Part 5

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 Scian 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. 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 dream’d that Greece might still be free, For standing on the Persians’ 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! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!

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!

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 Sunium’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._

LI

THE EVE OF WATERLOO

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry--and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No--’twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street; On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-- But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer--clearer--deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the cannon’s opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick’s fated Chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro-- And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness-- And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste--the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war,-- And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips--‘The foe! They come! they come!’

And wild and high the ‘Camerons’ Gathering’ rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-- How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan’s--Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass-- Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;-- Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day Battle’s magnificently-stern array! The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend--foe,--in one red burial blent!

_Lord Byron._

WOLFE

LII

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 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 of the 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’ll reck, if they let him sleep on 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.

_Charles Wolfe._

HEMANS

LIII

THE BENDED BOW

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, There was sent through Britain a bended bow; And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far, As the land rose up at the sign of war.

‘Heard you not the battle horn?-- Reaper! leave thy golden corn! Leave it for the birds of heaven, Swords must flash, and spears be riven! Leave it for the winds to shed-- Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red!’

And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

‘Hunter! leave the mountain-chase! Take the falchion from its place! Let the wolf go free to-day, Leave him for a nobler prey! Let the deer ungall’d sweep by,-- Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh!’

And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

‘Chieftain! quit the joyous feast! Stay not till the song hath ceased: Though the mead be foaming bright, Though the fires give ruddy light, Leave the hearth, and leave the hall-- Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.’

And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

‘Prince! thy father’s deeds are told, In the bower, and in the hold! Where the goatherd’s lay is sung, Where the minstrel’s harp is strung, Foes are on thy native sea-- Give our bards a tale of thee!’

And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son; And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

‘Mother! stay not thou thy boy! He must learn the battle’s joy, Sister bring the sword and spear, Give thy brother words of cheer! Maiden! bid thy lover part, Britain calls the strong in heart!’

And the bended bow and the voice passed on; And the bards made song for a battle won.

_Felicia Hemans._

LIV

ENGLAND’S DEAD

Son of the Ocean Isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is reared o’er Glory’s bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, not wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead.

On Egypt’s burning plains, By the pyramid o’erswayed, With fearful power the noonday reigns, And the palm trees yield no shade;

But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!-- There slumber England’s dead.

The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far by Ganges’ banks at night Is heard the tiger’s roar;--

But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone,-- There slumber England’s dead.

Loud rush the torrent floods The western wilds among, And free in green Columbia’s woods The hunter’s bow is strung;--

But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow’s flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?-- There slumber England’s dead.

The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky Like rose-leaves on the breeze;--

But let the storm rage on! Let the fresh wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,-- There slumber England’s dead.

On the frozen deep’s repose ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern night-clouds lour;--

But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done,-- Even there sleep England’s dead.

The war-like of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England’s dead.

_Felicia Hemans._

MACAULAY

LV

THE ARMADA

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England’s praise; I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; Her crew hath seen Castile’s black fleet, beyond Aurigny’s isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God’s especial grace; And the tall _Pinta_, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe’s lofty hall; Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast, And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; Behind him march the halberdiers; before him sound the drums; His yeomen round the market cross make clear an ample space; For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia’s plume, and Genoa’s bow, and Cæsar’s eagle shield. So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades: Thou sun, shine on her joyously: ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of our pride.

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner’s massy fold; The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold; Night sank upon the dusky beach and on the purple sea, Such night in England ne’er had been, nor e’er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread, High on St. Michael’s Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar’s glittering waves: The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip’s sunless caves! O’er Longleat’s towers, o’er Cranbourne’s oaks, the fiery herald flew: He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down; The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night; And saw o’erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red light: Then bugle’s note and cannon’s roar the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear; And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer; And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street; And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in. And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent. Southward from Surrey’s pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hampstead’s swarthy moor they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still: All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill: Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o’er Darwin’s rocky dales, Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales, Till twelve fair Counties saw the blaze on Malvern’s lonely height, Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin’s crest of light, Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely’s stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o’er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir’s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o’er the wide vale of Trent; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt’s embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

_Macaulay._

LVI

A JACOBITE’S EPITAPH

To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood’s prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting-place I asked--an early grave. O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I speak like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O’er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

_Lord Macaulay._

TRENCH

LVII

THE TASK

Yes, let us own it in confession free, That when we girt ourselves to quell the wrong, We deemed it not so giant-like and strong, But it with our slight effort thought to see Pushed from its base; yea, almost deemed that we, Champions of right, might be excused the price Of pain, and loss, and large self-sacrifice, Set ever on high things by Heav’n’s decree. What if this work’s great hardness was concealed From us, until so far upon our way That no escape remained us, no retreat,-- Lest, being at an earlier hour revealed, We might have shrunk too weakly from the heat, And shunned the burden of this fiery day?

