hente him up, The starkest man in Teviotdale : ' Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell. Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope ! My gude Lord Scroope, farewell ! ' he cried ; ' I '11 pay you for my lodging maill, When first we meet on the Border side/ Then shoulder high with shout and cry We bore him down the ladder lang ; At every stride Red Rowan made, I wot the Kinmont' s aims played clang. ' O mony a time/ quo' Kinmont Willie, ' I have ridden horse baith wild and wood ; But a rougher beast than Red Rowan I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. And mony a time/ quo' Kinmont Willie, ' I 've pricked a horse out oure the furs ; But since the day I backed a steed, I never wore sic cumbrous spurs ! ' We scarce had won the Staneshaw-Bank, When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, BALLADS 73 And a thousand men on horse and foot Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along. Buccleuch has turned to Eden Water, Even where it flowed frae bank to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, And safely swam them through the stream. He turned him on the other side, And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he : ' If ye like na my visit in merrie England, In fair Scotland come visit me ! ' All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope, He stood as still as rock of stane ; He scarcely dared to trew his eyes, When through the water they had gane. ' He is either himsell a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be ; I wadna have ridden that wan water For a' the gowd in Christentie.' xxx 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 fulfill, And it made them cry, ' To sea, to sea, With the Angel Gabriel ! ' 74 BALLADS 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 ! ' 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. They waving up and down the seas Upon the ocean main, ' It is not long ago/ quoth they, ' That England fought with Spain : O would the Spaniard we might meet Our stomachs to fulfil ! We would play him fair a noble bout With our Angel Gabriel ! ' They had no sooner spoken But straight appeared in sight Three lusty Spanish vessels Of warlike trim and might ; BALLADS 75 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, ' Brave hearts, be valiant still ! Fight on, fight on in the defence Of our Angel Gabriel ! ' 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, ' Help, help, or sunken we shall be By the Angel Gabriel ! ' 76 BALLADS So desperately they boarded us For all our valiant shot, Threescore of their best fighting men Upon our decks were got; And lo ! at their first entrances Full thirty did we kill, And thus with speed we cleared 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, f 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 many more were hurt and maimed By our Angel Gabriel. Then, seeing of these bloody spoils, The rest made haste away : For why, they said, it was no boot The longer there to stay. BALLADS 77 Then they fled into Cales, 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 thus hath blest our lusty hearts And our Angel Gabriel. XXXI HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL I WISH I were where Helen lies, Night and day on me she cries ; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnell lea ! Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me ! O thinkna ye my heart was sail- When my love dropt down, and spak' nae mair? There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirkconnell lea. 78 BALLADS As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide On fair Kirkconnell lea ; I lighted down my sword to draw, I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma* For her sake that died for me. Helen fair beyond compare ! 1 '11 mak' a garland o' thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee ! O that I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries ; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, ' Haste, and come to me ! ' Helen fair ! O Helen chaste ! If I were with thee I were blest, Where thou lies low and takes thy rest, On fair Kirkconnell lea. 1 wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying On fair Kirkconnell lea. I wish I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries, And I am weary of the skies For her sake that died for me. BALLADS 79 XXXII THE TWA CORBIES As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane : The tane unto the tither say, ' Where sail we gang and dine the day ? ' 1 In behint yon auld fail dyke I wot there lies a new-slain knight ; And naebody kens that he lies there But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet. Ye '11 sit on his white hause-bane, And I '11 pike out his bonny blue e'en : Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sail ken where he is gane : O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sail blaw for evermair.' 80 GRAY XXXIII THE BARD f RUIN seize thee, ruthless King ! Confusion on thy banners wait ! Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears ! ' Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array : Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; ' To arms ! ' cried Mortimer, and couched his quiver- ing lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe With haggard eyes the Poet stood (Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air), And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : ' Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! O'er thee, O King ! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; GRAY 81 Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay. ' Cold is Cadwallo's tongue That hushed the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie Smeared with gore and ghastly pale : Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ; The famished eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries ! No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit ; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. ' Weave the warp and weave the woof The winding-sheet of Edward's race : Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright F 82 GRAY The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonising king ! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven ! What terrors round him wait ! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. ' Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies ! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled ? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born ? Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes : Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Wliirlwind's sway, That hushed in grim repose expects his evening prey. ' Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare ; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. GRAY 83 Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance and horse to horse ? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head ! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. ' Edward, lo ! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof ; the thread is spun ;) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove; the work is done.) Stay, O stay ! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn : In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But O ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail : All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue, hail ! 84 GRAY ' Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine ! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line : Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face Attempered sweet to virgin grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play ? Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls and, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings. ' The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day ? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me : with joy I see COWPER 85 The different doom our fates assign : Be thine Despair and sceptred Care, To triumph and to die are mine/ He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he pUmged to endless night. Gray. XXXIV 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. 86 COVTPER His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the v'essel 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. XXXV BOADICEA WHEN the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief : COWPER 87 ' Princess ! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish, write that word In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt. 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. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. 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. 88 GRAHAM OF GARTMORE 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/ Cowper. XXXVI TO HIS LADY IF doughty deeds my lady please Right soon I '11 mount my steed ; And strong his arm, and fast his seat That bears frae me the meed. I '11 wear thy colours in my cap Thy picture at my heart ; And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart ! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ; O tell me how to woo thee ! For thy dear sake, nae care I '11 take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. If gay attire delight thine eye I '11 dight me in array ; I '11 tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. DIBDIN 89 If sweetest sounds can win thine ear These sounds I '11 strive to catch ; Thy voice I '11 steal to woo thy sell, That voice that nane can match. But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow ; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue ; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo ! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ; O tell me how to woo thee ! For thy dear sake, nae care I '11 take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. Graham of Gartmore. XXXVII CONSTANCY BLOW high, blow low, let tempests tear The mainmast by the board ; My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear, And love well stored, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring winds, the raging sea, In hopes on shore to be once more Safe moored with thee ! 