Part 7

Peace, peace, peace, with the vain and silly song, That we do no sin ourselves, if we wink at others’ wrong; That to turn the second cheek is _the_ lesson of the Cross, To be proved by calculation of the profit and the loss: Go home, you idle teachers! you miserable creatures! The cannons are God’s preachers, when the time is ripe for war.

Peace is no peace, if it lets the ill grow stronger, Merely cheating destiny a very little longer; War, with its agonies, its horrors, and its crimes; Is cheaper if discounted and taken up betimes: When the weeds of wrath are rank, you must plough the poisoned bank, Sow and reap the crop of Peace with the implements of war.

God, defend the right, and those that dare to claim it! God, cleanse the earth from the many wrongs that shame it! Give peace in our time, but not the peace of trembling, Won by true strength, not cowardly dissembling; Let us see in pride returning, as we send them forth in yearning, Our Grenadier Guards from earning the trophies of the war.

_Sir Franklin Lushington._

PALGRAVE

LXXXI

ALFRED THE GREAT

The Isle of Roses in her Lindian shrine, Athena’s dwelling, gleam’d with golden song Of Pindar, set in gold the walls along, Blazoning the praise of Héraclés divine. --O Poets, who for us have wrought the mine Of old Romance, illusive pearl and gold, Its star-fair maids, knights of heroic mould, Ye lend the rays that on their features shine,

Ideal strength and beauty:--But O thou Fair Truth!--to thee with deeper faith we bow; Knowing thy genuine heroes bring with them Their more than poetry. From these we learn What men can be. By their own light they burn As in far heavens the Pleiad diadem.

The fair-hair’d boy is at his mother’s knee, A many-colour’d page before them spread, Gay summer harvest-field of gold and red, With lines and staves of ancient minstrelsy. But through her eyes alone the child can see, From her sweet lips partake the words of song, And looks as one who feels a hidden wrong, Or gazes on some feat of gramarye.

‘When thou canst use it, thine the book!’ she cried: He blush’d, and clasp’d it to his breast with pride:-- ‘Unkingly task!’ his comrades cry; in vain; All work ennobles nobleness, all art, He sees; head governs hand; and in his heart All knowledge for his province he has ta’en.

Few the bright days, and brief the fruitful rest, As summer-clouds that o’er the valley flit:-- To other tasks his genius he must fit; The Dane is in the land, uneasy guest!--O sacred Athelney, from pagan quest Secure, sole haven for the faithful boy Waiting God’s issue with heroic joy And unrelaxing purpose in the breast!

The Dragon and the Raven, inch by inch, For England fight; nor Dane nor Saxon flinch; Then Alfred strikes his blow; the realm is free:-- He, changing at the font his foe to friend, Yields for the time, to gain the far-off end, By moderation doubling victory.

O much-vex’d life, for us too short, too dear! The laggard body lame behind the soul; Pain, that ne’er marr’d the mind’s serene control; Breathing on earth heaven’s æther atmosphere, God with thee, and the love that casts out fear! O soul in life’s salt ocean guarding sure The freshness of youth’s fountain sweet and pure, And to all natural impulse crystal-clear:--

To service or command, to low and high Equal at once in magnanimity, The Great by right divine thou only art! Fair star, that crowns the front of England’s morn, Royal with Nature’s royalty inborn, And English to the very heart of heart!

_Francis Turner Palgrave._

LXXXII

TRAFALGAR

_Heard ye the thunder of battle Low in the South and afar? Saw ye the flash of the death-cloud Crimson o’er Trafalgar? Such another day never England will look on again, When the battle fought was the hottest, And the hero of heroes was slain!_

For the fleet of France and the force of Spain were gather’d for fight, A greater than Philip their lord, a new Armada in might:-- And the sails were aloft once more in the deep Gaditanian bay, Where _Redoubtable_ and _Bucentaure_ and great _Trinidada_ lay;

Eager-reluctant to close; for across the bloodshed to be Two navies beheld one prize in its glory,--the throne of the sea! Which were bravest, who should tell? for both were gallant and true; But the greatest seaman was ours, of all that sail’d o’er the blue.

