Not a minute more to wait. “Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief. “Captains, give the sailor place!” He is admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God’s grace. See the noble fellow’s face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock. Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last; And just as Hervé Riel halloos, “Anchor!”—sure as fate, Up the English come, too late.
So the storm subsides to calm; They see the green trees wave On the heights o’erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. “Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! ’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!” How hope succeeds despair on each captain’s countenance! Out burst all with one accord, “This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France’s king, Thank the man that did the thing!” What a shout, and all one word, “Hervé Riel!” As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before.
Then said Damfreville, “My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard: Praise is deeper than the lips. You have saved the king his ships, You must name your own reward. Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate’er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart’s content, and have, or my name’s not Damfreville.” Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: “Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty’s done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run? Since ’tis ask and have I may, Since the others go ashore,— Come, a good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!” That he asked, and that he got,—nothing more.
Name and deed alike are lost; Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack In memory of the man but for whom had gone to rack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris; rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank, You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!