Part 4

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? --It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright: --Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all: Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need: --He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe’er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love:-- ’Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity,-- Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not-- Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name-- Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is He That every Man in arms should wish to be.

_William Wordsworth._

XXXVIII

AFTER WATERLOO

Who to the murmurs of an earthly string Of Britain’s acts would sing, He with enraptured voice will tell Of One whose spirit no reverse could quell: Of One that, ’mid the failing, never failed-- Who paints how Britain struggled and prevailed Shall represent her labouring with an eye Of circumspect humanity; Shall show her clothed with strength and skill, All martial duties to fulfill; Firm as a rock in stationary fight; In motion rapid as the lightning’s gleam; Fierce as a flood-gate bursting in the night To rouse the wicked from their giddy dream-- Woe, woe to all that face her in the field! Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield.

_William Wordsworth._

XXXIX

MERRY ENGLAND

They called Thee MERRY ENGLAND in old time, A happy people won for thee that name With envy heard in many a distant clime, And, spite of change, for me thou keep’st the same Endearing title, a responsive chime To the heart’s fond belief: though some there are Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare For inattentive Fancy, like the lime Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask, This face of rural beauty be a mask For discontent, and poverty, and crime; These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will? Forbid it, Heaven!--and MERRY ENGLAND still Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme!

_William Wordsworth._

XL

HOPE

Despond who will--_I_ heard a voice exclaim, ‘Though fierce the assault, and shattered the defence, It cannot be that Britain’s social frame, The glorious work of time and providence, Before a flying season’s rash pretence, Should fall; that She, whose virtue put to shame, When Europe prostrate lay, the Conqueror’s aim, Should perish, self-subverted. Black and dense The cloud is; but brings that a day of doom To Liberty? Her sun is up the while, That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred shone: Then laugh, ye innocent Vales! ye Streams, sweep on, Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest Isle Toss in the fanning wind a humbler plume.’

_William Wordsworth._

SCOTT

XLI

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 country’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.

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, from 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 freeman’s laws.

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, 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; 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 ever harsher thought suppressed, And sacred be the long last 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. 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?’

_Sir Walter Scott._

DIBDIN

XLII

THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND

Daddy Neptune one day to Freedom did say, ‘If ever I live upon dry land, The spot I should hit on would be little Britain!’ Says Freedom, ‘Why that’s my own island!’ O, it’s a snug little island! A right little, tight little island, Search the globe round, none can be found So happy as this little island.

Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man, Came by water,--he couldn’t come _by_ land; And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn’d their backs on, And all for the sake of our island. O, what a snug little island! They’d all have a touch at the island! Some were shot dead, some of them fled, And some staid to live on the island.

Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman, Cried ‘D--n it, I never liked my land; It would be much more handy to leave this Nor_man_dy, And live on yon beautiful island.’ Says he, ‘’Tis a snug little island: Sha’n’t us go visit the island?’ Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump, And he kick’d up a dust in the island.

But party-deceit help’d the Normans to beat; Of traitors they managed to buy land, By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne’er had been lick’d, Had they stuck to the King of their island. Poor Harold, the King of the island! He lost both his life and his island. That’s very true; what more could he do? Like a Briton he died for his island!

The Spanish Armada set out to invade-a, Quite sure, if they ever came nigh land, They couldn’t do less than tuck up Queen Bess, And take their full swing in the island. O, the poor Queen of the island! The Dons came to plunder the island; But, snug in the hive, the Queen was alive, And buz was the word in the island.

Those proud puff’d-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land, When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck And stoop to the lads of the island. Huzza for the lads of the island! The good wooden walls of the island; Devil or Don, let ’em come on; But how would they come _off_ at the island?

Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune, In each saying, ‘This shall be my land’; Should the ‘Army of England,’ or all they could bring, land, We’d show ’em some play for the island. We’ll fight for our right to the island; We’ll give them enough of the island; Invaders should just--bite at the dust, But not a bit more of the island!

_Thomas Dibdin._

XLIII

THE MERRY SOLDIER

‘Who’ll serve the King?’ cried the sergeant aloud: Roll went the drum, and the fife played sweetly; ‘Here, master sergeant,’ said I, from the crowd, ‘Is a lad who will answer your purpose completely.’ My father was a corporal, and well he knew his trade, Of women, wine, and gunpowder, he never was afraid: He’d march, fight--left, right, Front flank--centre rank, Storm the trenches--court the wenches, Loved the rattle of a battle, Died with glory--lives in story! And, like him, I found a soldier’s life, if taken smooth and rough, A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.

‘Hold up your head,’ said the sergeant at drill: Roll went the drum, and the fife played loudly; ‘Turn out your toes, sir!’ Says I, ‘Sir, I will,’ For a nimble-wristed round rattan the sergeant flourished proudly. My father died when corporal, but I ne’er turned my back, Till, promoted to the halberd, I was sergeant in a crack. In sword and sash cut a dash, Spurr’d and booted, next recruited Hob and Clod--awkward squad, Then began my rattan, When boys unwilling came to drilling; Till, made the colonel’s orderly, then who but I so bluff, Led a very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.

‘Homeward, my lads!’ cried the general.--‘Huzza!’ Roll went the drum, and the fife played cheer’ly, To quick time we footed, and sung all the way ‘Hey for the pretty girls we love so dearly!’ My father lived with jolly boys in bustle, jars, and strife, And, like him, being fond of noise, I mean to take a wife Soon as miss blushes ‘_y-i-s!_’ Rings, gloves, dears, loves, Bells ringing, comrades singing, Honeymoon finished soon, Scolding, sighing, children crying! Yet still a wedded life may prove, if taken smooth and rough, A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough.

_Thomas Dibdin._

SOUTHEY

XLIV

THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS

Steep is the soldier’s path; nor are the heights Of glory to be won without long toil And arduous efforts of enduring hope; Save when Death takes the aspirant by the hand, And cutting short the work of years, at once Lifts him to that conspicuous eminence. Such fate was mine.--The standard of the Buffs I bore at Albuera, on that day When, covered by a shower, and fatally For friends misdeem’d, the Polish lancers fell Upon our rear. Surrounding me, they claim’d My precious charge.--‘Not but with life!’ I cried, And life was given for immortality. The flag which to my heart I held, when wet With that heart’s blood, was soon victoriously Regain’d on that great day. In former times, Marlborough beheld it borne at Ramilies; For Brunswick and for liberty it waved Triumphant at Culloden; and hath seen The lilies on the Caribbean shores Abased before it. Then too in the front Of battle did it flap exultingly, When Douro, with its wide stream interposed, Saved not the French invaders from attack, Discomfiture, and ignominious rout. My name is Thomas: undisgraced have I Transmitted it. He who in days to come May bear the honour’d banner to the field, Will think of Albuera, and of me.

_Robert Southey._

CAMPBELL

XLV

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o’er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger’s troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

_Thomas Campbell._

XLVI

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day’s renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark’s crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time.

But the might of England 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 feebler 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 goom.

Now joy, Old England, raise For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities’ blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

_Thomas Campbell._

XLVII

MEN OF ENGLAND

Men of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood:--

By the foes you’ve fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds you’ve done, Trophies captured--breaches mounted, Navies conquered--kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery, Where no public virtues bloom? What avails in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

Pageants!--Let the world revere us For our people’s rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes Bared in Freedom’s holy cause.

Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory, Sidney’s matchless shade is yours,-- Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We’re the sons of sires that baffled Crown’d and mitred tyranny;-- They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights--so will we!

_Thomas Campbell._

CUNNINGHAM

XLVIII

THE BRITISH SAILOR’S SONG

Away with bayonet and with lance, With corselet, casque, and sword; Our island-king no war-horse needs, For on the sea he’s lord. His throne’s the war-ship’s lofty deck, His sceptre is the mast; His kingdom is the rolling wave, His servant is the blast. His anchor’s up, fair Freedom’s flag Proud to the mast he nails; Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads, For there your terror sails.

I saw fierce Prussia’s chargers stand, Her children’s sharp swords out;-- Proud Austria’s bright spurs streaming red When rose the closing shout; But soon the steeds rush’d masterless, By tower, and town, and wood; For lordly France her fiery youth Poured o’er them like a flood. Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels, And let your steeds run free; Then come to our unconquered decks, And learn to reign at sea.

Behold yon black and batter’d hulk That slumbers on the tide, There is no sound from stem to stern, For peace has pluck’d her pride; The masts are down, the cannon mute She shows nor sheet nor sail, Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze, Nor answers shout nor hail; Her merry men, with all their mirth, Have sought some other shore; And she with all her glory on, Shall rule the sea no more.

So landsmen speak. Lo! her top-masts Are quivering in the sky; Her sails are spread, her anchor’s raised, There sweeps she gallant by. A thousand warriors fill her decks; Within her painted side The thunder sleeps--man’s might has nought Can match or mar her pride. In victor glory goes she forth; Her stainless flag flies free; Kings of the earth, come and behold How Britain reigns on sea!

When on your necks the armèd foot Of fierce Napoleon trod, And all was his, save the wide sea, Where we triumphant rode, He launched his terror and his strength, Our sea-born pride to tame; They came--they got the Nelson-touch, And vanish’d as they came. Go, hang your bridles in your halls, And set your war-steeds free; The world has one unconquer’d king, And he reigns on the sea!

_Allan Cunningham._

BYRON

XLIX

ON LEAVING ENGLAND

Once more upon the waters! Yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead! Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam to sail Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.

I’ve taught me other tongues--and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with--aye, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be,-- Not without cause; and should I leave behind The inviolate Island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,

Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay My ashes in a soil which is not mine, My Spirit shall resume it--if we may Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine My hopes of being remembered in my line With my land’s language: if too fond and far These aspirations in their scope incline,-- If my Fame should be, as my fortunes are, Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar

My name from out the temple where the dead Are honoured by the Nations--let it be-- And light the Laurels on a loftier head! And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me-- ‘Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.’ Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need-- The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted,--they have torn me,--and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

_Byron._

L

THE ISLES OF GREECE