_Richard Chenevix Trench._

LVIII

THE UNFORGOTTEN

Whom for thy race of heroes wilt thou own, And, England, who shall be thy joy, thy pride? As thou art just, oh then not those alone Who nobly conquering lived, or conquering died.

Then also in thy roll of heroes write, For well they earned what best thou canst bestow, Who being girt and armèd for the fight, Yielded their arms, but to no mortal foe.

Far off they pined on fever-stricken coast, Or sank in sudden arms of painful death; And faces which their eyes desired the most, They saw not, as they drew their parting breath.

Sad doom, to know a mighty work in hand, Which shall from all the ages honour win; Upon the threshold of this work to stand, Arrested there, while others enter in.

And this was theirs; they saw their fellows bound To fields of fame which they might never share; And all the while within their own hearts found A strength that was not less, to do and dare:

But knew that never, never with their peers, They should salute some grand day’s glorious close, The shout of triumph ringing in their ears, The light of battle shining on their brows.

Sad doom;--yet say not Heaven to them assigned A lot from all of glory quite estranged: Albeit the laurel which they hoped to bind About their brows for cypress wreath was changed.

Heaven gave to them a glory stern, austere, A glory of all earthly glory shorn; With firm heart to accept fate’s gift severe, Bravely to bear the thing that must be borne;

To see such visions fade and turn to nought, And in this saddest issue to consent; If only the great work were duly wrought, That others should accomplish it, content.

Then as thou wouldst thyself continue great, Keep a true eye for what is great indeed; Nor know it only in its lofty state And victor’s robes, but in its lowliest weed.

And now, and when this dreadful work is done, England, be these too thy delight and pride; Wear them as near thy heart as any one Of all who conquering lived, or conquering died.

_Richard Chenevix Trench._

BROWNING

LIX

THE FORCED RECRUIT

(_Solferino, 1859_)

In the ranks of the Austrian you found him, He died with his face to you all; Yet bury him here where around him You honour your bravest that fall.

Venetian, fair-featured and slender, He lies shot to death in his youth, With a smile on his lips over-tender For any mere soldier’s dead mouth.

No stranger, and yet not a traitor, Though alien the cloth on his breast, Underneath it how seldom a greater Young heart has a shot sent to rest!

By your enemy tortured and goaded To march with them, stand in their file, His musket (see) never was loaded, He facing your guns with that smile!

As orphans yearn on to their mothers, He yearned to your patriot bands;-- Let me die for our Italy, brothers, If not in your ranks, by your hands!

‘Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me A ball in the body which may Deliver my heart here, and tear me This badge of the Austrian away!’

So thought he, so died he this morning. What then? Many others have died. Ay, but easy for men to die scorning The death-stroke, who fought side by side--

One tricolor floating above them; Struck down ’mid triumphant acclaims Of an Italy rescued to love them And blazen the brass with their names.

But he,--without witness or honour, Mixed, shamed in his country’s regard, With the tyrants who march in upon her, Died faithful and passive: ’twas hard.

’Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction Cut off from the guerdon of sons, With most filial obedience, conviction, His soul kissed the lips of her guns.

That moves you? Nay, grudge not to show it, While digging a grave for him here: The others who died, says your poet, Have glory,--let _him_ have a tear.

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._

TENNYSON

LX

THE ANSWER

You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas.

It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will;

A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent:

Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to fulness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread.

Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute;

Tho’ Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great-- Tho’ every channel of the State Should fill and choke with golden sand--

Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South.

_Tennyson._

LXI

FREEDOM

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather’d in her prophet mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down thro’ town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal’d The fullness of her face--

Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And, King-like, wears the crown:

Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes!

_Tennyson._

LXII

BATTLE SONG