90 DIBDIN Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And surges roaring from below, Shall my signal be to think on thee, And this shall be my song : Blow high, blow low And on that night, when all the crew, The memory of their former lives O'er flowing cans of flip renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh and think on thee, And, as the ship rolls through the sea, The burden of my song shall be : Blow high, blow low XXXVIII THE PERFECT SAILOR HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew ; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful, below, he did his duty, But now he 's gone aloft. Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare, His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair ; CURRAN 91 And then he 'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many 's the time and oft ! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed, For, though his body's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft. Dibdin. XXXIX THE DESERTER IF sadly thinking, With spirits sinking, Could more than drinking My cares compose, A cure for sorrow From sighs I 'd borrow, And hope to-morrow Would end my woes. But as in wailing There 's nought availing, And Death unfailing Will strike the blow, PRINCE HOARE Then for that reason, And for a season, Let us be merry Before we go. To joy a stranger, A way-worn ranger, In every danger My course I 've run ; Now hope all ending, And Death befriending, His last aid lending, My cares are done : No more a rover, Or hapless lover, My griefs are over, My glass runs low ; Then for that reason, And for a season, Let us be merry Before we go ! Curran. XL THE ARETHUSA 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 ; PRINCE HOARE 93 Her men are staunch To their fav'rite launch, And when the foe shall meet our fire, Sooner than strike, we '11 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 Frenchman 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. Our captain hailed the Frenchman, ' Ho ! ' The Frenchman then cried 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. 94 BLAKE 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. XLI THE BEAUTY OF TERROR TIGER, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes ? On what wings dare he aspire ? What the hand dare seize the fire ? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand ? and what dread feet ? BURNS 95 What the hammer ? what the chain ? In what furnace was thy brain ? What the anvil ? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see ? Did He who made the lamb make thee ? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetiy ? Blake. XLII DEFIANCE FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie : M'Pherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he ; He played a spring and danced it round, Below the gallows tree. Oh, what is death but parting breath ? On monie a bloody plain I Ve dared his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again ! 96 BURNS Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword ! And there 's no a man in all Scotland, But I '11 brave him at a word. I 've lived a life of sturt and strife ; I die by treacherie : It burns my heart I must depart And not avenged be. Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky ! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die ! Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae clauntingly gaed he ; He played a spring and danced it round, Below the gallows tree. XLIII THE GOAL OF LIFE SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min' ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne ? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. BURNS 97 And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp, And surely I '11 be mine ; And we '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the go wans fine ; But we 've wandered mony a weary foot Sin' auld lang syne. We twa hae paidled i' the burn From mornin' sun till dine ; But seas between us braid hae roared Sin' auld lang syne. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie 's a hand o' thine ; And we '11 tak a right guid-willie waught For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. XLIV BEFORE PARTING Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie ; That I may drink before I go A service to my bonnie lassie, o 98 BURNS The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maim leave my boimie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready, The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody ; But it 's no the roar o' sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry, Nor shout o' war that 's heard afar, It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. XLV DEVOTION O MARY, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour ! Those smiles and glances let me see, That mak the miser's treasure poor. How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison ! Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard or saw : BURNS 99 Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the toun, I sighed, and said amang them a', ' Ye are na Mary Morison.' O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? Or canst thou break that heart of his Whase only faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown ! A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. XLVI 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. 100 WORDSWORTH 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. 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. Barns. XLVII VENICE ONCE did She hold the gorgeous East in fee And was the safeguard of the West : the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free ; No guile seduced, no force could violate ; And, when she took unto herself a Mate, WORDSWORTH 101 She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day : Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is passed away. XLVIII DESTINY 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 flowed, ' 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. XLIX THE MOTHERLAND WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 102 WORDS\Y r ORTH 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 uiifilial 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, Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! IDEAL 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 ; O 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 itself did lay. WORDSWORTH 103 LI TO DUTY STERN Daughter of the Voice of God ! O Duty ! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove ; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe ; From vain temptations dost set free ; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth : Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot ; Who do thy work, and know it not : May joy be theirs while life shall last ! And Thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast ! Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed ; Yet find that other strength, according to their need. 104 WORDSWORTH I, loving freedom, and untried ; No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust : And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray ; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of my soul Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control ; But in the quietness of thought : Me this unchartered freedom tires j I feel the weight of chance-desires : My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace ; Nor know we anything so fail- As is the smile upon thy face : Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragrance in thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power ! I call thee : I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour ; O let my weakness have an end ! WORDSWORTH 105 Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice ; The confidence of reason give ; And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! LII TWO VICTORIES I SAID, when evil men are strong, No life is good, no pleasure long, A weak and cowardly untruth ! Our Clifford was a happy Youth, And thankful through a weary time That brought him up to manhood's prime. Again he wanders forth at will, And tends a flock from hill to hill : His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen Such garb with such a noble mien ; Among the shepherd grooms no mate Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, Nor yet for higher sympathy. To his side the fallow-deer Came, and rested without fear ; The eagle, lord of land and sea, Stooped down to pay him fealty ; And both the undying fish that swim Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him ; The pair were servants of his eye In their immortality ; : 106 WORDSWORTH And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, Moved to and fro, for his delight. He knew the rocks which Angels haunt Upon the mountains visitant ; He hath kenned them taking wing : And into caves where Faeries sing He hath entered ; and been told By Voices how men lived of old. Among the heavens his eye can see The face of thing that is to be ; And, if that men report him right, His tongue could whisper words of might. Now another day is come, Fitter hope, and nobler doom ; He hath thrown aside his crook, And hath buried deep his book ; Armour rusting in his halls On the blood of Clifford calls : ' Quell the Scot ! ' exclaims the Lance ; ' Bear me to the heart of France/ Is the longing of the Shield ; Tell thy name, thou trembling field ; Field of death, where'er thou be, Groan thou with our victory ! Happy day, and mighty hour, When our Shepherd in his power, Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, To his ancestors restored Like a reappearing Star, Like a glory from afar, First shall head the flock of war ! SCOTT 107 LIII IN MEMORIAM 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 O 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 grasped 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 pierce the solemn gloom, That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallowed 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 countiy's foes were found Was heard the fated thunder's sound, Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Rolled, blazed, destroyed, and was no more. 108 SCOTT Nor mourn ye less his perished 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 was 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, Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf, And served his Albion for herself; Who, when the frantic crowd amain Strained at subjection's bursting rein, O'er their wild mood full conquest gained, The pride he would not crush restrained, Showed their fierce zeal a worthier cause, And brought the freeman's arm to aid the free- man's law r s. Hadst thou but lived, though stripped 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 propped the tottering throne : Now is the stately column broke, The beacon-light is quenched in smoke, SCOTT 109 The trumpet's silver sound is still, The warder silent on the hill ! O think, how to his latest day, When death, just hovering, claimed his prey, With Palinure's unaltered mood Firm at his dangerous post he stood ; Each call for needful rest repelled, 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 hallowed 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 employed, 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 ; 110 SCOTT 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 suppressed, And sacred be the last long rest. 