From Cadiz the enemy sallied: they knew not Nelson was there; His name a navy to us, but to them a flag of despair; ’Twixt Algeziras and Aquamonte he guarded the coast, Till he bore from Tavira south; and they now must fight or be lost;-- Vainly they steered for the Rock and the mid-land sheltering sea, For he headed the Admirals round, constraining them under his lee, Villeneuve of France, and Gravina of Spain; so they shifted their ground, They could choose,--they were more than we;--and they faced at Trafalgar round; Rampart-like ranged in line, a sea-fortress angrily towered! In the midst, four-storied with guns, the dark _Trinidada_ lower’d.

So with those--But, meanwhile, as against some dyke that men massively rear, From on high the torrent surges, to drive through the dyke as a spear, Eagle-eyed e’en in his blindness, our chief sets his double array, Making the fleet two spears, to thrust at the foe any way, ... ‘Anyhow!--without orders, each captain his Frenchman may grapple perforce; Collingwood first’ (yet the _Victory_ ne’er a whit slacken’d her course) ‘Signal for action! Farewell! we shall win, but we meet not again!’ --Then a low thunder of readiness ran from the decks o’er the main, And on,--as the message from masthead to masthead flew out like a flame, ENGLAND EXPECTS EVERY MAN WILL DO HIS DUTY,--they came.

--Silent they come:--While the thirty black forts of the foeman’s array Clothe them in billowy snow, tier speaking o’er tier as they lay; Flashes that thrust and drew in, as swords when the battle is rife;-- But ours stood frowningly smiling, and ready for death as for life. --O in that interval grim, ere the furies of slaughter embrace, Thrills o’er each man some far echo of England; some glance of some face! --Faces gazing seaward through tears from the ocean-girt shore; Faces that ne’er can be gazed on again till the death pang is o’er.... Lone in his cabin the Admiral kneeling, and all his great heart As a child’s to the mother, goes forth to the loved one, who bade him depart ... O not for death, but glory! her smile would welcome him home! --Louder and thicker the thunderbolts fall:--and silent they come.

As when beyond Dongola the lion, whom hunters attack, Plagued by their darts from afar, leaps in, dividing them back; So between Spaniard and Frenchman the _Victory_ wedged with a shout, Gun against gun; a cloud from her decks and lightning went out; Iron hailing of pitiless death from the sulphury smoke; Voices hoarse and parch’d, and blood from invisible stroke. Each man stood to his work, though his mates fell smitten around, As an oak of the wood, while his fellow, flame-shatter’d, besplinters the ground:-- Gluttons of danger for England, but sparing the foe as he lay; For the spirit of Nelson was on them, and each was Nelson that day.

‘She has struck!’--he shouted--‘She burns, the _Redoubtable_! Save whom we can; ‘Silence our guns:’--for in him the woman was great in the man, In that heroic heart each drop girl-gentle and pure, Dying by those he spared;--and now Death’s triumph was sure! From the deck the smoke-wreath clear’d, and the foe set his rifle in rest, Dastardly aiming, where Nelson stood forth, with the stars on his breast,-- ‘In honour I gained them, in honour I die with them!’ ... Then, in his place, Fell ... ‘Hardy! ’tis over; but let them not know:’ and he cover’d his face. Silent the whole fleet’s darling they bore to the twilight below: And above the war-thunder came shouting, as foe struck his flag after foe.

To his heart death rose: and for Hardy, the faithful, he cried in his pain,-- ‘How goes the day with us, Hardy?’... ‘’Tis ours’:-- Then he knew, not in vain Not in vain for his comrades and England he bled: how he left her secure, Queen of her own blue seas, while his name and example endure. O, like a lover he loved her! for her as water he pours Life-blood and life and love, lavish’d all for her sake, and for ours! --‘Kiss me, Hardy!--Thank God!--I have done my duty!’--and then Fled that heroic soul, and left not his like among men.

_Hear ye the heart of a Nation Groan, for her saviour is gone; Gallant and true and tender, Child and chieftain in one? Such another day never England will weep for again, When the triumph darkened the triumph, And the hero of heroes was slain._

_Francis Turner Palgrave._

DOBELL

LXXXIII

A SEA ADVENTURE

‘How many?’ said our good captain, ‘Twenty sail and more!’ We were homeward bound, Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the Nore;-- Right athwart our tack, The foe came thick and black, Like hell-birds and foul weather--you might count them by the score!

The _Betsy Jane_ did slack To see the game in view; They knew the Union Jack, And the tyrant’s flag we knew. Our captain shouted, ‘Clear the decks!’ and the bo’sun’s whistle blew.

Then our gallant captain, With his hand he seized the wheel, And pointed with his stump to the middle of the foe,-- ‘Hurrah, lads, in we go!’ (You should hear the British cheer, Fore and aft!)

‘There are twenty sail,’ sang he, ‘But little _Betsy Jane_ bobs to nothing on the sea!’ (You should hear the British cheer, Fore and aft!)

‘See yon ugly craft With the pennon at her main! Hurrah, my merry boys, There goes the _Betsy Jane_!’ (You should hear the British cheer, Fore and aft!)

The foe, he beats to quarters, and the Russian bugles sound; And the little _Betsy Jane_ she leaps upon the sea. ‘Port and starboard!’ cried our captain; ‘Pay it in, my hearts!’ sang he.

‘We’re old England’s sons, And we’ll fight for her to-day!’ (You should hear the British cheer, Fore and aft!) ‘Fire away!’

In she runs, And her guns Thunder round.

_Sydney Dobell._

ALEXANDER

LXXXIV

WAR

They say that ‘war is hell,’ the ‘great accursed,’ The sin impossible to be forgiven; Yet I can look beyond it at its worst, And still find blue in Heaven.

And as I note how nobly natures form Under the war’s red rain, I deem it true That He who made the earthquake and the storm Perchance makes battles too!

The life He loves is not the life of span Abbreviated by each passing breath, It is the true humanity of man Victorious over death,

The long expectance of the upward gaze, Sense ineradicable of things afar, Fair hope of finding after many days The bright and morning star.

Methinks I see how spirits may be tried, Transfigured into beauty on war’s verge, Like flowers, whose tremulous grace is learnt beside The trampling of the surge.

And now, not only Englishmen at need Have won a fiery and unequal fray,-- No infantry has ever done such deed Since Albuera’s day!

Those who live on amid our homes to dwell Have grasped the higher lessons that endure,-- The gallant Private learns to practise well His heroism obscure.

His heart beats high as one for whom is made A mighty music solemnly, what time The oratorio of the cannonade Rolls through the hills sublime.

Yet his the dangerous posts that few can mark, The crimson death, the dread unerring aim, The fatal ball that whizzes through the dark, The just-recorded name--

The faithful following of the flag all day, he duty done that brings no nation’s thanks, The _Ama Nesciri_[1] of some grim and grey À Kempis of the ranks.

These are the things our commonweal to guard, The patient strength that is too proud to press, The duty done for duty, not reward, The lofty littleness.

And they of greater state who never turned, Taking their path of duty higher and higher, What do we deem that they, too, may have learned In that baptismal fire?

Not that the only end beneath the sun Is to make every sea a trading lake, And all our splendid English history one Voluminous mistake.

They who marched up the bluffs last stormy week-- Some of them, ere they reached the mountain’s crown, The wind of battle breathing on their cheek Suddenly laid them down.

Like sleepers--not like those whose race is run-- Fast, fast asleep amid the cannon’s roar, Them no reveillé and no morning gun Shall ever waken more.

And the boy-beauty passed from off the face Of those who lived, and into it instead Came proud forgetfulness of ball and race, Sweet commune with the dead.

And thoughts beyond their thoughts the Spirit lent, And manly tears made mist upon their eyes, And to them came a great presentiment Of high self-sacrifice.

Thus, as the heaven’s many-coloured flames At sunset are but dust in rich disguise, The ascending earthquake dust of battle frames God’s pictures in the skies.

_William Alexander._

[1] The heading of a remarkable chapter in the _De Imitatione Christi_.

PROCTER

LXXXV

THE LESSON OF THE WAR

The feast is spread through England For rich and poor to-day; Greetings and laughter may be there, But thoughts are far away; Over the stormy ocean, Over the dreary track, Where some are gone, whom England Will never welcome back.

Breathless she waits, and listens For every eastern breeze That bears upon its bloody wings News from beyond the seas. The leafless branches stirring Make many a watcher start; The distant tramp of steeds may send A throb from heart to heart.

The rulers of the nation, The poor ones at their gate, With the same eager wonder The same great news await. The poor man’s stay and comfort, The rich man’s joy and pride, Upon the bleak Crimean shore Are fighting side by side.

The bullet comes--and either A desolate hearth may see; And God alone to-night knows where The vacant place may be! The dread that stirs the peasant Thrills nobles’ hearts with fear-- Yet above selfish sorrow Both hold their country dear.

The rich man who reposes In his ancestral shade, The peasant at his ploughshare, The worker at his trade, Each one his all has perilled, Each has the same great stake, Each soul can but have patience, Each heart can only break!

Hushed is all party clamour; One thought in every heart, One dread in every household, Has bid such strife depart. England has called her children; Long silent--the word came That lit the smouldering ashes Through all the land to flame.

O you who toil and suffer, You gladly heard the call; But those you sometimes envy Have they not given their all? O you who rule the nation, Take now the toil-worn hand-- Brothers you are in sorrow, In duty to your land. Learn but this noble lesson Ere Peace returns again, And the life-blood of Old England Will not be shed in vain.

_Adelaide Anne Procter._

MASSEY

LXXXVI

SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE’S LAST FIGHT

Our second Richard Lion-Heart In days of great Queen Bess, He did this deed, he played this part, With true old nobleness, And wrath heroic that was nursed To bear the fiercest battle-burst, When maddened foes should wreak their worst.

Signalled the English Admiral, ‘Weigh or cut anchors.’ For A Spanish fleet bore down, in all The majesty of war, Athwart our tack for many a mile, As there we lay off Florez Isle, With crews half sick, all tired of toil.

Eleven of our twelve ships escaped; Sir Richard stood alone! Though they were three-and-fifty sail-- A hundred men to one-- The old Sea-Rover would not run, So long as he had man or gun; But he could die when all was done.

‘The Devil’s broken loose, my lads, In shape of popish Spain: And we must sink him in the sea, Or hound him home again. Now, you old sea-dogs, show your paws! Have at them tooth and nail and claws!’ And then his long, bright blade he draws.

The deck was cleared, the boatswain blew; The grim sea-lions stand; The death-fires lit in every eye, The burning match in hand. With mail of glorious intent All hearts were clad; and in they went, A force that cut through where ’twas sent.

‘Push home, my hardy pikemen, For we play a desperate part; To-day, my gunners, let them feel The pulse of England’s heart! They shall remember long that we Once lived; and think how shamefully We shook them--One to fifty-three!’

With face of one who cheerily goes To meet his doom that day, Sir Richard sprang upon his foes; The foremost gave him way; His round shot smashed them through and through, At every flash white splinters flew, And madder grew his fighting few.

They clasp the little ship _Revenge_, As in the arms of fire; They run aboard her, six at once; Hearts beat, hot guns leap higher;-- Through bloody gaps the boarders swarm, But still our English stay the storm, The bulwark in their breast is firm.

Ship after ship, like broken waves That wash upon a rock, Those mighty galleons fall back foiled, And shattered from the shock. With fire she answers all their blows; Again--again in pieces strows The girdle round her as they close.

Through all that night the great white storm Of worlds in silence rolled; Sirius with green-azure sparkle, Mars in ruddy gold. Heaven looked with stillness terrible Down on a fight most fierce and fell-- A sea transfigured into hell!

Some know not they are wounded till ’Tis slippery where they stand; Then each one tighter grips his steel, As ’twere salvation’s hand. Grim faces glow through lurid night With sweat of spirit shining bright: Only the dead on deck turn white.

At day-break the flame picture fades In blackness and in blood; There, after fifteen hours of fight, The unconquered Sea-King stood Defying all the power of Spain: Fifteen armadas hurled in vain, And fifteen hundred foemen slain!

About that little bark _Revenge_, The baffled Spaniards ride At distance. Two of their good ships Were sunken at her side; The rest lie round her in a ring, As, round the dying forest-king The dogs afraid of his death-spring.

Our pikes all broken, powder spent, Sails, masts to shivers blown; And with her dead and wounded crew The ship was settling down. Sir Richard’s wounds were hot and deep, Then cried he, with a proud, pale lip, ‘Ho, Master Gunner, sink the ship!’

‘Make ready now, my mariners, To go aloft with me, That nothing to the Spaniard May remain of victory. They cannot take us, nor we yield; So let us leave our battle-field, Under the shelter of God’s shield.’

They had not heart to dare fulfil The stern commander’s word: With swelling hearts and welling eyes, They carried him aboard The Spaniards’ ship; and round him stand The warriors of his wasted band: Then said he, feeling death at hand,

‘Here die I, Richard Grenville, With a joyful and quiet mind; I reach a soldier’s end, I leave A soldier’s fame behind. Who for his Queen and country fought, For Honour and Religion wrought, And died as a true soldier ought.’

Earth never returned a worthier trust For hand of Heaven to take, Since Arthur’s sword, Excalibur, Was cast into the lake, And the King’s grievous wounds were dressed, And healed, by weeping Queens, who blessed, And bore him to a valley of rest.

Old heroes who could grandly do, As they could greatly dare, A vesture very glorious Their shining spirits wear Of noble deeds! God give us grace, That we may see such face to face, In our great day that comes apace!

_Gerald Massey._

BROWN

LXXXVII

LAND, HO!

I know ’tis but a loom of land, Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice, I know I cannot hear His voice Upon the shore, nor see Him stand; Yet is it land, ho! land.

The land! the land! the lovely land! ‘Far off’ dost say? _Far off_--ah, blessed home! Farewell! farewell! thou salt sea-foam! Ah, keel upon the silver sand-- Land, ho! land.

You cannot see the land, my land, You cannot see, and yet the land is there-- My land, my land, through murky air-- I did not say ’twas close at hand-- But--land, ho! land.

Dost hear the bells of my sweet land, Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds? No voice, ’tis true, no spoken words, No tongue that thou may’st understand-- Yet is it land, ho! land.

It’s clad in purple mist, my land, In regal robe it is apparelléd, A crown is set upon its head, And on its breast a golden band-- Land, ho! land.

Dost wonder that I long for land? My land is not a land as others are-- Upon its crest there beams a star, And lilies grow upon the strand-- Land, ho! land.

Give me the helm! there is the land! Ha! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze! And what my spirit sees it sees-- Leap, bark, as leaps the thunderbrand-- Land, ho! land.

_Thomas Edward Brown._

TREVALDWYN

LXXXVIII

THE _GEORGE_ OF LOOE

O, ’twas merry down to Looe when the news was carried through That the _George_ would put to sea all with the morning tide; And all her jolly crew hurrah’d till they were blue When the captain said, ‘My lads, we’ll tan the Frenchman’s hide!’

For Captain Davy Dann was a famous fightin’ man, Who lov’d the smell o’ powder and the thunder o’ the guns, And off the coast of France often made the Frenchmen dance To the music from his sloop of only ninety tons.

So at the break o’ day there were hundreds on the quay To see the gallant ship a-warping out to sea; And the Mayor, Daniel Chubb, was hoisted on a tub, And he cried, ‘Good luck to Dann, with a three times three!’

For the news that came from Fowey was that ev’ry man and boy And all the gallants there were expecting of a ship. And the lively lads o’ Looe, they thought they’d watch her too, Lest the Frenchman showed his heels and gave ’em all the slip.

So along by Talland Bay the good ship sailed away, And the boats were out at Polperro to see what they could see; And old Dann, he cried, ‘Ahoy! you’d better come to Fowey, And help to blow the Mounseers to the bottom of the sea!’

Now, ’twas almost set o’ sun, and the day was almost done, When we sighted of a frigate beating up against the wind; And we put on all our sail till we came within her hail, And old Dann politely asked, ‘Will you follow us behind?’

But the Frenchmen fore and aft only stood and grinned and laughed, And never guessed the captain was in earnest, don’t you see? For we’d only half her guns, and were only ninety tons, And they thought they’d blow us easy to the bottom o’ the sea.

But our brave old Captain Dann--oh, he was a proper man!-- Sang out with voice like thunder unto ev’ry man aboard: ‘Now all you men of Looe just show what you can do, And we’ll board her, and we’ll take her, by the help o’ the Lord!’