CAMPERDOWN.
(October 11, 1797.)
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
We were lying calm and peaceful as an infant lies asleep,
Rocked in the mighty cradle of the ever-restless deep,
Or like a lion resting ere he rises to the fray,
With eyes half closed in slumber and half open for the prey.
We had waited long, and restless was the spirit of the fleet,
For the long-expected conquest and the long-delayed defeat,
When, uprose the mists of morning, as a curtain rolls away,
For the high heroic action of some old chivalric play.
And athwart the sea to starboard waved the colours high and free
Of the famous fighting squadron that usurped the loyal sea.
Quick the signal came for action, quick replied we with a cheer,
For the friends at home behind us, and the foes before so near;
Three times three the cheering sounded, and 'mid deafening hurrahs
We sprang into position—five hundred lusty tars.
And the cannons joined our shouting with a burly, booming cheer
That aroused the hero's action, and awoke the coward's fear;
And the lightning and the thunder gleamed and pealed athwart the
scene,
Till the noontide mist was greater than the morning mist had been,
And the foeman and the stranger and the brother and the friend
Were mingled in one seething mass the battle's end to end.
With broken spars and splintered bulks the decks were strewn anon,
While the rigging, torn and tangled, hung the shattered yards upon;
Like a cataract of fire outpoured the steady cannonade,
Till the strongest almost wavered and the bravest were dismayed.
Like an endless swarm of locusts sprang they up our vessel's side,
And scaled her burning bulwarks or fell backward in the tide,
'Twas a fearful day of carnage, such as none had known before,
In the fiercest naval battles of those gallant days of yore.
We had battled all the morning, 'mid the never-ceasing hail
Of grape and spark and splinter, of cable shred, and sail;
We had thrice received their onslaught, which we thrice had driven
back,
And were waiting, calm and ready, for the last forlorn attack;
When a shout of exultation from out their ranks arose,
A frenzied shout of triumph o'er their yet unconquered foes;
For the stainless flag of England, that has braved a thousand years,
Had been shot clean from the masthead; and they gave three hearty
cheers,
"A prize! a prize!" they shouted, from end to end the host,
Till a broadside gave them answer, and for ever stilled their boast.
Then a fearful struggle followed, as, to desperation spurred,
They sought in deed the triumph so falsely claimed in word.
'Twas the purpose of a moment, and the bravest of our tars
Plunged headlong in the boiling surf, amid the broken spars;
He snatched the shot-torn colours, and wound them round his arm,
Then climbed upon the deck again, and there stood safe and calm;
He paused but for a moment—it was no time to stay—
Then he leaped into the rigging that had yet survived the fray;
Higher yet he climbed and higher, till he gained a dizzy height,
Then turned and paused a moment to look down upon the fight.
Whistled wild the shots around him, as a curling, smoky wreath
Formed a cloudy shroud to hide him from the enemy beneath.
Beat his heart with proud elation as he firmly fixed his stand,
And again the colours floated as he held them in his hand.
Then a pistol deftly wielded, 'mid the battle's ceaseless blast,
Fastened there the colours firmly, as he nailed them to that mast;
Then as if to yield him glory—the smoke-clouds cleared away—
And we sent him up the loudest cheer that reach'd his ear that day,
With new-born zeal and courage, dashing fiercely to the fight,
To crown the day of battle with the triumph of the night.
'Tis a story oft repeated, 'tis a triumph often won,
How a thousand hearts are strengthened by the bravery of one
There was never dauntless courage of the loyal and the true
That did not inspirit others unto deeds of daring too;
There was never bright example, be the struggle what it might,
That did not inflame the ardour of the others in the fight.
Up, then, ye who would be heroes, and, before the strife is past,
For the sake of those about you, "nail the colours to the mast!"
For the flag is ever flying, and it floats above the free,
On island and on continent, and up and down the sea;
And the conflict ever rages—there are many foes to fight—
There are many ills to conquer, there are many wrongs to right,
For the glory of the moment, for the triumph by-and-bye;
For the love of truth and duty, up and dare, and do or die,
And though fire and shot and whirlwind join to tear the standard
down,
Up and nail it to the masthead, as we did at Camperdown.