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 aisles 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, O, here let prejudice depart, And, partial feeling cast aside, Record, that Fox a Briton died ! When Europe crouched to France's yoke, And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, And the firm Russian's purpose brave Was bartered by a timorous slave, Even then dishonour's peace he spurned, The sullied olive-branch returned, Stood for his country's glory fast, And nailed 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. SCOTT 111 With more than mortal powers endowed, How high they soared 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, Looked up the noblest of the land, 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 tombed 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 ? ' 112 SCOTT LIV LOCHINVAR O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in w r ar, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) ' O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?' ' I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; And now am I come with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar/ SCOTT 113 The bride kissed the goblet : the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, ' Now tread we a measure ! ' said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume ; And the bride-maidens whispered, ' 'Twere better by far, To have matched our fair cousin with young Loch- invar.' One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 1 She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They '11 have fleet steeds that follow/ quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Nether- by clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : H 114 SCOTT There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? LV FLODDEN THE MARCH 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 Barmore-wood, their evening post, SCOTT 115 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. 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 ? 116 SCOTT What checks the fiery soul of James ? 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 ? O, Douglas, for thy leading wand ! Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! O 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 Bannockburn ! 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. THE ATTACK ' BUT see ! look up on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent.' 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 ; SCOTT 117 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 And fiends in upper air ; O life and death were in the shout, Recoil and rally, charge and rout, And triumph and despair. Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry. 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 in 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 : 118 SCOTT 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. Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; Though there 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, The 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 : SCOTT 119 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. THE LAST STAND 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 ? O 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, 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. 120 SCOTT 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 tight, 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, 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 SCOTT 121 Disordered through her currents 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 ! LVI THE CHASE THE stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon 011 Monaii's rill, And deep his midnight lair had made In lone Glenartney's hazel shade ; But, when the sun his beacon red Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head, The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay Resounded up the rocky way, And faint from farther distance borne Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. As Chief, who hears his warder call, 'To arms ! the foemeii storm the wall/ The aiitlered monarch of the waste Sprang from his heathery couch in haste. 122 SCOTT But, ere his fleet career he took, The dew-drops from his flanks he shook ; Like crested leader proud and high, Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky ; A moment gazed aclown. the dale, A moment snuffed the tainted gale, A moment listened to the cry That thickened as the chase drew nigh ; Then, as the headmost foes appeared, With one brave bound the copse he cleared, And, stretching forward free and far, Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. Yelled on the view the opening pack ; Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back : To many a mingled sound at once The awakened mountain gave response. A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, Clattered a hundred steeds along, Their peal the merry horns rang out, A hundred voices joined the shout; With hark and whoop and wild halloo No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. Far from the tumult fled the roe, Close in her covert cowered the doe, The falcon from her cairn on high Cast on the rout a wondering eye, Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen. Faint and more faint, its failing din Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, SCOTT 123 And silence settled wide and still On the lone wood and mighty hill. Less loud the sounds of silvan war Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, And roused the cavern where, 'tis told, A giant made his den of old ; For ere that steep ascent was won, High in his pathway hung the sun, And many a gallant, stayed perforce, Was fain to breathe his faltering horse, And of the trackers of the deer Scarce half the lessening pack was near ; So shrewdly on the mountain-side Had the bold burst their mettle tried. The noble stag was pausing now Upon the mountain's southern brow, Where broad extended, far beneath, The varied realms of fair Menteith. With anxious eye he wandered o'er Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, And pondered refuge from his toil By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. But nearer was the copsewood grey That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, And mingled with the pine-trees blue On the bold cliffs of Ben venue. Fresh vigour with the hope returned, With flying foot the heath he spurned, Held westward w r ith unwearied race, And left behind the panting chase. 124 SCOTT 'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, As swept the hunt through Cambus-more ; What reins were tightened in despair, When rose Beiiledi's ridge in air ; Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath, Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith, For twice that day from shore to shore The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. Few were the stragglers, following far, That reached the lake of Vennachar ; And when the Brigg of Turk was won, The headmost horseman rode alone. Alone, but with unbated zeal, That horseman plied the scourge and steel ; For jaded now and spent with toil, Embossed with foam and dark with soil, While every gasp with sobs he drew, The labouring stag strained full in view. Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed, Fast on his flying traces came And all but won that desperate game ; For scarce a spear's length from his haunch Vindictive toiled the bloodhounds staunch ; Nor nearer might the dogs attain, Nor farther might the quarry strain. Thus up the margin of the lake, Between the precipice and brake, O'er stock and rock their race they take. SCOTT 125 The Hunter marked that mountain high, The lone lake's western boundary, And deemed the stag must turn to bay Where that huge rampart barred the way ; Already glorying in the prize, Measured his antlers with his eyes ; For the death-wound and death-halloo Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew ; But thundering as he came prepared, With ready arm and weapon bared, The wily quarry shunned the shock, And turned him from the opposing rock ; Then, dashing down a darksome glen, Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, In the deep Trosach's wildest nook His solitary refuge took. There, while close couched, the thicket shed Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head, He heard the baffled dogs in vain Rave through the hollow pass amain, Chiding the rocks that yelled again. Close on the hounds the hunter came, To cheer them on the vanished game ; But, stumbling in the rugged dell, The gallant horse exhausted fell. The impatient rider strove in vain To rouse him w r ith the spur and rein, For the good steed, his labours o'er, Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more ; Then touched with pity and remorse He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. 126 SCOTT ' I little thought, when first thy rein I slacked upon the banks of Seine, That Highland eagle e'er should feed On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed ! Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, That costs thy life, my gallant grey ! ' Then through the dell his horn resounds, From vain pursuit to call the hounds. Back limped with slow and crippled pace The sulky leaders of the chase ; Close to their master's side they pressed, With drooping tail and humbled crest ; But still the dingle's hollow throat Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. The owlets started from their dream, The eagles answered with their scream, Round and around the sounds were cast, Till echo seemed an answering blast ; And on the hunter hied his way, To join some comrade of the day. LVII THE OUTLAW O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen. SCOTT 127 And as I rode by Dalton-hall, Beneath the turrets high, A Maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily : ' Oj Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green ; I 'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen/ ' If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, As blythe as Queen of May.' Yet sang she, ' Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green ; 1 'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen. I read you, by your bugle-horn And by your palfrey good, I read you for a Ranger sworn To keep the king's greenwood/ ' A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light ; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night/ 128 SCOTT Yet sang she ' Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay ; I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May ! With burnished brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon That lists the tuck of drum/ ' I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear ; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear. And O ! though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare Would reign my Queen of May ! Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I '11 die ! The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, Were better mate than I ! And when I 'm with my comrades met, Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen.' SCOTT 129 LVIII PIBROCH PIBROCH of Domiil Dim, 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 war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky. Come every hill-plaid and True heart that wears one, Come eveiy 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. 130 SCOTT 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 ! LIX THE OMNIPOTENT sitt'st thou by that ruined hall, Thou aged carle so stem and grey ? Dost thou its former pride recall, Or ponder how it passed away ? ' ' Know'st thou not me ?' the Deep Voice cried; So long enjoyed, so often misused, Alternate, in thy fickle pride, Desired, neglected, and accused ! scon 1 i3i Before my breath, like blazing flax, Man and his marvels pass away ! And changing empires wane and wax, Are founded, flourish, and decay. Redeem mine hours the space is brief While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief, When TIME and thou shalt part for ever !' LX THE RED HARLAW THE herring loves the merry moonlight, The mackerel loves the wind, But the oyster loves the dredging sang, For they come of a gentle kind. Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle, And listen, great and sma', And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl That fought on the red Harlaw. The cronach's cried on Bennachie, And doun the Don and a', And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be For the sair field of Harlaw. They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, They hae bridled a hundred black, With a chafron of steel on each horse's head And a good knight upon his back. 132 SCOTT They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, A mile, but barely ten, When Donald came branking down the brae Wi' twenty thousand men. Their tartans they were waving wide, Their glaives were glancing clear, The pibrochs rang frae side to side, Would deafen ye to hear. The great Earl in his stirrups stood, That Highland host to see : 'Now here a knight that's stout and good May prove a jeopardie : What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, That rides beside my reyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, And I were Roland Cheyne ? To turn the rein were sin and shame, To fight were wondrous peril : What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, W T ere ye Glenallan's Earl ?' 1 Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide, And ye were Roland Cheyne, The spur should be in my horse's side, And the bridle upon his mane. If they hae twenty thousand blades, And we twice ten times ten, Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, And we are mail-clad men. SCOTT 133 My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, As through the moorland fern, Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude Grow cauld for Highland kerne.' LXI FAREWELL FAREWELL ! Farewell ! the voice you hear Has left its last soft tone with you ; Its next must join the seaward cheer, And shout among the shouting crew. The accents which I scarce could form Beneath your frown's controlling check, Must give the word, above the storm, To cut the mast and clear the wreck. The timid eye I dared not raise, The hand that shook when pressed to thine, Must point the guns upon the chase, Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. To all I love, or hope, or fear, Honour or own, a long adieu ! To all that life has soft and dear, Farewell ! save memory of you ! 134 SCOTT LXII BONNY DUNDEE To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke, ' Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke ; So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle your horses, and call up your men ; Come open the West Port, and let me gang free, And it 's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee ! ' Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; But the Provost, douce man, said, ' Just e'en let him be, The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee/ As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee ! With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed, As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged ; There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e, As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. SCOTT 135 These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers ; But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke ; ' Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.' The Gordon demands of him which way he goes : ' Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose ! Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. ' There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth, If there 's lords in the Lowlands, there 's chiefs in the North ; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three, Will cry hoigh ! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. There 's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide ; There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, Ere I own an usurper, I '11 couch with the fox ; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me I ' 136 COLERIDGE He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston's cliffs and 011 Clermiston's lee Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle the horses and call up the men, Come open your gates, and let me gae free, For it 's up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee! Sir Walter Scott. LXIII ROMANCE IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree : Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round : And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But O ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! A savage place ! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! COLERIDGE 137 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced : Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war ! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves ; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw : It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, 138 LANDOR That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. Coleridge. LXIV SACRIFICE. IPHIGENEIA, when she heard her doom At Aulis, and when all beside the King Had gone away, took his right hand, and said, ' O father ! I am young and very happy. I do not think the pious Calchas heard Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood While I was resting on her knee both arms And hitting it to make her mind my words, And looking in her face, and she in mine, Might he not also hear one word amiss, Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus ? ' The father placed his cheek upon her head, And tears dropt down it, but the king of men Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more. ' O father ! say'st thou nothing ? Hear'st thou not Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, LANDOR 139 Listened to fondly, and awakened me To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, When it was inarticulate as theirs, And the down deadened it within the nest ? ' He moved her gently from him, silent still, And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, Although she saw fate nearer : then with sighs, ' I thought to have laid down my hair before Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed Her polish t altar with my virgin blood ; I thought to have selected the white flowers To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of each By name, and with no sorrowful regret, Whether, since both my parents willed the change, I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow ; And (after those who mind us girls the most) Adore our own Athena, that she would Regard me mildly with her azure eyes. But, father ! to see you no more, and see Your love, O father ! go ere I am gone/ . . . Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, Bending his lofty head far over hers, And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. He turned away ; not far, but silent still. She now first shuddered ; for in him, so nigh, So long a silence seemed the approach of death, And like it. Once again she raised her voice. ' O father ! if the ships are now detained, And all your vows move not the Gods above, When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer The less to them : and purer can there be 140 CAMPBELL Any, or more fervent than the daughter's prayer For her dear father's safety and success ? ' A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. An aged man now entered, and without One word, stept slowly on, and took the wrist Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried, 'O father! grieve no more : the ships can sail.' Landor. LXV SOLDIER AND 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 Armed in our island eveiy freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman. They suffered him, I know not how, Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home. His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain half-way over With envy ; they could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover. CAMPBELL 141 A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer. At last, when care had banished sleep, He saw one morning dreaming doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating ; He hid it in a cave, and wrought The live-long day laborious ; lurking Until he launched a tiny boat By mighty working. Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond Description, wretched : such a wherry Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, Or crossed a ferry. For ploughing in the salt-sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder ; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, No sail no rudder. From neighb'ring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows ; And thus equipped he would have passed The foaming billows But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo sorely jeering ; Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing. 142 CAMPBELL With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger ; And, in his wonted attitude, Addressed the stranger : ' Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned ; Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned/ I have no sweetheart,' said the lad ; ' But absent 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 shipped to England Old, And safely landed. Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty; But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparte. CAMPBELL 143 LXVI 'YE MARINERS' 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 : WTiere 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. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, 144 CAMPBELL 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 110 more, And the storm has ceased to blow. LXVII 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 ; CAMPBELL 145 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 flushed To anticipate the scene ; And her van the fleeter rushed 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. 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 shattered sail ; Or, in conflagration pale Light the gloom. Now joy, Old England, raise For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; K 146 ELLIOTT 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 ! Campbell. LXVIII 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 collared hound of lawless sway, To famine dear, What pensioned slave of Attila, Leads in the rear ? Come they from Scythian wilds afar Our blood to spill ? 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. CUNNINGHAM 147 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 ! Madmen ! they trample into snakes The wormy 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. Elliott. LXIX LOYALTY. HAME, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie ; Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a' ; But I '11 water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannic, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. 148 CUNNINGHAM Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save ; The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave ; But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, ' I '11 shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.' Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie ! LXX A SEA-SONG A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast ; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While like the eagle free Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. O for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high ; And white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. PROCTER 149 There 's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud ; But hark the music, mariners ! The wind is piping loud ; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. Cunningham. LXXI A SONG OF THE SEA THE Sea ! the Sea ! the open Sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round ; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies j Or like a cradled creature lies. I 'm on the Sea ! I 'm on the Sea ! I am where I would ever be ; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go : o ' If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter ? / shall ride and sleep. I love (O ! how I love) to ride On the fierce foaming bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west blasts do blow. 150 BYRON I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great Sea more and more, And backwards flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; And a mother she was, and is to me ; For I was born on the open Sea ! The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born ; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the Ocean-child ! I 've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend, and a power to range, But never have sought, nor sighed for change ; And Death, whenever he come to me, Shall come on the wide unbounded Sea ! Procter. LXXII SENNACHERIB THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen : BYRON 151 Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! LXXIII THE STORMING OF CORINTH THE SIGNAL THE night is past, and shines the sun As if that morn were a jocund one. Lightly and brightly breaks away The Morning from her mantle grey, And the noon will look on a sultry day. 152 BYRON Hark to the trump, and the drum, And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, And the flap of the banners that flit as they're borne, And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, And the clash, and the shout, ' They come ! they come ! ' The horsetails are plucked from the ground, and the sword From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for the word. Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, That the fugitive may flee in vain, When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; White is the foam of their champ on the bit : The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, And crush the wall they have crumbled before : Forms in his phalanx each janizar; Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, So is the blade of his scimitar ; The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; The vizier himself at the head of the host. When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; Leave not in Corinth a living one BYRON 153 A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. God and the prophet Alia Hu ! Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! ' There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale; And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail? He who first downs with the red cross may crave His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have ! ' Thus uttered Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : Silence hark to the signal fire ! THE ASSAULT As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, From the cliffs invading dash Huge fragments, sapped by the ceaseless flow, Till white and thundering down they go, Like the avalanche's snow On the Alpine vales below ; Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, Corinth's sons were downward borne By the long and oft renewed Charge of the Moslem multitude. In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, Heaped by the host of the infidel, Hand to hand, and foot to foot : Nothing there, save death, was mute : Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and ciy For quarter or for victory, 154 BYRON Mingle there with the volleying thunder, Which makes the distant cities wonder How the sounding battle goes, If with them, or for their foes ; If they must mourn, or may rejoice In that annihilating voice, Which pierces the deep hills through and through With an echo dread and new : You might have heard it, on that day, O'er Salamis and Megara; (We have heard the hearers say,) Even unto Piraeus' bay. From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, And all but the after carnage done. Shriller shrieks now mingling come From within the plundered dome : Hark to the haste of flying feet That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; But here and there, where 'vantage ground Against the foe may still be found, Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, Make a pause, and turn again With banded backs against the wall, Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. There stood an old man his hairs were white, But his veteran arm was full of might : So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, BYRON 155 The dead before him, on that day. In a semicircle lay ; Still he combated unwounded, Though retreating, unsurrounded. Many a scar of former fight Lurked beneath his corselet bright ; But of every wound his body bore, Each and all had been ta'en before : Though aged, he was so iron of limb, Few of our youth could cope with him, And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, Outnumbered his thin hairs of silver grey. From right to left his sabre swept ; Many an Othman mother wept Sons that were unborn, when dipped His weapon first in Moslem gore, Ere his years could count a score. Of all he might have been the sire Who fell that day beneath his ire : For, sonless left long years ago, His wrath made many a childless foe ; And since the day, when in the strait His only boy had met his fate, His parent's iron hand did doom More than a human hecatomb. If shades by carnage be appeased, Patroclus' spirit less was pleased Than his, Minotti's son, who died Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. Buried he lay, where thousands before For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore; 15G BYRON What of them is left, to tell Where they lie, and how they fell ? Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves; But they live in the verse that immortally saves. THE MAGAZINE Darkly, sternly, and all alone, Minotti stood o' er the altar-stone : Madonna's face upon him shone, Painted in heavenly hues above, With eyes of light and looks of love ; And placed upon that holy shrine To fix our thoughts on things divine, When pictured there, we kneeling see Her, and the boy-God on her knee, Smiling sweetly on each prayer To heaven, as if to w r aft it there. Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, Though slaughter streams along her aisles : Minotti lifted his aged eye, And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; And still he stood, while with steel and flame Inward and onward the Mussulman came. The vaults beneath the mosaic stone Contained the dead of ages gone ; Their names were on the graven floor, But now illegible with gore ; The carved crests, and curious hues The varied marble's veins diffuse, BYRON 157 Were smeared, and slippery, stained, and strown With broken swords and helms o'erthrown : There were dead above, and the dead below Lay cold in many a coffined row ; You might see them piled in sable state, By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; But War had entered their dark caves, And stored along the vaulted graves Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread In masses by the fleshless dead : Here, throughout the siege, had been The Christians' chiefest magazine ; To these a late formed train now led, Minotti's last and stern resource Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. The foe came on, and few remain To strive, and those must strive in vain : For lack of further lives, to slake The thirst of vengeance now awake, With barbarous blows they gash the dead, And lop the already lifeless head, And fell the statues from their niche, And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, And from each other's rude hands wrest The silver vessels saints had blessed. To the high altar on they go ; O, but it made a glorious show ! On its table still behold The cup of consecrated gold ; Massy and deep, a glittering prize, Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 158 BYRON That morn it held the holy wine, Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, Which his worshippers drank at the break of day, To shrive their souls ere they joined in the fray. Still a few drops within it lay ; And round the sacred table glow Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, From the purest metal cast ; A spoil the richest, and the last. So near they came, the nearest stretched To grasp the spoil he almost reached, When old Minotti's hand Touched with the torch the train 'Tis fired ! Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, The turbaned victors, the Christian band, All that of living or dead remain, Hurl'd on high with the shivered fane, In one wild roar expired ! The shattered town the walls thrown down The waves a moment backward bent The hills that shake, although unrent, As if an earthquake passed The thousand shapeless things all driven In cloud and flame athwart the heaven By that tremendous blast Proclaimed the desperate conflict o'er On that too long afflicted shore : Up to the sky like rockets go All that mingled there below : BYRON 159 Many a tall and goodly man, Scorched and shrivelled to a span, When he fell to earth again Like a cinder strewed the plain : Down the ashes shower like rain ; Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles With a thousand circling wrinkles ; Some fell on the shore, but far away Scattered o'er the isthmus lay; Christian or Moslem, which be they ? Let their mothers say and say ! When in cradled rest they lay, And each nursing mother smiled On the sweet sleep of her child, Little deemed she such a day Would rend those tender limbs away. Not the matrons that them bore Could discern their offspring more ; That one moment left no trace More of human form or face Save a scattered scalp or bone : And down came blazing rafters, strown Around, and many a falling stone, Deeply dinted in the clay, All blackened there and reeking lay. All the living things that heard That deadly earth-shock disappeared : The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, And howling left the unburied dead ; The camels from their keepers broke ; The distant steer forsook the yoke 160 BYRON The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; The bull-frog's note from out the marsh Deep-mouthed arose, and doubly harsh ; The wolves yelled on the caverned hill Where echo rolled in thunder still ; The jackals' troop in gathered cry Bayed from afar complainingly, With a mixed and mournful sound, Like crying babe, and beaten hound : With sudden wing and ruffled breast The eagle left his rocky nest, And mounted nearer to the sun, The clouds beneath him seemed so dun ; Their smoke assailed his startled beak, And made him higher soar and shriek Thus was Corinth lost and won ! LXXIV ALHAMA THE Moorish King rides up and down, Through Granada's royal town ; From Elvira's gates to those Of Bivarambla on he goes. Woe is me, Alhama ! Letters to the monarch tell How Alhama' s city fell : In the fire the scroll he threw, And the messenger he slew. Woe is me, Alhama ! BYRON 161 He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his course ; Through the street of Zacatin To the Alhambra spurring in. Woe is me, Alhama ! When the Alhambra walls he gained, On the moment he ordained That the trumpet straight should sound With the silver clarion round. Woe is me, Alhama ! And when the hollow drums of war Beat the loud alarm afar, That the Moors of town and plain Might answer to the martial strain Woe is me, Alhama ! Then the Moors, by this aware, That bloody Mars recalled them there One by one, and two by two, To a mighty squadron grew. Woe is me, Alhama ! Out then spake an aged Moor In these words the king before, ' Wherefore call on us, O King ? What may mean this gathering ? ' Woe is me, Alhama ' Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know Of a most disastrous blow ; 162 BYRON That the Christians, stern and bold, Have obtained Albania's hold/ Woe is me, Alhama ! Out then spake old Alfaqui, With his beard so white to see, ' Good King ! thou art j ustly served, Good King ! this thou hast deserved. Woe is me, Alhama ! By thee were slain, in evil hour, The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; And strangers were received by thee Of Cordova the Chivalry. Woe is me, Alhama ! And for this, O King ! is sent On thee a double chastisement : Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, One last wreck shall overwhelm. Woe is me, Alhama ! He who holds no laws in awe, He must perish by the law ; And Granada must be won, And thyself with her undone.' Woe is me, Alhama ! Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes, The monarch's wrath began to rise, Because he answered, and because He spake exceeding well of laws. Woe is me, Alhama ! BYRON 163 ' There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings : ' Thus, snorting with his choler, said The Moorish King, and doomed him dead. Woe is me, Alhama ! Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! Though thy beard so hoary be, The King hath sent to have thee seized, For Alhama's loss displeased. Woe is me, Alhama ! And to fix thy head upon High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; That this for thee should be the law, And others tremble when they saw. Woe is me, Alhama ! ' Cavalier, and man of worth ! Let these words of mine go forth ! Let the Moorish Monarch know, That to him I nothing owe. Woe is me, Alhama ! But on my soul Alhama weighs, And on my inmost spirit preys ; And if the King his land hath lost, Yet others may have lost the most. Woe is me, Alhama ! Sires have lost their children, wives Their lords, and valiant men their lives ! 164 BYRON One what best his love might claim Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. Woe is me, Alhama ! I lost a damsel in that hour, Of all the land the loveliest flower ; Doubloons a hundred I would pay, And think her ransom cheap that day.' Woe is me, Alhama ! And as these things the old Moor said, They severed from the trunk his head ; And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 'Twas carried, as the King decreed. Woe is me, Alhama ! And men and infants therein weep Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; Granada's ladies, all she rears Within her walls, burst into tears. Woe is me, Alhama ! And from the windows o'er the walls The sable web of mourning falls ; The King weeps as a woman o'er His loss, for it is much and sore. Woe is me, Alhama ! LXXV FRIENDSHIP MY boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea ; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here 's a double health to thee ! BYRON 165 Here 's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate ; And, whatever sky 's above me, Here 's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were 't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be, ' Peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! ' LXXVI THE RACE WITH DEATH O VENICE ! Venice ! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do ? anything but weep And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers as the slime, The dull green ooze of the receding deep, 1(3(5 BYRON Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam That drives the sailor shipless to his home, Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep, Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. O agony ! that centuries should reap No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years Of wealth and glory turned to dust and tears, And every monument the stranger meets, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; And even the Lion all subdued appears, And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum With dull and daily dissonance repeats The echo of thy tyrant's voice along The soft waves, once all musical to song, That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng Of gondolas and to the busy hum Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds Were but the overheating of the heart, And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. But these are better than the gloomy errors, The weeds of nations in their last decay, When Vice walks forth with her unsoftened terrors, And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; And Hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightening half an hour ere death, When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning BYRON 167 Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ; Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay, To him appears renewal of his breath, And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; And then he talks of life, and how again He feels his spirits soaring albeit weak, And of the fresher air, which he would seek : And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, That his thin finger feels not what it clasps ; And so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy Chamber swims round and round, and shadows busy. At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, And all is ice and blackness, and the earth That which it was the moment ere our birth. LXXVII THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece .' Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all except their sun is set. The Sciaii and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse : Their place of birth alone is mute 168 BYRON To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' ' Islands of the Blest.' The mountains look on Marathon And Marathon looks on the sea ; And, musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free For, standing on the Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; And ships by thousands lay below, And men in nations ; all were his ! He counted them at break of day, And when the sun set, where were they ? And where are they ? and where art thou, My country ? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more ! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine ? 'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; For what is left the poet here ? For Greeks a blush, for Greece a tear ! Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? Must we but blush ? Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ! BYRON \GO Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae ! What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah ! no : the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, ' Let one living head, But one arise, we come, we come ! ' 'Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain in vain : strike other chords ; Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, How answers each bold Bacchanal ! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet ; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gave ; Think ye he meant them for a slave ? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! We will not think of themes like these ! It made Anacreon's song divine : He served but served Poly crates : A tyrant ; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades ! Oil ! that the present hour would lend 170 BYRON Another despot of the kind ! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samiaii wine ! On Suli's rock and Parga's shore Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore ; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks They have a king who buys and sells ; In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells : But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! Our virgins dance beneath the shade I see their glorious black eyes shine ; But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves. Place me on Simium's marbled steep, Where nothing save the waves and I May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; There, swan-like, let me sing and die : A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! BYRON 171 LXXVIII HAIL AND FAREWELL 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move : Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love ! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone ! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here, Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see ! The Spartan borne upon his shield Was not more free. 172 WOLFE Awake ! (not Greece she is awake ! ) Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home ! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood ! unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live ? The land of honourable death Is here : up to the field, and give Away thy breath ' Seek out less often sought than found A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. Byron. LXXIX THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 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 lantern dimly burning. WOLFE 173 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, How 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 '11 reck, if they let him sleep 011 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 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. 174 MARRYAT LXXX THE OLD NAVY THE captain stood on the carronade : ' First lieu- tenant/ 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 I 'm 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, 'Tis 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 '11 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 ! ' We fought for twenty minutes, when the French- man had enough ; ( I little thought/ said he, ' that your men were of such stuff' ; HEMANS 173 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 thankful 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 '11 fight 'gainst every odds and I '11 gain the victory ! ' Marry at. LXXXI CASABIANCA THE boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled ; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. 176 HEMANS Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm : A creature of heroic blood, A proud though child-like form. The flames rolled on he would not go Without his father's word ; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud : e Say, father ! say If yet my task is done ! ' He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. ' Speak, father ! ' once again he criecL f If I may yet be gone ! ' And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair ; He looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair, And shouted but once more aloud, ' My father ! must I stay ? ' While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child Like banners in the sky. HEMANS 177 There came a burst of thunder-sound The boy O ! where was he ? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea : With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part ! But the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart. LXXXII THE PILGRIM FATHERS THE breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed ; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame ; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear ; M 178 HEMANS They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free ! The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam ; And the rocking pines of the forest roared This was their welcome home ! There were men with hoary hail- Amidst that pilgrim band ; Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land ? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar ? Bright jewels of the mine ? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod. They have left unstained what there they found Freedom to worship God. KEATS : MACAULAY 179 LXXXIII TO THE ADVENTUROUS MUCH have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne : Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien. Keats. LXXXIV HORATIUS THE TRYSTING LARS PORSENA of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth East and west and south and north To summon his array. 180 MACAULAY East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome. The horsemen and the footmen Are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain ; From many a lonely hamlet Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest hangs 011 the crest Of purple Apennine ; From lordly Volaterrae, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants For godlike kings of old ; From sea-girt Populonia Whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky ; From the proud mart of Pisae, Queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes Heavy with fair-haired slaves ; MACAULAY 181 From where sweet Clanis wanders Through corn and vines and flowers ; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers. Tall are the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark Auser's rill ; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Of the Ciminian hill ; Beyond all streams Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear ; Best of all pools the fowler loves The great Volsinian mere. But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser's rill ; No hunter tracks the stag's green path Up the Ciminian hill ; Unwatched along Clitumnus Grazes the milk-white steer ; Unharmed the water-fowl may dip In the Volsinian mere. The harvests of Arretium This year old men shall reap ; This year young boys in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep ; And in the vats of Luna This year the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls Whose sires have marched to Rome. 182 MACAULAY There be thirty chosen prophets, The wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena Both morn and evening stand : Evening and morn the Thirty Have turned the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white By mighty seers of yore. And with one voice the Thirty Have their glad answer given : ' Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena ; Go forth, beloved of Heaven ; Go, and return in glory To Clusium's royal dome, And hang round Nurscia's altars The golden shields of Rome.' And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men ; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trystiiig day ! For all the Etruscan armies Were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banished Roman, And many a stout ally ; MACAULAY 183 And with a mighty following To join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name. THE