“The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,”
while quite in harmony with the poet’s ordinary achievements, would have been simply impossible in those first three verses of “Ye Mariners,” where he remains true to his one artistic impulse. He strikes a different and a finer note when, in “The Battle of the Baltic,” he turns gravely away from feasting and jollity to remember the brave men who have died for England’s glory:—
“Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!”
To go back to Mr. Rudyard Kipling, however, from whom I have wandered far, he is more in love with the “dear delights” of battle than with its dismal carnage, and he wins an easy forgiveness for a few horrors by showing us much brave and hearty fighting. Who can forget the little Gurkhas drawing a deep breath of contentment when at last they see the foe, and gaping expectantly at their officers, “as terriers grin ere the stone is cast for them to fetch?” Who can forget the joyous abandon with which Mulvaney the disreputable and his “four an’ twenty young wans” fling themselves upon Lungtungpen? It is a good and wholesome thing for a man to be in sympathy with that primitive virtue, courage, to recognize it promptly, and to do honor to it under any flag. “Homer’s heart is with the brave of either side,” observes Mr. Lang; “with Glaucus and Sarpedon of Lycia no less than with Achilles and Patroclus.” Scott’s heart is with Surrey and Dacre no less than with Lennox and Argyle; with the English hosts charging like whirlwinds to the fray no less than with the Scottish soldiers standing ringed and dauntless around their king. Théodore de Banville, hot with shame over fallen France, cheeks his bitterness to write some tender verses to the memory of a Prussian boy found dead on the field, with a bullet-pierced volume of Pindar on his breast. Dumas, that lover of all brave deeds, cries out with noble enthusiasm that it was not enough to kill the Highlanders at Waterloo,—“we had to push them down!” and the reverse of the medal has been shown us by Mr. Lang in the letter of an English officer, who writes home that he would have given the rest of his life to have served with the French cavalry on that awful day. Sir Francis Doyle delights, like an honest and stout-hearted Briton, to pay an equal tribute of praise, in rather questionable verse, to the private of the Buffs,
“Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered and alone,”