THE RESCUE
Then speedilie to wark we gaed, And raised the slogan ane 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: ‘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'll 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 airns 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, 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 ful-fill, And it made them cry, ‘To sea, to sea, With the Angel Gabriel!’
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; 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 causèd them in fear to cry, With voices loud and shrill, ‘Help, help, or sunken we shall be By the Angel Gabriel!’
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 we cleared with speed 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, ‘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. Then they fled into Calès, 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 sair When my love dropt down, and spak' nae mair? There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirkconnell lea.
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 hackèd him in pieces sma', I hackèd him in pieces sma' For her sake that died for me.
O Helen fair beyond compare! I'll 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!’
O 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.
I 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.
[XXXII]
THE TWA CORBIES
As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane: The tane unto the tither say, ‘Where sall we gang and dine the day?’
‘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'll sit on his white hause-bane, And I'll 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 sall ken where he is gane: O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
[XXXIII]
THE BARD
‘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 quivering 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; 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 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 Whirlwind'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. 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!
‘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 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 plunged 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.
His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel 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.
Cowper.
[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:
‘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 Cæsar 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.
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'll mount my steed; And strong his arm, and fast his seat That bears frae me the meed. I'll 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'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me.
If gay attire delight thine eye I'll dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thine ear These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, 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'll 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!
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—
Dibdin.
[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; 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, 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; Her men are staunch To their fav'rite launch, And when the foe shall meet our fire, Sooner than strike, we'll 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.
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?
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 symmetry?
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!
Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword! And there's no a man in all Scotland, But I'll 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 avengèd 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 dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring and danced it round, Below the gallows tree.
Burns.
[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'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the gowans 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'll 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.
Burns.
[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. 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 maun leave my bonnie Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are rankèd 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.
Burns.
[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; 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.
Burns.
[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.
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.
Burns.
[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, 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.
Wordsworth.
[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.
Wordsworth.
[XLIX]
THE MOTHERLAND
When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 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 unfilial 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!
Wordsworth.
[L]
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; Oh! 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.
[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.
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; 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 fair 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! 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!
Wordsworth.
[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; 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!
Wordsworth.
[LIII]
IN MEMORIAMNELSON: 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, 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 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 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.
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?’
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 war, 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.’
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 Lochinvar.’
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 croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! ‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: 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?
Scott.