TROUBLE IN ROME But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright : From all the spacious champaign To Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city The throng stopped up the ways ; A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and days. For aged folk on crutches, And women great with child, And mothers sobbing over babes That clung to them and smiled, And sick men borne in litters High on the necks of slaves, And troops of sun-burned husbandmen With reaping-hooks and staves, And droves of mules and asses Laden with skins of wine, And endless flocks of goats and sheep, And endless herds of kine, And endless trains of waggons That creaked beneath the weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods, Choked every roaring gate. 184 MACAULAY Now from the rock Tarpeian Could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages Red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City, They sat all night and day, For eveiy hour some horseman came With tidings of dismay. To eastward and to westward Have spread the Tuscan bands ; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia Hath wasted all the plain ; Astur hath stormed Jaiiiculum, And the stout guards are slain. I wis, in all the Senate There was no heart so bold But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Consul, Up rose the Fathers all ; In haste they girded up their gowns, And hied them to the wall. They held a council standing Before the River-Gate ; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. MACAULAY 185 Out spake the Consul roundly : ' The bridge must straight go down ; For, since Janiculum is lost, Nought else can save the town/ Just then a scout came flying, All wild with haste and fear : ' To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul : Lars Porsena is here.' On the low hills to westward The Consul fixed his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky. And nearer fast and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come ; And louder still and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, The trampling, and the hum. And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, The long array of spears. And plainly and more plainly Above that glimmering line Now might ye see the banners Of twelve fair cities shine ; 186 MACAULAY But the banner of proud Clusium Was highest of them all, The terror of the Umbrian, The terror of the Gaul. And plainly and more plainly Now might the burghers know, By port and vest, by horse and crest, Each warlike Lucumo. There Cilnius of Arretium On his fleet roan was seen ; And Astur of the fourfold shield, Girt with the brand none else may wield, Tolumnius with the belt of gold, And dark Verbenna from the hold By reedy Thrasymene. Fast by the royal standard O'erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium Sate in his ivoiy car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name ; And by the left false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame. But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament From all the town arose. MACAULAY 187 On the house-tops was no woman But spat towards him, and hissed ; No child but screamed out curses, And shook its little fist. But the Consul's brow was sad, And the Consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe. ' Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down ; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town ? Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the gate : 1 To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late ; And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his Gods, And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her- breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame ? 188 MACAULAY Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may ; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me ? ' Then out spake Spurius Lartius, A Ramnian proud was he : ' Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.' And out spake strong Herminius, Of Titian blood was he : c I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee/ ' Horatius/ quoth the Consul, ' As thou sayest, so let it be.' And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. Then none was for a party ; Then all were for the state ; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great : MACAULAY Then lands were fairly portioned ; Then spoils were fairly sold : The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe, And the Tribunes beard the high, And the Fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold : Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. THE KEEPING OF THE BRIDGE Now while the Three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an axe : And Fathers mixed with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, 190 MACAULAY As that great host, with measured tread,, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless Three. The Three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose : And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array ; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way ; Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines ; And Seius, w r hose eight hundred slaves Sicken ill Ilva's mines ; And Picus, long to Clusium Vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that grey crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers O'er the pale w r aves of Nar. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath : Herminius struck at Seius, And clove him to the teeth : MACAULAY 191 At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust, And the proud Umbriaii's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust. Then Ocnus of Falerii Rushed on the Roman Three ; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea ; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Along Albinia's shore. Herminius smote down Aruns : Lartius laid Ocnus low : Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. ' Lie there/ he cried, ' fell pirate ! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark The track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice-accursed sail/ But now no sound of laughter Was heard amongst the foes. A wild and wrathful clamour From all the vanguard rose. 192 MACAULAY Six spears' lengths from the entrance Halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow \vay. But hark ! the cry is Astur : And lo ! the ranks divide ; And the great Lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the fourfold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield. He smiled on those bold Romans A smile serene and high ; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, ' The she-wolfs litter Stand savagely at bay : But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way ? ' Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh ; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh : The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow. MACAULAY 193 He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space ; Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, So fierce a thrust he sped The good sword stood a handbreadth out Behind the Tuscan's head. And the great Lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder-smitten oak : Far o'er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread ; And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, Ere he wrenched out the steel. ' And see,' he cried, ' the welcome, Fair guests, that waits you here ! What noble Lucumo comes next To taste our Roman cheer ? ' But at his haughty challenge A sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath and shame and dread, Along that glittering van. N 194 MACAULAY There lacked not men of prowess, Nor men of lordly race ; For all Etruria's noblest Were round the fatal place. But all Etruria's noblest Felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, In the path the dauntless Three : And, from the ghastly entrance Where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, Ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost To lead such dire attack ; But those behind cried ' Forward ! ' And those before cried ' Back ! ' And backward now and forward Wavers the deep array ; And on the tossing sea of steel, To and fro the standards reel ; And the victorious trumpet-peal Dies fitfully away. Yet one man or one moment Strode out before the crowd ; Well known was he to all the Three, And they gave him greeting loud. MACAULAY 195 ' Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! Now welcome to thy home ! Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? Here lies the road to Rome/ Thrice looked he at the city ; Thrice looked he at the dead ; And thrice came on in fury, And thrice turned back in dread : And, white with fear and hatred, Scowled at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay. But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied ; And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. ' Come back, come back, Horatius ! ' Loud cried the Fathers all. ' Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! Back, ere the ruin fall ! ' Back darted Spurius Lartius ; Herminius darted back : And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But, when they turned their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more. 196 MACAULAY But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream : And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops Was splashed the yellow foam. And, like a horse unbroken When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, And tossed his tawny mane ; And burst the curb, and bounded, Rejoicing to be free ; And whirling down, in fierce career, Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rushed headlong to the sea. FATHER TIBER Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind ;* Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. ' Down with him ! ' cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. ' Now yield thee/ cried Lars Porsena, 'Now yield thee to our grace.' Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see ; MACAULAY 197 Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he ; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home ; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome.