Part 15

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier! Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown In a pledge to Fair England, her Church, and her Crown. _Sir Walter Scott._

CCVII

_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; 5 By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat 10 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, 15 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; 20 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, 25 Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane 30 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, 35 Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o’er the wave: ‘Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save: 40 So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England’s feet, And make submission meet To our King.’ 45

Then Denmark blessed our chief That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day; 50 While the sun looked smiling bright O’er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise 55 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 60 Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride Once so faithful and so true, 65 On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou: Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid’s song condoles, 70 Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! _Thomas Campbell._

CCVIII

_HOHENLINDEN._

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight, 5 When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 10 And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven 15 Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 20

’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 25 Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part, where many meet; The snow shall be their winding-sheet; 30 And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre. _Thomas Campbell._

CCIX

_ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC._

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; 5 No guile seduced, no force could violate; And when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,-- 10 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 has passed away. _William Wordsworth._

CCX

_COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802._

Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West, Star of my country!--on the horizon’s brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England’s bosom; yet well pleased to rest, Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest, 5 Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink, Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot Beneath thee, that is England; there it lies. 10 Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, One life, one glory! I with many a fear For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, Among men who do not love her, linger here. _William Wordsworth._

CCXI

_NOVEMBER, 1806._

Another year!--another deadly blow! Another mighty empire overthrown! And we are left, or shall be left, alone; The last that dare to struggle with the foe. ’Tis well! from this day forward we shall know 5 That in ourselves our safety must be sought; That by our own right hands it must be wrought; That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low. O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer! We shall exult, if they who rule the land 10 Be men who hold its many blessings dear, Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band, Who are to judge of danger which they fear, And honour which they do not understand. _William Wordsworth._

CCXII

_THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE._

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse 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, 5 The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 10 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 stedfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15 And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, And we far away on the billow! 20

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, 25 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; 30 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory. _Charles Wolfe._

CCXIII

_ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE._

’Tis done--but yesterday a King! And armed with Kings to strive-- And now thou art a nameless thing: So abject--yet alive! Is this the man of thousand thrones, 5 Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive? Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fall’n so far.

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind 10 Who bowed so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught’st the rest to see. With might unquestioned,--power to save,-- Thine only gift hath been the grave, 15 To those that worshipped thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition’s less than littleness!

Thanks for that lesson--it will teach To after-warriors more 20 Than high Philosophy can preach, And vainly preached before. That spell upon the minds of men Breaks, never to unite again, That led them to adore 25 Those Pagod things of sabre sway, With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.

The triumph, and the vanity, The rapture of the strife-- The earthquake voice of Victory, 30 To thee the breath of life; The sword, the sceptre, and that sway Which man seemed made but to obey, Wherewith renown was rife-- All quelled!--Dark Spirit! what must be 35 The madness of thy memory!

The Desolator desolate! The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others’ fate A suppliant for his own! 40 Is it some yet imperial hope, That with such change can calmly cope? Or dread of death alone? To die a prince--or live a slave-- Thy choice is most ignobly brave! 45

He who of old would rend the oak, Dreamed not of the rebound: Chained by the trunk he vainly broke-- Alone--how looked he round? Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 50 An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found: He fell, the forest prowlers’ prey; But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Roman, when his burning heart 55 Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger--dared depart, In savage grandeur, home-- He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, 60 Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandoned power.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway Had lost its quickening spell, 65 Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well: 70 Yet better had he neither known A bigot’s shrine, nor despot’s throne.

But thou--from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung-- Too late thou leav’st the high command 75 To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart, To see thine own unstrung; To think that God’s fair world hath been 80 The footstool of a thing so mean!

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb, And thanked him for a throne! 85 Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear In humblest guise have shown. Oh! ne’er may tyrant leave behind A brighter name to lure mankind! 90

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Nor written thus in vain-- Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, Or deepen every stain: If thou hadst died as honour dies, 95 Some new Napoleon might arise, To shame the world again-- But who would soar the solar height, To set in such a starless night?

Weighed in the balance, hero dust 100 Is vile as vulgar clay: Thy scales, Mortality, are just To all that pass away: But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, 105 To dazzle and dismay: Nor deemed Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the conquerors of the earth.

And she, proud Austria’s mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride, 110 How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide? 115 If still she loves thee, hoard that gem; ’Tis worth thy vanished diadem!

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, And gaze upon the sea; That element may meet thy smile-- 120 It ne’er was ruled by thee! Or trace with thine all-idle hand, In loitering mood upon the sand, That Earth is now as free, That Corinth’s pedagogue hath now 125 Transferred his by-word to thy brow.

Thou Timour! in his captive’s cage-- What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prisoned rage? But one--‘The world _was_ mine!’ 130 Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone, Life will not long confine That spirit poured so widely forth-- So long obeyed--so little worth! 135

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven, His vulture and his rock! Foredoomed by God--by man accurst, 140 And that last act, though not thy worst, The very Fiend’s arch-mock; He in his fall preserved his pride, And, if a mortal, had as proudly died! _Lord Byron._

CCXIV

_SONG._

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND, 1814.

O dread was the time, and more dreadful the omen, When the brave on Marengo lay slaughtered in vain, And beholding broad Europe bowed down by her foemen, Pitt closed in his anguish the map of her reign! Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit 5 To take for his country the safety of shame; O then in her triumph remember his merit, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Round the husbandman’s head, while he traces the furrow, The mists of the winter may mingle with rain, 10 He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow, And sigh while he fears he has sowed it in vain; He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness, But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim; And their jubilee-shout shall be softened with sadness, 15 While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended, In foils for our Country preserved by his care, Though he died ere one ray o’er the nations ascended, To light the long darkness of doubt and despair; 20 The storms he endured in our Britain’s December, The perils his wisdom foresaw and o’ercame, For her glory’s rich harvest shall Britain remember And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget this gray head, who, all dark in affliction, 25 Is deaf to the tale of our victories won, And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection, The shout of his people applauding his son; By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster, By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! 30 With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of his Master, Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name.

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure, The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure, 35 The wisdom that planned, and the zeal that obeyed! Fill Wellington’s cup till it beam like his glory, Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and Græme, A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story, And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame. 40 _Sir Walter Scott._

CCXV

_TO THE MEMORY OF PIETRO D’ALESSANDRO_,

SECRETARY TO THE PROVINCIAL GOVERNMENT OF SICILY IN 1848, WHO DIED AN EXILE AT MALTA IN JANUARY 1855.

Beside the covered grave Linger the exiles, though their task is done. Yes, brethren; from your band one more is gone, A good man and a brave.

Scanty the rites, and train; 5 How many’ of all the storied marbles, set In all thy churches, City of La Valette, Hide nobler heart and brain?

Ah! had his soul been cold, Tempered to make a sycophant or spy, 10 To love hard truth less than an easy lie, His country less than gold,--

Then, not the spirit’s strife, Nor sickening pangs at sight of conquering crime, Nor anxious watching of an evil time, 15 Had worn his chords of life:

Nor here, nor thus with tears Untimely shed, but there whence o’er the sea The great Volcano looks, his rest might be, The close of prosperous years. 20

No! Different hearts are bribed; And therefore, in his cause’s sad eclipse, Here died he, with ‘Palermo’ on his lips, A poor man, and proscribed.

Wrecked all thy hopes, O friend,-- 25 Hopes for thyself, thine Italy, thine own,-- High gifts defeated of their due renown,-- Long toil--and this the end!

The end? not ours to scan: Yet grieve not, children, for your father’s worth; 30 Oh! never wish that in his native earth He lay, a baser man.

What to the dead avail The chance success, the blundering praise of fame? Oh! rather trust, somewhere the noble aim 35 Is crowned, though here it fail.

Kind, generous, true wert thou: This meed at least to goodness must belong, That such it was. Farewell; the world’s great wrong Is righted for thee now. 40

Rest in thy foreign grave, Sicilian! whom our English hearts have loved,-- Italian! such as Dante had approved,-- An exile--not a slave! _Henry Lushington._

CCXVI

_HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI._

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! 5 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it As with a wedge! But when I look again, 10 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 15 I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life’s own secret joy, 20 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing--there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! Awake my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 25 Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale! Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, 30 And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink: Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself Earth’s rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, oh wake, and utter praise! 35 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light; Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, 40 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shattered and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 45 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came,) Here let the billows stiffen and have rest? Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain’s brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain-- 50 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 55 Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?-- God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! 59 God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle’s nest! 65 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements, Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 71 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast-- Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou, That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 75 In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, To rise before me--rise, oh, ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth! 80 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 85 _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

CCXVII

_THE DANISH BOY._

Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowerets of the hills, And sacred to the sky. And in this smooth and open dell 5 There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a lonely hut; And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e’er destroy, 10 The shadow of a Danish boy.

In clouds above the lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; Within this lonesome nook the bird Did never build her nest. 15 No beast, no bird hath here his home; Bees, wafted on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers; to other dells Their burdens do they bear. 20 The Danish boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own.

A Spirit of noonday is he, Yet seems a form of flesh and blood; Nor piping shepherd shall he be, 25 Nor herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven’s wing; It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; But in the storm ’tis fresh and blue 30 As budding pines in Spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

A harp is from his shoulder slung; Resting the harp upon his knee, 35 To words of a forgotten tongue He suits its melody. Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills He is the darling and the joy; And often, when no cause appears, 40 The mountain ponies prick their ears, --They hear the Danish boy, While in the dell he sings alone Beside the tree and corner-stone.

There sits he: in his face you spy 45 No trace of a ferocious air; Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish boy is blest, And happy in his flowery cove: 50 From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war, That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead boy he is serene. 55 _William Wordsworth._

CCXVIII

_ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE._