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diff --git a/old/52133-0.txt b/old/52133-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 32618d6..0000000 --- a/old/52133-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15979 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Patriotic Song, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Patriotic Song - A book of English verse, being an anthology of the patriotic - poetry of the British Empire, from the defeat of the Spanish - Armada till the death of Queen Victoria - -Author: Various - -Release Date: May 22, 2016 [EBook #52133] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PATRIOTIC SONG *** - - - - -Produced by Brian Coe, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - -PATRIOTIC SONG - - - - - PATRIOTIC SONG - - A Book of English Verse - - BEING AN ANTHOLOGY OF THE PATRIOTIC POETRY OF THE - BRITISH EMPIRE, FROM THE DEFEAT OF THE SPANISH - ARMADA TILL THE DEATH OF QUEEN VICTORIA - - SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY - ARTHUR STANLEY - - WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY - THE RIGHT REVEREND J. E. C. WELLDON - Lord Bishop of Calcutta; late Head-Master of Harrow School - - TORONTO - WILLIAM BRIGGS - 1901 - - - - - THIS BOOK - IS - Sacred to the Memory - OF - THAT GLORIOUS COMPANY OF MEN - WOMEN AND CHILDREN - WHO HAVE GIVEN THEIR LIVES - FOR ENGLAND’S SAKE - - - - -EDITOR’S PREFACE - - -This book is intended to be a representative collection of the -patriotic poetry of the British Empire. I have taken a wide view of the -term “patriotic”--wide enough, indeed, to include the Jacobite Songs of -Scotland and the National Songs of Ireland. - -Many of my numbers breathe the spirit of war; for the national instinct -is most deeply stirred in times of great national emotion. But I have -aimed at making this volume something more than a book of war-songs, -holding that a man may prove his patriotism as well at home in the -pursuit of his daily business as on the battlefield in the presence of -his country’s enemies. Love of country is the root of the matter; and, -after all, it is harder to live for one’s country than to die for it. - -I gratefully acknowledge the debt I owe to authors and owners of -copyright poems. I am equally grateful to all who, whether at home or -in the Colonies, have given me encouragement, assistance, or advice. -My obligations to Professor Dowden, Mr. W. E. Henley, and Mr. A. T. -Quiller-Couch are very great. - -My scheme, as originally conceived, provided for the inclusion -of a section representing the patriotism of America; but, on -reconsideration, I have decided not to go beyond the limits of the -British Empire. - - A. S. - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -The present collection of patriotic songs will, I think, accord with -the imperial spirit of the day; for they are representative of the -whole British Empire. - -It is needless to dwell upon the inspiring energy of song. Since -the age of Tyrtæus it has everywhere been recognised as a powerful -incentive to valour. A nation can scarcely exist without a national -anthem. How characteristic are the anthems of the nations! It may -almost be said that the difference of the English and the French -nations is expressed by the contrast between _God Save the King_ and -the _Marseillaise_. What an influence songs have exercised upon the -life of nations! The debt of Scotland to Burns, the debt of Ireland to -Moore, is greater than words can tell. Fletcher of Saltoun was perhaps -not wrong in his estimate of the songs, as compared with the laws, of a -nation. - -I am not responsible for the present collection; perhaps, if I had made -it, I should have left out some few songs which find a place in it, and -should have inserted some few others which do not, but the purpose of -it I heartily approve. To consolidate the Empire, and to animate it as -a whole with noble ideas, is one of the greatest needs and duties of -the present day; and an empire, like an individual, lives not by bread -alone, but by its sentiments, its ambitions, its ideals. - - J. E. C. CALCUTTA. - - _October 1901._ - - - - -ERRATUM - - -Page xii, line 6, _for_ ‘an admiral’ _read_ ‘an individual.’ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - I.--ENGLAND - PAGE - ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1580). - I. SONG OF THE ENGLISH BOWMEN 3 - - GEORGE PEELE (1558?-1592?). - II. FAREWELL TO DRAKE AND NORRIS 4 - - MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631). - III. BALLAD OF AGINCOURT 5 - IV. THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE 8 - - WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616). - V. A PICTURE OF ENGLAND 11 - VI. ENGLAND INVINCIBLE 11 - VII. ENGLAND AT WAR 12 - VIII. WOLSEY TO CROMWELL 17 - - BALLADS. - IX. BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY (_c._ 1590) 18 - X. THE HONOUR OF BRISTOL (_c._ 1626) 21 - - JOHN MILTON (1608-1674). - XI. TO THE LORD GENERAL 24 - XII. DELIVERANCE 24 - - ANDREW MARVELL (1620-1678). - XIII. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL’S RETURN FROM IRELAND 25 - XIV. SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA 28 - - MARTIN PARKER (_ob._ 1656?). - XV. THE KING’S EXILE 30 - - ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1667). - XVI. HERE’S A HEALTH UNTO HIS MAJESTY 31 - - JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1701). - XVII. A SONG OF KING ARTHUR 31 - XVIII. LONDON IN 1666 32 - - JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748). - XIX. RULE BRITANNIA 33 - - JOHN DYER (_c._ 1708). - XX. DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN 34 - - ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1740). - XXI. GOD SAVE THE KING 34 - - DAVID GARRICK (1717-1779). - XXII. HEARTS OF OAK 35 - - WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759). - XXIII. THE SLEEP OF THE BRAVE 36 - - WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800). - XXIV. BOADICEA 36 - XXV. THE _ROYAL GEORGE_ 38 - - CHARLES DIBDIN (1745-1814). - XXVI. TOM BOWLING 39 - XXVII. THE TRUE ENGLISH SAILOR 40 - XXVIII. TOM TOUGH 41 - - ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1750). - XXIX. THE BRITISH GRENADIERS 42 - - ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1758). - XXX. THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME 43 - - PRINCE HOARE (1755-1834). - XXXI. THE _ARETHUSA_ 44 - - WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827). - XXXII. JERUSALEM IN ENGLAND 45 - - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850). - XXXIII. ON LANDING IN ENGLAND 46 - XXXIV. DESTINY 47 - XXXV. THE MOTHERLAND 47 - XXXVI. TO THE MEN OF KENT 48 - XXXVII. THE HAPPY WARRIOR 48 - XXXVIII. AFTER WATERLOO 50 - XXXIX. MERRY ENGLAND 50 - XL. HOPE 51 - - SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832). - XLI. IN MEMORIAM 51 - - THOMAS DIBDIN (1771-1841). - XLII. THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND 55 - XLIII. THE MERRY SOLDIER 57 - - ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843). - XLIV. THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS 58 - - THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844). - XLV. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 59 - XLVI. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 60 - XLVII. MEN OF ENGLAND 62 - - ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1785-1842). - XLVIII. THE BRITISH SAILOR’S SONG 63 - - GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824). - XLIX. ON LEAVING ENGLAND 64 - L. THE ISLES OF GREECE 65 - LI. THE EVE OF WATERLOO 67 - - CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823). - LII. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 69 - - FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1835). - LIII. THE BENDED BOW 71 - LIV. ENGLAND’S DEAD 72 - - THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY (1800-1859). - LV. THE ARMADA 74 - LVI. A JACOBITE’S EPITAPH 77 - - RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH (1807-1886). - LVII. THE TASK 78 - LVIII. THE UNFORGOTTEN 78 - - ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1809-1861). - LIX. THE FORCED RECRUIT 80 - - ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892). - LX. THE ANSWER 81 - LXI. FREEDOM 82 - LXII. BATTLE SONG 83 - LXIII. VICTORIA’S REIGN 83 - LXIV. HANDS ALL ROUND 84 - LXV. BRITONS, HOLD YOUR OWN! 85 - LXVI. WELLINGTON AT ST. PAUL’S 85 - LXVII. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 87 - LXVIII. THE USE OF WAR 89 - - SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE (1810-1888). - LXIX. THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS 90 - - ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889). - LXX. HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 91 - LXXI. HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 92 - - CHARLES MACKAY (1814-1889). - LXXII. A SONG OF ENGLAND 92 - - ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-1861). - LXXIII. GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND 93 - LXXIV. THE RALLY 94 - - CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875). - LXXV. ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND 94 - - SIR HENRY YULE (1820-1889). - LXXVI. THE _BIRKENHEAD_ 96 - - WILLIAM CORY (1823-1892). - LXXVII. SCHOOL FENCIBLES 97 - - WILLIAM WALSHAM HOW (1823-1897). - LXXVIII. A NATIONAL HYMN 99 - - JOHN KELLS INGRAM (_b._ 1823). - LXXIX. A NATION’S WEALTH 99 - - SIR FRANKLIN LUSHINGTON (_b._ 1823). - LXXX. THE MUSTER OF THE GUARDS 100 - - FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE (1824-1897). - LXXXI. ALFRED THE GREAT 103 - LXXXII. TRAFALGAR 104 - - SYDNEY DOBELL (1824-1874). - LXXXIII. A SEA ADVENTURE 108 - - WILLIAM ALEXANDER, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH (_b._ 1824). - LXXXIV. WAR 109 - - ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER (1825-1864). - LXXXV. THE LESSON OF THE WAR 112 - - GERALD MASSEY (_b._ 1828). - LXXXVI. SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE’S LAST FIGHT 113 - - THOMAS EDWARD BROWN (1830-1897). - LXXXVII. LAND, HO! 117 - - BENN WILKES JONES TREVALDWYN (_b._ 1830). - LXXXVIII. THE _GEORGE_ OF LOOE 118 - - SIR EDWIN ARNOLD (_b._ 1832). - LXXXIX. THE FIRST DISTRIBUTION OF THE VICTORIA CROSS 120 - - RICHARD GARNETT (_b._ 1835). - XC. ABROAD 121 - - WILLIAM SCHWENK GILBERT (_b._ 1836). - XCI. THE ENGLISH GIRL 122 - - THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON (_b._ 1836). - XCII. THE BREATH OF AVON 123 - XCIII. ENGLAND STANDS ALONE 124 - - ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (_b._ 1837). - XCIV. ENGLAND 125 - XCV. A JACOBITE’S EXILE 126 - XCVI. NEW YEAR’S DAY 129 - XCVII. TO WILLIAM MORRIS 129 - - THOMAS HARDY (_b._ 1840). - XCVIII. THE GOING OF THE BATTERY 131 - - AUSTIN DOBSON (_b._ 1840). - XCIX. BALLAD OF THE ARMADA 132 - C. RANK AND FILE 133 - - ROBERT BRIDGES (_b._ 1844). - CI. THE FAIR BRASS 133 - - JOHN HUNTLEY SKRINE (_b._ 1848). - CII. THE GENTLE 134 - CIII. THE MOTHER AND THE SONS 136 - - WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (_b._ 1849). - CIV. ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND 137 - - ERIC MACKAY (1851-1898). - CV. A SONG OF THE SEA 139 - - WILLIAM SHARP (_b._ 1856). - CVI. THE BALLAD OF THE RAM 141 - - SIR RENNELL RODD (_b._ 1858). - CVII. SPRING THOUGHTS 141 - - WILLIAM WATSON (_b._ 1858). - CVIII. ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES 143 - - ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE (_b._ 1859). - CIX. THE SONG OF THE BOW 143 - CX. A BALLAD OF THE RANKS 144 - - BARRY PAIN (_b._ 1860). - CXI. OUR DEAD 147 - - HENRY NEWBOLT (_b._ 1862). - CXII. ADMIRALS ALL 147 - CXIII. DRAKE’S DRUM 149 - CXIV. A TOAST 150 - - RUDYARD KIPLING (_b._ 1865). - CXV. THE FLAG OF ENGLAND 150 - CXVI. RECESSIONAL 154 - - LAUCHLAN MACLEAN WATT (_b._ 1867). - CXVII. THE GREY MOTHER 155 - - GEORGE FREDERIC STEWART BOWLES (_b._ 1877). - CXVIII. THE SONG OF THE SNOTTIES 157 - - - II.--WALES - - THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771). - CXIX. THE BARD 161 - - JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859). - CXX. BODRYDDAN 165 - - FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1835). - CXXI. THE HARP OF WALES 166 - CXXII. PRINCE MADOG’S FAREWELL 166 - - JOHN JONES (1810-1869). - CXXIII. THE MARCH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH 167 - - SIR LEWIS MORRIS (_b._ 1833). - CXXIV. LLEWELYN AP GRUFFYDD 168 - - RICHARD BELLIS JONES (1837-1900). - CXXV. RHUDDLAN MARSH 171 - - EDMUND OSBORNE JONES (_b._ 1858). - CXXVI. LIBERTY 172 - CXXVII. THE POETS OF WALES 173 - - - III.--SCOTLAND - - ALLAN RAMSAY (1686-1758). - CXXVIII. FAREWELL TO LOCHABER 177 - - JEAN ELLIOT (1727-1805). - CXXIX. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST 177 - - ANNE MACIVAR GRANT (1755-1838). - CXXX. THE HIGHLAND LADDIE 178 - - ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796). - CXXXI. MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS 180 - CXXXII. BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBUR 180 - CXXXIII. THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS 181 - CXXXIV. THEIR GROVES O’ SWEET MYRTLE 182 - - SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832). - CXXXV. THE OUTCAST 183 - CXXXVI. FLODDEN FIELD 183 - CXXXVII. GATHERING-SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK 185 - CXXXVIII. OVER THE BORDER 186 - CXXXIX. BONNIE DUNDEE 187 - CXL. WAR-SONG 189 - - JOHN LEYDEN (1775-1811). - CXLI. ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN 190 - - ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1785-1842). - CXLII. LOYALTY 193 - - ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1790). - CXLIII. THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN’ 193 - - ROBERT GILFILLAN (1798-1850). - CXLIV. MY AIN COUNTRIE 194 - - ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850-1894). - CXLV. IN THE HIGHLANDS 195 - CXLVI. EXILED 196 - - NEIL MUNRO (_b._ 1864). - CXLVII. TO EXILES 196 - - - JACOBITE SONGS - - ANONYMOUS. - CXLVIII. THE KING OVER THE WATER 198 - CXLIX. WELCOME, ROYAL CHARLIE! 199 - CL. CAM’ YE BY ATHOL? 199 - CLI. LADY KEITH’S LAMENT 200 - - ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796). - CLII. O’ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE 201 - CLIII. A SONG OF EXILE 202 - CLIV. KENMURE’S MARCH 202 - CLV. A JACOBITE’S FAREWELL 203 - - CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRN (1766-1845). - CLVI. CHARLIE IS MY DARLING 204 - CLVII. WHA’LL BE KING BUT CHARLIE? 205 - - WILLIAM GLEN (1789-1826). - CLVIII. WAE’S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE 205 - - HAROLD BOULTON (_b._ 1859). - CLIX. SKYE BOAT-SONG 207 - - SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON. - CLX. A KISS OF THE KING’S HAND 207 - - - IV.--IRELAND - - OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1725-1774). - CLXI. HOME 211 - - ANONYMOUS (_c._ 1798). - CLXII. THE WEARIN’ O’ THE GREEN 211 - - THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852). - CLXIII. THE MINSTREL BOY 212 - CLXIV. A SONG OF THE IRISH 213 - CLXV. DEPARTED GLORY 213 - CLXVI. THE CHOICE 214 - CLXVII. A SONG OF TRUE LOVE 215 - CLXVIII. TO ERIN 215 - CLXIX. THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP 216 - - CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH TONNA (1790-1846). - CLXX. THE MAIDEN CITY 216 - - JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN (1803-1849). - CLXXI. KINCORA 218 - CLXXII. DARK ROSALEEN 219 - - HELEN, LADY DUFFERIN (1807-1867). - CLXXIII. THE BAY OF DUBLIN 222 - CLXXIV. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT 222 - - SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON (1810-1886). - CLXXV. O’BYRNE’S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW 224 - CLXXVI. THE HILLS OF IRELAND 225 - - THOMAS DAVIS (1814-1845). - CLXXVII. MY LAND 226 - CLXXVIII. THE DEAD CHIEF 227 - - AUBREY DE VERE (_b._ 1814). - CLXXIX. THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE 229 - - JOHN KELLS INGRAM (_b._ 1823). - CLXXX. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD 229 - CLXXXI. NATIONAL PRESAGE 231 - - GEORGE SIGERSON (_b._ 1839). - CLXXXII. THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS 231 - CLXXXIII. LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUA O’NEILL 232 - - GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG (_b._ 1845). - CLXXXIV. THE OLD COUNTRY 233 - - ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES (_b._ 1846). - CLXXXV. THE SONGS OF ERIN 234 - - JOHN KEEGAN CASEY (1846-1870). - CLXXXVI. THE RISING OF THE MOON 235 - - THOMAS WILLIAM ROLLESTON (_b._ 1857). - CLXXXVII. THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS 236 - - KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON (_b._ 1861). - CLXXXVIII. SHAMROCK SONG 237 - - LIONEL JOHNSON (_b._ 1867). - CLXXXIX. WAYS OF WAR 239 - - - V.--CANADA - - WILLIAM WYE SMITH (_b._ 1827). - CXC. THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE 243 - - DUNCAN ANDERSON (_b._ 1828). - CXCI. THE DEATH OF WOLFE 244 - - SARAH ANNE CURZON (1833-1898). - CXCII. THE LOYALISTS 246 - - THEODORE HARDING RAND (1835-1900). - CXCIII. THE WHITETHROAT 247 - - ANNIE ROTHWELL CHRISTIE (_b._ 1837). - CXCIV. WELCOME HOME 248 - - CLIVE PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY (_b._ 1855). - CXCV. THEIR TESTAMENT 249 - - CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS (_b._ 1860). - CXCVI. CANADA 250 - - WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL (_b._ 1861). - CXCVII. ENGLAND 252 - CXCVIII. THE WORLD-MOTHER 254 - - FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT (_b._ 1861). - CXCIX. QUEBEC 258 - CC. IN MEMORIAM 258 - - FRANCIS SHERMAN (_b._ 1871). - CCI. A WORD FROM CANADA 260 - - ARTHUR STRINGER (_b._ 1874). - CCII. CANADA TO ENGLAND 262 - - STUART LIVINGSTON (_b._ 1876). - CCIII. THE CANADIAN VOLUNTEERS 262 - - - VI.--INDIA - - SHOSHEE CHUNDER DUTT (1824-1883). - CCIV. THE HINDU’S ADDRESS TO THE GANGES 267 - - SIR ALFRED LYALL (_b._ 1835). - CCV. THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS 268 - - WILLIAM TREGO WEBB (_b._ 1847). - CCVI. THE RESIDENCY CHURCHYARD 272 - CCVII. THE MEMORIAL WELL 273 - CCVIII. SPRING IN CALCUTTA 274 - - JOHN RENTON DENNING (_b._ 1858). - CCIX. THE LUCKNOW GARRISON 275 - CCX. SOLDIERS OF IND 276 - CCXI. SARANSAR 278 - - RUDYARD KIPLING (_b._ 1865). - CCXII. THE GALLEY-SLAVE 280 - - - VII.--SOUTH AFRICA - - THOMAS PRINGLE (1789-1834). - CCXIII. THE DESOLATE VALLEY 285 - - WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE (_b._ 1842). - CCXIV. ENGLAND IN SOUTH AFRICA 286 - - WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (_b._ 1849). - CCXV. FOR A GRAVE IN SOUTH AFRICA 286 - - ARTHUR VINE HALL (_b._ 1862). - CCXVI. ON LEAVING TABLE BAY 286 - - HILDA MARY AGNES COOK (_b._ 1865). - CCXVII. THE RELIEF OF MAFEKING 287 - - ROBERT RUSSELL (_b._ 1867). - CCXVIII. THE VANGUARD 288 - - - VIII.--AUSTRALIA - - GERALD HENRY SUPPLE (1822-1898). - CCXIX. DAMPIER’S DREAM 293 - - ADAM LINDSAY GORDON (1833-1870). - CCXX. BY FLOOD AND FIELD 295 - - JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS (_b._ 1835). - CCXXI. FULFILMENT 297 - - PERCY RUSSELL (_b._ 1847). - CCXXII. THE BIRTH OF AUSTRALIA 299 - - HENRY LAWSON (_b._ 1867). - CCXXIII. THE WAR OF THE FUTURE 300 - - ARTHUR MAQUARIE (_b._ 1876). - CCXXIV. A FAMILY MATTER 302 - - ARTHUR ADAMS. - CCXXV. THE DWELLINGS OF OUR DEAD 303 - - WILLIAM OGILVIE. - CCXXVI. THE BUSH, MY LOVER 305 - - GEORGE ESSEX EVANS. - CCXXVII. A FEDERAL SONG 307 - - JOHN BERNARD O’HARA. - CCXXVIII. FLINDERS 308 - CCXXIX. THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH 309 - - - IX.--NEW ZEALAND - - THOMAS BRACKEN (_b._ 1843). - CCXXX. NEW ZEALAND HYMN 315 - - ALEXANDER BATHGATE (_b._ 1845). - CCXXXI. OUR HERITAGE 316 - - ELEANOR ELIZABETH MONTGOMERY. - CCXXXII. TO ONE IN ENGLAND 317 - CCXXXIII. A VOICE FROM NEW ZEALAND 318 - - - NOTES 323 - - INDEX OF FIRST LINES 357 - - - - -I - -ENGLAND - - - - -ANONYMOUS - - -I - -SONG OF THE ENGLISH BOWMEN - - Agincourt, Agincourt! - Know ye not Agincourt, - Where English slew and hurt - All their French foemen? - With their pikes and bills brown, - How the French were beat down, - Shot by our Bowmen! - - Agincourt, Agincourt! - Know ye not Agincourt, - Never to be forgot, - Or known to no men? - Where English cloth-yard arrows - Killed the French like tame sparrows, - Slain by our Bowmen! - - Agincourt, Agincourt! - Know ye not Agincourt? - English of every sort, - High men and low men, - Fought that day wondrous well, - All our old stories tell, - Thanks to our Bowmen! - - Agincourt, Agincourt! - Know ye not Agincourt? - Where our fifth Harry taught - Frenchmen to know men: - And, when the day was done, - Thousands there fell to one - Good English Bowman! - - Agincourt, Agincourt! - Know ye not Agincourt? - Dear was the vict’ry bought - By fifty yeomen. - Ask any English wench, - They were worth all the French: - Rare English Bowmen! - - _Anonymous._ - - - - -PEELE - - -II - -FAREWELL TO DRAKE AND NORRIS - - Have done with care, my hearts! aboard amain, - With stretching sails to plough the swelling waves: - Now vail your bonnets to your friends at home: - Bid all the lovely British dames adieu! - To arms, my fellow-soldiers! Sea and land - Lie open to the voyage you intend. - To arms, to arms, to honourable arms! - Hoist sails; weigh anchors up; plough up the seas - With flying keels; plough up the land with swords! - You follow them whose swords successful are: - You follow Drake, by sea the scourge of Spain, - The dreadful dragon, terror to your foes, - Victorious in his return from Inde, - In all his high attempts unvanquishèd; - You follow noble Norris whose renown, - Won in the fertile fields of Belgia, - Spreads by the gates of Europe to the courts - Of Christian kings and heathen potentates. - You fight for Christ and England’s peerless Queen, - Elizabeth, the wonder of the world, - Over whose throne the enemies of God - Have thunder’d erst their vain successless braves, - O ten-times-treble happy men, that fight - Under the cross of Christ and England’s Queen, - And follow such as Drake and Norris are! - All honours do this cause accompany; - All glory on these endless honours waits; - These honours and this glory shall He send, - Whose honour and Whose glory you defend. - - _George Peele._ - - - - -DRAYTON - - -III - -BALLAD OF AGINCOURT - - Fair stood the wind for France, - When we our sails advance, - Nor now to prove our chance - Longer will tarry; - But putting to the main, - At Caux, the mouth of Seine, - With all his martial train, - Landed King Harry. - - And taking many a fort, - Furnished in warlike sort, - Marched towards Agincourt - In happy hour, - Skirmishing day by day - With those that stopped his way - Where the French gen’ral lay - With all his power: - - Which, in his height of pride, - King Henry to deride, - His ransom to provide - To the king sending; - Which he neglects the while - As from a nation vile, - Yet with an angry smile - Their fall portending. - - And turning to his men, - Quoth our brave Henry then, - ’Though they to one be ten, - Be not amazèd. - Yet have we well begun, - Battles so bravely won - Have ever to the sun - By fame been raisèd.’ - - ‘And for myself,’ quoth he, - ‘This my full rest shall be: - England ne’er mourn for me, - Nor more esteem me; - Victor I will remain - Or on this earth lie slain; - Never shall she sustain - Loss to redeem me.’ - - ‘Poitiers and Cressy tell, - When most their pride did swell, - Under our swords they fell; - No less our skill is - Than when our grandsire great, - Claiming the regal seat, - By many a warlike feat - Lopped the French lilies.’ - - The Duke of York so dread - The eager vaward led; - With the main Henry sped, - Amongst his henchmen; - Excester had the rear, - A braver man not there: - O Lord, how hot they were - On the false Frenchmen! - - They now to fight are gone, - Armour on armour shone, - Drum now to drum did groan, - To hear was wonder; - That with the cries they make, - The very earth did shake, - Trumpet to trumpet spake, - Thunder to thunder. - - Well it thine age became, - O noble Erpingham, - Which did the single aim - To our hid forces! - When from a meadow by, - Like a storm suddenly, - The English archery - Struck the French horses. - - With Spanish yew so strong, - Arrows a cloth-yard long, - That like to serpents stung, - Piercing the weather; - None from his fellow starts, - But playing manly parts, - And like true English hearts - Stuck close together. - - When down their bows they threw, - And forth their bilbos drew, - And on the French they flew, - Not one was tardy; - Arms were from shoulders sent, - Scalps to the teeth were rent, - Down the French peasants went; - Our men were hardy. - - This while our noble king, - His broadsword brandishing, - Down the French host did ding - As to o’erwhelm it, - And many a deep wound lent, - His arms with blood besprent, - And many a cruel dent - Bruisèd his helmet. - - Glo’ster, that duke so good, - Next of the royal blood, - For famous England stood, - With his brave brother; - Clarence, in steel so bright, - Though but a maiden knight, - Yet in that furious fight - Scarce such another! - - Warwick in blood did wade, - Oxford the foe invade, - And cruel slaughter made, - Still as they ran up; - Suffolk his axe did ply, - Beaumont and Willoughby - Bare them right doughtily - Ferrers and Fanhope. - - Upon St. Crispin’s Day - Fought was this noble fray, - Which fame did not delay, - To England to carry. - O, when shall Englishmen - With such acts fill a pen, - Or England breed again - Such a King Harry? - - _Michael Drayton._ - - -IV - -THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE - - You brave heroic minds - Worthy your country’s name, - That honour still pursue; - Go and subdue! - Whilst loitering hinds - Lurk here at home with shame. - - Britons, you stay too long: - Quickly aboard bestow you, - And with a merry gale - Swell your stretch’d sail - With vows as strong - As the winds that blow you. - - Your course securely steer - West and by south forth keep, - Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals - When Æolus scowls - You need not fear, - So absolute the deep. - - And cheerfully at sea - Success you shall entice - To get the pearl and gold, - And ours to hold - Virginia - Earth’s only paradise. - - Where nature hath in store - Fowl, venison, and fish, - And the fruitfull’st soil - Without your toil - Three harvests more, - All greater than your wish. - - And the ambitious vine - Crowns with his purple mass - The cedar reaching high - To kiss the sky, - The cypress, pine - And useful sassafras. - - To whom the golden age - Still nature’s laws doth give, - Nor other cares attend - But them to defend - From winter’s rage, - That long there doth not live. - - When as the luscious smell - Of that delicious land - Above the seas that flows - The clear wind throws - Your hearts to swell - Approaching the dear strand. - - In kenning of the shore - (Thanks to God first given) - O you the happiest men, - Be frolic then! - Let cannons roar, - Frighting the wide heaven. - - And in regions far, - Such heroes bring ye forth - As those from whom we came; - And plant our name - Under that star - Not known unto our north. - - And as there plenty grows - Of laurel everywhere,-- - Apollo’s sacred tree,-- - You it may see - A poet’s brows - To crown that may sing there. - - Thy voyages attend - Industrious Hackluit - Whose reading shall inflame - Men to seek fame, - And much commend - To after times thy wit. - - _Michael Drayton._ - - - - -SHAKESPEARE - - -V - -A PICTURE OF ENGLAND - - This royal throne of kings, this sceptr’d isle, - This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, - This other Eden, demi-paradise, - This fortress built by Nature for herself - Against infection and the hand of war, - This happy breed of men, this little world, - This precious stone set in the silver sea, - Which serves it in the office of a wall - Or as a moat defensive to a house, - Against the envy of less happier lands, - This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, - This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, - Fear’d by their breed, and famous by their birth, - Renowned for their deeds as far from home, - For Christian service and true chivalry, - As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry - Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son, - This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land. - - _William Shakespeare._ - - -VI - -ENGLAND INVINCIBLE - - This England never did, nor never shall, - Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, - But when it first did help to wound itself, - Come the three corners of the world in arms, - And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, - If England to itself do rest but true. - - _William Shakespeare._ - - -VII - -ENGLAND AT WAR - - -THE PREPARATION - - Now all the youth of England are on fire, - And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies: - Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought - Reigns solely in the breast of every man: - They sell the pasture now to buy the horse, - Following the mirror of all Christian kings, - With wingèd heels, as English Mercuries. - For now sits Expectation in the air, - And hides a sword from hilts unto the point - With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets, - Promised to Harry and his followers. - The French, advised by good intelligence - Of this most dreadful preparation, - Shake in their fear and with pale policy - Seek to divert the English purposes. - O England! model to thy inward greatness, - Like little body with a mighty heart, - What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do, - Were all thy children kind and natural! - - -AT SEA - - Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies - In motion of no less celerity - Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen - The well-appointed king at Hampton Pier - Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet - With silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning: - Play with your fancies, and in them behold - Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing; - Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give - To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails, - Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, - Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea, - Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think - You stand upon the rivage and behold - A city on the inconstant billows dancing; - For so appears this fleet majestical, - Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow: - Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, - And leave your England, as dead midnight still, - Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women, - Either passed or not arrived to pith and puissance; - For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d - With one appearing hair, that will not follow - These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France? - - -KING HARRY TO HIS SOLDIERS - -(_At the Siege of Harfleur_) - - ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; - Or close the wall up with our English dead. - In peace, there’s nothing so becomes a man - As modest stillness and humility: - But when the blast of war blows in our ears, - Then imitate the action of the tiger; - Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, - Disguise fair nature with hard favour’d rage; - Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct; - Let it pry through the portage of the head - Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it, - As fearfully as doth a galled rock - O’er hang and jutty his confounded base, - Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean. - Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, - Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit - To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, - Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! - Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, - Have in these parts from morn till even fought - And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: - Dishonour not your mothers; now attest - That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. - Be copy now to men of grosser blood, - And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, - Whose limbs were made in England, show us here - The mettle of your pasture; let us swear - That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; - For there is none of you so mean and base, - That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. - I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, - Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot; - Follow your spirit, and upon this charge - Cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”’ - - -THE EVE OF BATTLE - - Now entertain conjecture of a time - When creeping murmur and the poring dark - Fills the wide vessel of the universe. - From camp to camp through the foul womb of night - The hum of either army stilly sounds, - That the fix’d sentinels almost receive - The secret whispers of each other’s watch: - Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames - Each battle sees the other’s umbered face; - Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs - Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents - The armourers, accomplishing the knights, - With busy hammers closing rivets up, - Give dreadful note of preparation: - The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll, - And the third hour of drowsy morning name. - Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, - The confident and over-lusty French - Do the low-rated English play at dice; - And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night - Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp - So tediously away. The poor condemned English, - Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires - Sit patiently and inly ruminate - The morning’s danger, and their gesture sad - Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats, - Presenteth them unto the gazing moon - So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold - The royal captain of this ruin’d band - Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, - Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head!’ - For forth he goes and visits all his host, - Bids them good morrow with a modest smile - And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen. - Upon his royal face there is no note - How dread an army hath enrounded him; - Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour - Unto the weary and all-watched night, - But freshly looks and over-bears attaint - With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty; - That every wretch, pining and pale before, - Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks: - A largess universal like the sun - His liberal eye doth give to everyone, - Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all - Behold, as may unworthiness define, - A little touch of Harry in the night. - And so our scene must to the battle fly. - - -KING HARRY’S PRAYER - - ‘O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts; - Possess them not with fear; take from them now - The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers - Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord, - O, not to-day, think not upon the fault - My father made in compassing the crown! - I Richard’s body have interred new; - And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears - Than from it issued forced drops of blood: - Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, - Who twice a-day their wither’d hands hold up - Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built - Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests - Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do; - Though all that I can do is nothing worth, - Since that my penitence comes after all, - Imploring pardon.’ - - -St. Crispin’s Day at Agincourt - -(_King Harry to his Soldiers_) - - ‘This day is called the feast of Crispian: - He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, - Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, - And rouse him at the name of Crispian. - He that shall live this day, and see old age, - Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, - And say ‘To-morrow is saint Crispian:’ - Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, - And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’ - Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, - But he’ll remember with advantages - What feats he did that day: then shall our names, - Familiar in his mouth as household words, - Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, - Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, - Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d. - This story shall the good man teach his son; - And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, - From this day to the ending of the world, - But we in it shall be remembered; - And gentlemen in England now abed, - Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, - And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks - That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.’ - - -THE WELCOME HOME - - Now we bear the king - Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen, - Heave him away upon your winged thoughts - Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach - Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys, - Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea, - Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the king - Seems to prepare his way: so let him land, - And solemnly see him set on to London. - So swift a pace hath thought that even now - You may imagine him upon Blackheath, - Where that his lords desire him to have borne - His bruisèd helmet and his bended sword - Before him through the city: he forbids it, - Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride, - Giving full trophy, signal and ostent - Quite from himself to God. But now behold, - In the quick forge and working-house of thought, - How London doth pour out her citizens! - The mayor and all his brethren in best sort, - Like to the senators of the antique Rome, - With the plebeians swarming at their heels, - Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in. - - _William Shakespeare._ - - -VIII - -WOLSEY TO CROMWELL - - ‘Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear - In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me - Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. - Let’s dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; - And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, - And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention - Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee, - Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, - And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, - Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; - A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it. - Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me. - Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: - By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, - The image of his Maker, hope to win by it? - Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; - Corruption wins not more than honesty. - Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, - To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: - Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, - Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell, - Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the king; - And,--Prithee, lead me in: - There take an inventory of all I have, - To the last penny; ’tis the king’s: my robe, - And my integrity to heaven, is all - I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! - Had I but served my God with half the zeal - I served my king, he would not in mine age - Have left me naked to mine enemies.’ - - _William Shakespeare._ - - - - -ANONYMOUS - - -IX - -BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBY - - The fifteenth day of July, - With glistering spear and shield, - A famous fight in Flanders - Was foughten in the field: - The most conspicuous officers - Were English captains three, - But the bravest man in battel - Was brave Lord Willoughby. - - The next was Captain Norris, - A valiant man was he: - The other, Captain Turner, - From field would never flee. - With fifteen hundred fighting men, - Alas! there were no more, - They fought with forty thousand then - Upon the bloody shore. - - ‘Stand to it, noble pikemen, - And look you round about: - And shoot you right, you bowmen, - And we will keep them out: - You musket and cailìver men, - Do you prove true to me, - I’ll be the bravest man in fight,’ - Says brave Lord Willoughby. - - And then the bloody enemy - They fiercely did assail, - And fought it out most valiantly - Not doubting to prevail: - The wounded men on both sides fell - Most piteous for to see, - Yet nothing could the courage quell - Of brave Lord Willoughby. - - For seven hours to all men’s view - This fight endurèd sore, - Until our men so feeble grew - That they could fight no more; - And then upon dead horses - Full savourly they eat, - And drank the puddle water, - They could no better get. - - When they had fed so freely, - They kneelèd on the ground, - And praisèd God devoutly - For the favour they had found; - And bearing up their colours, - The fight they did renew, - And cutting tow’rds the Spaniard, - Five thousand more they slew. - - The sharp steel-pointed arrows - And bullets thick did fly, - Then did our valiant soldiers - Charge on most furiously: - Which made the Spaniards waver, - They thought it best to flee: - They feared the stout behaviour - Of brave Lord Willoughby. - - Then quoth the Spanish general, - ‘Come let us march away, - I fear we shall be spoilèd all - If that we longer stay: - For yonder comes Lord Willoughby - With courage fierce and fell, - He will not give one inch of ground - For all the devils in hell.’ - - And when the fearful enemy - Was quickly put to flight, - Our men pursued courageously - To rout his forces quite; - And at last they gave a shout - Which echoed through the sky: - ‘God and Saint George for England!’ - The conquerors did cry. - - This news was brought to England - With all the speed might be, - And soon our gracious Queen was told - Of this same victory. - ‘O! this is brave Lord Willoughby - My love that ever won: - Of all the lords of honour - ’Tis he great deeds hath done!’ - - To the soldiers that were maimèd, - And wounded in the fray, - The Queen allowed a pension - Of eighteen pence a day, - And from all costs and charges - She quit and set them free; - And this she did all for the sake - Of brave Lord Willoughby. - - Then courage, noble Englishmen, - And never be dismayed! - If that we be but one to ten, - We will not be afraid - To fight with foreign enemies, - And set our country free, - And thus I end the bloody bout - Of brave Lord Willoughby. - - _Anonymous._ - - -X - -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 fulfil, - 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 them 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 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 with speed we cleared 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_. - - _Anonymous._ - - - - -MILTON - - -XI - -TO THE LORD GENERAL - - Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud, - Not of war only, but detractions rude, - Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, - To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, - And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud - Hast reared God’s trophies, and His work pursued, - While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, - And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, - And Worcester’s laureate wreath: yet much remains - To conquer still; peace hath her victories - No less renowned than war: new foes arise, - Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. - Help us to save free conscience from the paw - Of hireling wolves whose gospel is their maw. - - _John Milton._ - - -XII - -DELIVERANCE - - O how comely it is, and how reviving - To the spirits of just men long oppress’d! - When God into the hands of their deliverer - Puts invincible might - To quell the mighty of the earth, the oppressor, - The brute and boisterous force of violent men, - Hardy and industrious to support - Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue - The righteous and all such as honour truth; - He all their ammunition - And feats of war defeats, - With plain heroic magnitude of mind - And celestial vigour arm’d; - Their armouries and magazines contemns, - Renders them useless; while - With winged expedition, - Swift as the lightning glance, he executes - His errand on the wicked, who, surprised, - Lose their defence, distracted and amazed. - - _John Milton._ - - - - -MARVELL - - -XIII - -HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL’S RETURN FROM IRELAND - - The forward youth that would appear, - Must now forsake his Muses dear, - Nor in the shadows sing - His numbers languishing. - - ’Tis time to leave the books in dust, - And oil the unusèd armour’s rust, - Removing from the wall - The corselet of the hall. - - So restless Cromwell could not cease - In the inglorious arts of peace, - But through adventurous war - Urgèd his active star: - - And, like the three-fork’d lightning, first - Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, - Did thorough his own side - His fiery way divide: - - For ’tis all one to courage high, - The emulous, or enemy; - And with such to inclose - Is more than to oppose; - - Then burning through the air he went - And palaces and temples rent; - And Cæsar’s head at last - Did through his laurels blast. - - ’Tis madness to resist or blame - The face of angry Heaven’s flame; - And if we would speak true, - Much to the man is due - - Who, from his private gardens, where - He lived reservèd and austere - (As if his highest plot - To plant the bergamot), - - Could by industrious valour climb - To ruin the great work of Time, - And cast the kingdoms old - Into another mould; - - Though Justice against Fate complain, - And plead the ancient rights in vain-- - (But those do hold or break - As men are strong or weak), - - Nature, that hateth emptiness, - Allows of penetration less, - And therefore must make room - Where greater spirits come. - - What field of all the civil war - Where his were not the deepest scar? - And Hampton shows what part - He had of wiser art, - - Where, twining subtile fears with hope, - He wove a net of such a scope - That Charles himself might chase - To Carisbrook’s narrow case, - - That thence the royal actor borne - The tragic scaffold might adorn: - While round the armèd bands - Did clap their bloody hands. - - He nothing common did or mean - Upon that memorable scene, - But with his keener eye - The axe’s edge did try; - - Nor call’d the gods, with vulgar spite, - To vindicate his helpless right; - But bow’d his comely head - Down, as upon a bed. - - This was that memorable hour - Which first assured the forcèd power: - So, when they did design - The Capitol’s first line, - - A bleeding head, where they begun, - Did fright the architects to run; - And yet in that the State - Foresaw its happy fate! - - And now the Irish are ashamed - To see themselves in one year tamed: - So much one man can do - That doth both act and know. - - They can affirm his praises best, - And have, though overcome, confest - How good he is, how just, - And fit for highest trust; - - Nor yet grown stiffer with command, - But still in the Republic’s hand - (How fit he is to sway, - That can so well obey!), - - He to the Commons’ feet presents - A Kingdom for his first year’s rents, - And (what he may) forbears - His fame, to make it theirs: - - And has his sword and spoils ungirt - To lay them at the Public’s skirt - So when the falcon high - Falls heavy from the sky, - - She, having killed, no more doth search - But on the next green bough to perch, - Where, when he first does lure, - The falconer has her sure. - - What may not then our Isle presume - While victory his crest does plume? - What may not others fear - If thus he crowns each year? - - As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, - To Italy an Hannibal, - And to all states not free - Shall climacteric be. - - The Pict no shelter now shall find - Within his parti-coloured mind, - But from this valour sad - Shrink underneath the plaid. - - Happy, if in the tufted brake - The English hunter him mistake, - Nor lay his hounds in near - The Caledonian deer. - - But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son, - March indefatigably on, - And for the last effect - Still keep the sword erect: - - Besides the force it has to fright - The spirits of the shady night, - The same arts that did gain - A power, must it maintain. - - _Andrew Marvell._ - - -XIV - -SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA - - Where the remote Bermudas ride - In the Ocean’s bosom unespied, - From a small boat that rowed along - The listening winds received this song. - ‘What should we do but sing His praise - That led us through the watery maze, - Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks - That lift the deep upon their backs, - Unto an isle so long unknown, - And yet far kinder than our own? - He lands us on a grassy stage, - Safe from the storms and prelates’ rage: - He gave us this eternal spring - Which here enamels everything, - And sends the fowls to us in care - On daily visits through the air. - He hangs in shades the orange bright - Like golden lamps in a green night, - And does in the pomegranates close - Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: - He makes the figs our mouths to meet, - And throws the melons at our feet; - But apples plants of such a price, - No tree could ever bear them twice. - With cedars chosen by His hand - From Lebanon He stores the land, - And makes the hollow seas that roar - Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. - He cast (of which we rather boast) - The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast, - And in these rocks for us did frame - A temple where to sound His name. - O let our voice His praise exalt - Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault, - Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may - Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!’ - Thus sang they in the English boat - A holy and a cheerful note: - And all the way, to guide their chime, - With falling oars they kept the time. - - _Andrew Marvell._ - - - - -PARKER - - -XV - -THE KING’S EXILE - - Let rogues and cheats prognosticate - Concerning kings’ or kingdoms’ fate, - I think myself to be as wise - As he that gazeth on the skies, - Whose sight goes beyond - The depth of a pond - Or rivers in the greatest rain; - For I can tell - All will be well, - When the King enjoys his own again! - - Though for a time we see Whitehall - With cobwebs hanging on the wall, - Instead of gold and silver brave, - Which formerly ’twas wont to have, - With rich perfume - In every room, - Delightful to that princely train,-- - Yet the old again shall be - When the happy time you see - That the King enjoys his own again. - - Full forty years this royal crown - Hath been his father’s and his own; - And is there any one but he - That in the same should sharer be? - For who better may - The sceptre sway - Than he that hath such right to reign? - Then let’s hope for a peace, - For the wars will not cease - Till the King enjoys his own again. - - _Martin Parker._ - - - - -ANONYMOUS - - -XVI - -HERE’S A HEALTH - - Here’s a health unto His Majesty, - _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ - Confusion to his enemies, - _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ - And he that will not drink his health, - I wish him neither wit nor wealth, - Nor yet a rope to hang himself, - _With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la!_ - - _Anonymous._ - - - - -DRYDEN - - -XVII - -A SONG OF KING ARTHUR - - Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound; - Come, if you dare, the foes rebound: - We come, we come, we come, we come, - Says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum. - - Now they charge on amain, - Now they rally again: - The gods from above the mad labour behold, - And pity mankind, that will perish for gold. - - The fainting Saxons quit their ground, - Their trumpets languish in the sound: - They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly; - Victoria, Victoria, the bold Britons cry. - - Now the victory’s won, - To the plunder we run: - We return to our lasses like fortunate traders, - Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish’d invaders. - - _John Dryden._ - - -XVIII - -LONDON IN 1666 - - Methinks already from this chymic flame - I see a city of more precious mould, - Rich as the town which gives the Indies name, - With silver paved, and all divine with gold. - - Already, labouring with a mighty fate, - She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, - And seems to have renewed her charter’s date - Which Heaven will to the death of time allow. - - More great than human now and more august, - New deified she from her fires does rise: - Her widening streets on new foundations trust, - And, opening, into larger parts she flies. - - Before, she like some shepherdess did show - Who sate to bathe her by a river’s side, - Not answering to her fame, but rude and low, - Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride. - - Now like a maiden queen she will behold - From her high turrets hourly suitors come; - The East with incense and the West with gold - Will stand like suppliants to receive her dome. - - The silver Thames, her own domestic flood, - Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train, - And often wind, as of his mistress proud, - With longing eyes to meet her face again. - - The wealthy Tagus and the wealthier Rhine - The glory of their towns no more shall boast, - The Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join, - Shall find her lustre stained and traffic lost. - - The venturous merchant, who designed more far, - And touches on our hospitable shore, - Charmed with the splendour of this northern star - Shall here unlade him and depart no more. - - Our powerful navy shall no longer meet - The wealth of France or Holland to invade; - The beauty of this town without a fleet - From all the world shall vindicate her trade. - - And while this famed emporium we prepare, - The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, - That those who now disdain our trade to share - Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast. - - Already we have conquered half the war, - And the less dangerous part is left behind; - Our trouble now is but to make them dare - And not so great to vanquish as to find. - - Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go, - And now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more! - A constant trade-wind will securely blow - And gently lay us on the spicy shore. - - _John Dryden._ - - - - -THOMSON - - -XIX - -RULE BRITANNIA - - When Britain first at Heaven’s command - Arose from out the azure main, - This was the charter of her land, - And guardian angels sang the strain: - _Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! - Britons never shall be slaves_. - - The nations not so blest as thee - Must in their turn to tyrants fall, - Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free-- - The dread and envy of them all! - - Still more majestic shalt thou rise, - More dreadful from each foreign stroke; - As the last blast which tears the skies - Serves but to root thy native oak. - - Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame; - All their attempts to bend thee down - Will but arouse thy generous flame, - And work their woe and thy renown. - - To thee belongs the rural reign; - Thy cities shall with commerce shine; - All thine shall be the subject main, - And every shore it circles thine! - - The Muses, still with Freedom found, - Shall to thy happy coast repair; - Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown’d, - And manly hearts to guard the fair:-- - _Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! - Britons never shall be slaves!_ - - _James Thomson._ - - - - -DYER - - -XX - -DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN - - Here’s a health to the King and a lasting peace, - To faction an end, to wealth increase! - Come, let’s drink it while we have breath, - For there’s no drinking after death;-- - And he that will this health deny, - _Down among the dead men-- - Down among the dead men-- - Down, down, down, down, - Down among the dead men let him lie!_ - - _John Dyer._ - - - - -ANONYMOUS - - -XXI - -GOD SAVE THE KING - - God save our lord, the King, - Long live our noble King,-- - God save the King! - Send him victorious, - Happy and glorious, - Long to reign over us,-- - God save the King! - - O Lord, our God, arise, - Scatter his enemies, - And make them fall! - Confound their politics, - Frustrate their knavish tricks! - On Thee our hopes we fix,-- - God save us all! - - Thy choicest gifts in store - On him be pleased to pour,-- - Long may he reign! - May he defend our laws, - And ever give us cause - To sing with heart and voice - God save the King! - - _Anonymous._ - - - - -GARRICK - - -XXII - -HEARTS OF OAK - - Come, cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer, - To add something more to this wonderful year, - To honour we call you, not press you like slaves, - For who are so free as the sons of the waves? - Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, - We always are ready, - Steady, boys, steady, - We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again. - - We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay, - They never see us but they wish us away; - If they run, why, we follow, and run them ashore, - For if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more. - Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, - We always are ready, - Steady, boys, steady, - We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again. - - Still Britain shall triumph, her ships plough the sea, - Her standard be justice, her watchword ‘Be free’; - Then, cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing - Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, our king. - Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, - We always are ready, - Steady, boys, steady, - We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again. - - _David Garrick._ - - - - -COLLINS - - -XXIII - -THE SLEEP OF THE BRAVE - - How sleep the brave who sink to rest - By all their country’s wishes blest! - When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, - Returns to deck their hallow’d mould, - She there shall dress a sweeter sod - Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod. - - By fairy hands their knell is rung, - By forms unseen their dirge is sung; - There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, - To bless the turf that wraps their clay; - And Freedom shall a while repair - To dwell a weeping hermit there. - - _William Collins._ - - - - -COWPER - - -XXIV - -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!’ - - _William Cowper._ - - -XXV - -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. - - _William Cowper._ - - - - -DIBDIN - - -XXVI - -TOM BOWLING - - 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, - And 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 is gone aloft. - - _Charles Dibdin._ - - -XXVII - -THE TRUE ENGLISH SAILOR - - Jack dances and sings, and is always content, - In his vows to his lass he’ll ne’er fail her; - His anchor’s a-trip when his money’s all spent-- - And this is the life of a sailor. - - Alert in his duty, he readily flies - Where winds the tir’d vessel are flinging; - Though sunk to the sea-gods, or toss’d to the skies, - Still Jack is found working and singing. - - ‘Long-side of an enemy, boldly and brave, - He’ll with broadside on broadside regale her; - Yet he’ll sigh from his soul o’er that enemy’s grave: - So noble’s the mind of a sailor. - - Let cannons road loud, burst their sides let the bombs, - Let the winds a dead hurricane rattle; - The rough and the pleasant he takes as it comes, - And laughs at the storm and the battle. - - In a Fostering Power while Jack puts his trust, - As Fortune comes, smiling he’ll hail her; - Resign’d still, and manly, since what must be must, - And this is the mind of a sailor. - - Though careless and headlong, if danger should press, - And rank’d ’mongst the free list of rovers, - Yet he’ll melt into tears at a tale of distress, - And prove the most constant of lovers. - - To rancour unknown, to no passion a slave, - Nor unmanly, nor mean, nor a railer, - He’s gentle as mercy, as fortitude brave, - And this is a true English sailor. - - _Charles Dibdin._ - - -XXVIII - -TOM TOUGH - - My name, d’ye see, ’s Tom Tough, I’ve seed a little sarvice, - Where mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow; - I’ve sailed with valiant Howe, I’ve sailed with noble Jarvis, - And in gallant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung out ‘Yo heave ho!’ - Yet more shall ye be knowing,-- - I was coxon to Boscawen, - And even with brave Hawke have I nobly faced the foe. - Then put round the grog,-- - So we’ve that and our prog, - We’ll laugh in Care’s face, and sing ‘Yo heave ho!’ - - When from my love to part I first weigh’d anchor, - And she was sniv’ling seed on the beach below, - I’d like to cotch’d my eyes sniv’ling too, d’ye see, to thank her, - But I brought my sorrows up with a ‘Yo heave ho!’ - For sailors, though they have their jokes, - And love and feel like other folks, - Their duty to neglect must not come for to go; - So I seized the capstern bar, - Like a true honest tar, - And, in spite of tears and sighs, sang out ‘Yo heave ho!’ - - But the worst on’t was that time when the little ones were sickly, - And if they’d live or die the doctor did not know; - The word was gov’d to weigh so sudden and so quickly, - I thought my heart would break as I sung ‘Yo heave ho!’ - For Poll’s so like her mother, - And as for Jack, her brother, - The boy, when he grows up will nobly fight the foe; - But in Providence I trust, - For you see what must be must, - So my sighs I gave the winds and sung out ‘Yo heave ho!’ - - And now at last laid up in a decentish condition, - For I’ve only lost an eye, and got a timber toe; - But old ships must expect in time to be out of commission, - Nor again the anchor weigh with ‘Yo heave ho!’ - So I smoke my pipe and sing old songs,-- - For my boy shall well revenge my wrongs, - And my girl shall breed young sailors, nobly for to face the foe;-- - Then to Country and King, - Fate no danger can bring, - While the tars of Old England sing out ‘Yo heave ho!’ - - _Charles Dibdin._ - - - - -ANONYMOUS - - -XXIX - -THE BRITISH GRENADIERS - - Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, - Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these, - But of all the world’s great heroes, there’s none that can compare, - With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadier! - - Those heroes of antiquity ne’er saw a cannon ball, - Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; - But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, - Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers! - - Whene’er we are commanded to storm the palisades, - Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades, - We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies’ ears, - Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers! - - And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, - The townsmen cry, ‘Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier! - ‘Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!’ - Then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers! - - Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those - Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes, - May they and their commanders live happy all their years, - With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers! - - _Anonymous._ - - - - -ANONYMOUS - - -XXX - -THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME - - I’m lonesome since I cross’d the hill, - And o’er the moor and valley; - Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, - Since parting with my Sally. - I seek no more the fine or gay, - For each does but remind me - How swift the hours did pass away, - With the girl I’ve left behind me. - - Oh, ne’er shall I forget the night, - The stars were bright above me, - And gently lent their silv’ry light - When first she vowed to love me. - But now I’m bound to Brighton camp, - Kind Heaven, then, pray guide me, - And send me safely back again - To the girl I’ve left behind me. - - My mind her form shall still retain, - In sleeping, or in waking, - Until I see my love again, - For whom my heart is breaking. - If ever I return that way, - And she should not decline me, - I evermore will live and stay - With the girl I’ve left behind me. - - _Anonymous._ - - - - -HOARE - - -XXXI - -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 Frenchmen 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 the 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._ - - - - -BLAKE - - -XXXII - -JERUSALEM IN ENGLAND - - England, awake! awake! awake! - Jerusalem thy sister calls! - Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death, - And close her from thy ancient walls? - - Thy hills and valleys felt her feet - Gently upon their bosoms move: - Thy gates beheld sweet Zion’s ways; - Then was a time of joy and love. - - And now the time returns again: - Our souls exult; and London’s towers - Receive the Lamb of God to dwell - In England’s green and pleasant bowers. - - And did those feet in ancient time - Walk upon England’s mountain green? - And was the holy Lamb of God - On England’s pleasant pastures seen? - - And did the Countenance Divine - Shine forth upon our clouded hills? - And was Jerusalem builded here - Among these dark satanic mills? - - Bring me my bow of burning gold! - Bring me my arrows of desire! - Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! - Bring me my chariot of fire! - - I will not cease from mental fight, - Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, - Till we have built Jerusalem - In England’s green and pleasant land. - - _William Blake._ - - - - -WORDSWORTH - - -XXXIII - -ON LANDING IN ENGLAND - - Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. - The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound - Of bells; those boys who in yon meadow-ground - In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and the roar - Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore;-- - All, all are English. Oft have I looked round - With joy in Kent’s green vales; but never found - Myself so satisfied in heart before. - Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass, - Thought for another moment. Thou art free, - My Country! and ’tis joy enough and pride - For one hour’s perfect bliss, to tread the grass - Of England once again, and hear and see, - With such a dear Companion at my side. - - _William Wordsworth._ - - -XXXIV - -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. - - _William Wordsworth._ - - -XXXV - -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? - Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, - Verily, in the bottom of my heart, - Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. - For 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! - - _William Wordsworth._ - - -XXXVI - -TO THE MEN OF KENT - -(_October, 1803_) - - Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, - Ye children of a soil that doth advance - Her haughty bow against the coast of France, - Now is the time to prove your hardiment! - To France be words of invitation sent! - They from their fields can see the countenance - Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance - And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. - Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore, - Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath; - Confirmed the charters that were yours before;-- - No parleying now! In Britain is one breath; - We all are with you now from shore to shore;-- - Ye men of Kent, ’tis victory or death! - - _William Wordsworth._ - - -XXXVII - -THE HAPPY WARRIOR - - Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he - That every man in arms should wish to be? - --It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought - Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought - Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: - Whose high endeavours are an inward light - That makes the path before him always bright: - --Who, if he rise to station of command, - Rises by open means; and there will stand - On honourable terms, or else retire, - And in himself possess his own desire; - Who comprehends his trust, and to the same - Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; - And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait - For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; - Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, - Like showers of manna, if they come at all: - Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, - Or mild concerns of ordinary life, - A constant influence, a peculiar grace; - But who, if he be called upon to face - Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined - Great issues, good or bad for human kind, - Is happy as a Lover; and attired - With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; - And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law - In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; - Or if an unexpected call succeed, - Come when it will, is equal to the need: - --He who, though thus endued as with a sense - And faculty for storm and turbulence, - Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans - To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; - Sweet images! which, wheresoe’er he be, - Are at his heart; and such fidelity - It is his darling passion to approve; - More brave for this, that he hath much to love:-- - ’Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, - Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye, - Or left unthought-of in obscurity,-- - Who, with a toward or untoward lot, - Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not-- - Plays, in the many games of life, that one - Where what he most doth value must be won: - Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, - Nor thought of tender happiness betray; - Who, not content that former worth stand fast, - Looks forward, persevering to the last, - From well to better, daily self-surpast: - Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth - For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, - Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, - And leave a dead unprofitable name-- - Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; - And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws - His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause: - This is the happy Warrior; this is He - That every Man in arms should wish to be. - - _William Wordsworth._ - - -XXXVIII - -AFTER WATERLOO - - Who to the murmurs of an earthly string - Of Britain’s acts would sing, - He with enraptured voice will tell - Of One whose spirit no reverse could quell: - Of One that, ’mid the failing, never failed-- - Who paints how Britain struggled and prevailed - Shall represent her labouring with an eye - Of circumspect humanity; - Shall show her clothed with strength and skill, - All martial duties to fulfill; - Firm as a rock in stationary fight; - In motion rapid as the lightning’s gleam; - Fierce as a flood-gate bursting in the night - To rouse the wicked from their giddy dream-- - Woe, woe to all that face her in the field! - Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield. - - _William Wordsworth._ - - -XXXIX - -MERRY ENGLAND - - They called Thee MERRY ENGLAND in old time, - A happy people won for thee that name - With envy heard in many a distant clime, - And, spite of change, for me thou keep’st the same - Endearing title, a responsive chime - To the heart’s fond belief: though some there are - Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare - For inattentive Fancy, like the lime - Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask, - This face of rural beauty be a mask - For discontent, and poverty, and crime; - These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will? - Forbid it, Heaven!--and MERRY ENGLAND still - Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme! - - _William Wordsworth._ - - -XL - -HOPE - - Despond who will--_I_ heard a voice exclaim, - ‘Though fierce the assault, and shattered the defence, - It cannot be that Britain’s social frame, - The glorious work of time and providence, - Before a flying season’s rash pretence, - Should fall; that She, whose virtue put to shame, - When Europe prostrate lay, the Conqueror’s aim, - Should perish, self-subverted. Black and dense - The cloud is; but brings that a day of doom - To Liberty? Her sun is up the while, - That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred shone: - Then laugh, ye innocent Vales! ye Streams, sweep on, - Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest Isle - Toss in the fanning wind a humbler plume.’ - - _William Wordsworth._ - - - - -SCOTT - - -XLI - -IN MEMORIAM - -(NELSON: 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, from 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 ever harsher thought suppressed, - And sacred be the long last 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?’ - - _Sir Walter Scott._ - - - - -DIBDIN - - -XLII - -THE SNUG LITTLE ISLAND - - Daddy Neptune one day to Freedom did say, - ‘If ever I live upon dry land, - The spot I should hit on would be little Britain!’ - Says Freedom, ‘Why that’s my own island!’ - O, it’s a snug little island! - A right little, tight little island, - Search the globe round, none can be found - So happy as this little island. - - Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man, - Came by water,--he couldn’t come _by_ land; - And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn’d their backs on, - And all for the sake of our island. - O, what a snug little island! - They’d all have a touch at the island! - Some were shot dead, some of them fled, - And some staid to live on the island. - - Then a very great war-man, called Billy the Norman, - Cried ‘D--n it, I never liked my land; - It would be much more handy to leave this Nor_man_dy, - And live on yon beautiful island.’ - Says he, ‘’Tis a snug little island: - Sha’n’t us go visit the island?’ - Hop, skip, and jump, there he was plump, - And he kick’d up a dust in the island. - - But party-deceit help’d the Normans to beat; - Of traitors they managed to buy land, - By Dane, Saxon, or Pict, Britons ne’er had been lick’d, - Had they stuck to the King of their island. - Poor Harold, the King of the island! - He lost both his life and his island. - That’s very true; what more could he do? - Like a Briton he died for his island! - - The Spanish Armada set out to invade-a, - Quite sure, if they ever came nigh land, - They couldn’t do less than tuck up Queen Bess, - And take their full swing in the island. - O, the poor Queen of the island! - The Dons came to plunder the island; - But, snug in the hive, the Queen was alive, - And buz was the word in the island. - - Those proud puff’d-up cakes thought to make ducks and drakes - Of our wealth; but they hardly could spy land, - When our Drake had the luck to make their pride duck - And stoop to the lads of the island. - Huzza for the lads of the island! - The good wooden walls of the island; - Devil or Don, let ’em come on; - But how would they come _off_ at the island? - - Since Freedom and Neptune have hitherto kept tune, - In each saying, ‘This shall be my land’; - Should the ‘Army of England,’ or all they could bring, land, - We’d show ’em some play for the island. - We’ll fight for our right to the island; - We’ll give them enough of the island; - Invaders should just--bite at the dust, - But not a bit more of the island! - - _Thomas Dibdin._ - - -XLIII - -THE MERRY SOLDIER - - ‘Who’ll serve the King?’ cried the sergeant aloud: - Roll went the drum, and the fife played sweetly; - ‘Here, master sergeant,’ said I, from the crowd, - ‘Is a lad who will answer your purpose completely.’ - My father was a corporal, and well he knew his trade, - Of women, wine, and gunpowder, he never was afraid: - He’d march, fight--left, right, - Front flank--centre rank, - Storm the trenches--court the wenches, - Loved the rattle of a battle, - Died with glory--lives in story! - And, like him, I found a soldier’s life, if taken smooth and rough, - A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough. - - ‘Hold up your head,’ said the sergeant at drill: - Roll went the drum, and the fife played loudly; - ‘Turn out your toes, sir!’ Says I, ‘Sir, I will,’ - For a nimble-wristed round rattan the sergeant flourished proudly. - My father died when corporal, but I ne’er turned my back, - Till, promoted to the halberd, I was sergeant in a crack. - In sword and sash cut a dash, - Spurr’d and booted, next recruited - Hob and Clod--awkward squad, - Then began my rattan, - When boys unwilling came to drilling; - Till, made the colonel’s orderly, then who but I so bluff, - Led a very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough. - - ‘Homeward, my lads!’ cried the general.--‘Huzza!’ - Roll went the drum, and the fife played cheer’ly, - To quick time we footed, and sung all the way - ‘Hey for the pretty girls we love so dearly!’ - My father lived with jolly boys in bustle, jars, and strife, - And, like him, being fond of noise, I mean to take a wife - Soon as miss blushes ‘_y-i-s!_’ - Rings, gloves, dears, loves, - Bells ringing, comrades singing, - Honeymoon finished soon, - Scolding, sighing, children crying! - Yet still a wedded life may prove, if taken smooth and rough, - A very merry, hey down derry, sort of life enough. - - _Thomas Dibdin._ - - - - -SOUTHEY - - -XLIV - -THE STANDARD-BEARER OF THE BUFFS - - Steep is the soldier’s path; nor are the heights - Of glory to be won without long toil - And arduous efforts of enduring hope; - Save when Death takes the aspirant by the hand, - And cutting short the work of years, at once - Lifts him to that conspicuous eminence. - Such fate was mine.--The standard of the Buffs - I bore at Albuera, on that day - When, covered by a shower, and fatally - For friends misdeem’d, the Polish lancers fell - Upon our rear. Surrounding me, they claim’d - My precious charge.--‘Not but with life!’ I cried, - And life was given for immortality. - The flag which to my heart I held, when wet - With that heart’s blood, was soon victoriously - Regain’d on that great day. In former times, - Marlborough beheld it borne at Ramilies; - For Brunswick and for liberty it waved - Triumphant at Culloden; and hath seen - The lilies on the Caribbean shores - Abased before it. Then too in the front - Of battle did it flap exultingly, - When Douro, with its wide stream interposed, - Saved not the French invaders from attack, - Discomfiture, and ignominious rout. - My name is Thomas: undisgraced have I - Transmitted it. He who in days to come - May bear the honour’d banner to the field, - Will think of Albuera, and of me. - - _Robert Southey._ - - - - -CAMPBELL - - -XLV - -YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND - - Ye Mariners of England! - That guard our native seas; - Whose flag has braved a thousand years - The battle and the breeze! - Your glorious standard launch again - To match another foe! - And sweep through the deep, - While the stormy winds do blow; - While the battle rages loud and long, - And the stormy winds do blow. - - The spirits of your fathers - Shall start from every wave! - For the deck it was their field of fame, - And Ocean was their grave: - Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell - Your manly hearts shall glow, - As ye sweep through the deep, - While the stormy winds do blow; - While the battle rages loud and long, - And the stormy winds do blow. - - Britannia needs no bulwarks, - No towers along the steep; - Her march is o’er the mountain-waves, - Her home is on the deep. - With thunders from her native oak - She quells the floods below, - As they roar on the shore, - When the stormy winds do blow; - When the battle rages loud and long, - And the stormy winds do blow. - - The meteor flag of England - Shall yet terrific burn; - Till danger’s troubled night depart, - And the star of peace return. - Then, then, ye ocean warriors! - Our song and feast shall flow - To the fame of your name, - When the storm has ceased to blow; - When the fiery fight is heard no more, - And the storm has ceased to blow. - - _Thomas Campbell._ - - -XLVI - -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; - By each gun the lighted brand - In a bold determined hand, - And the Prince of all the land - Led them on. - - Like leviathans afloat, - 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, - 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; - 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, - Like the hurricane eclipse - Of the sun. - - Again! again! again! - And the havoc did not slack, - Till a feebler cheer the Dane, - 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 - Light the goom. - - Now joy, Old England, raise - 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 - Full many a fathom deep - By thy wild and stormy steep, - Elsinore! - - _Thomas Campbell._ - - -XLVII - -MEN OF ENGLAND - - Men of England! who inherit - Rights that cost your sires their blood! - Men whose undegenerate spirit - Has been proved on field and flood:-- - - By the foes you’ve fought uncounted, - By the glorious deeds you’ve done, - Trophies captured--breaches mounted, - Navies conquered--kingdoms won! - - Yet, remember, England gathers - Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, - If the freedom of your fathers - Glow not in your hearts the same. - - What are monuments of bravery, - Where no public virtues bloom? - What avails in lands of slavery, - Trophied temples, arch, and tomb? - - Pageants!--Let the world revere us - For our people’s rights and laws, - And the breasts of civic heroes - Bared in Freedom’s holy cause. - - Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory, - Sidney’s matchless shade is yours,-- - Martyrs in heroic story, - Worth a hundred Agincourts! - - We’re the sons of sires that baffled - Crown’d and mitred tyranny;-- - They defied the field and scaffold - For their birthrights--so will we! - - _Thomas Campbell._ - - - - -CUNNINGHAM - - -XLVIII - -THE BRITISH SAILOR’S SONG - - Away with bayonet and with lance, - With corselet, casque, and sword; - Our island-king no war-horse needs, - For on the sea he’s lord. - His throne’s the war-ship’s lofty deck, - His sceptre is the mast; - His kingdom is the rolling wave, - His servant is the blast. - His anchor’s up, fair Freedom’s flag - Proud to the mast he nails; - Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads, - For there your terror sails. - - I saw fierce Prussia’s chargers stand, - Her children’s sharp swords out;-- - Proud Austria’s bright spurs streaming red - When rose the closing shout; - But soon the steeds rush’d masterless, - By tower, and town, and wood; - For lordly France her fiery youth - Poured o’er them like a flood. - Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels, - And let your steeds run free; - Then come to our unconquered decks, - And learn to reign at sea. - - Behold yon black and batter’d hulk - That slumbers on the tide, - There is no sound from stem to stern, - For peace has pluck’d her pride; - The masts are down, the cannon mute - She shows nor sheet nor sail, - Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze, - Nor answers shout nor hail; - Her merry men, with all their mirth, - Have sought some other shore; - And she with all her glory on, - Shall rule the sea no more. - - So landsmen speak. Lo! her top-masts - Are quivering in the sky; - Her sails are spread, her anchor’s raised, - There sweeps she gallant by. - A thousand warriors fill her decks; - Within her painted side - The thunder sleeps--man’s might has nought - Can match or mar her pride. - In victor glory goes she forth; - Her stainless flag flies free; - Kings of the earth, come and behold - How Britain reigns on sea! - - When on your necks the armèd foot - Of fierce Napoleon trod, - And all was his, save the wide sea, - Where we triumphant rode, - He launched his terror and his strength, - Our sea-born pride to tame; - They came--they got the Nelson-touch, - And vanish’d as they came. - Go, hang your bridles in your halls, - And set your war-steeds free; - The world has one unconquer’d king, - And he reigns on the sea! - - _Allan Cunningham._ - - - - -BYRON - - -XLIX - -ON LEAVING ENGLAND - - Once more upon the waters! Yet once more! - And the waves bound beneath me as a steed - That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! - Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead! - Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, - And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, - Still must I on; for I am as a weed, - Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam to sail - Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail. - - I’ve taught me other tongues--and in strange eyes - Have made me not a stranger; to the mind - Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; - Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find - A country with--aye, or without mankind; - Yet was I born where men are proud to be,-- - Not without cause; and should I leave behind - The inviolate Island of the sage and free, - And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, - - Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay - My ashes in a soil which is not mine, - My Spirit shall resume it--if we may - Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine - My hopes of being remembered in my line - With my land’s language: if too fond and far - These aspirations in their scope incline,-- - If my Fame should be, as my fortunes are, - Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar - - My name from out the temple where the dead - Are honoured by the Nations--let it be-- - And light the Laurels on a loftier head! - And be the Spartan’s epitaph on me-- - ‘Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.’ - Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need-- - The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree - I planted,--they have torn me,--and I bleed: - I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. - - _Byron._ - - -L - -THE ISLES OF GREECE - - The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece! - Where burning Sappho loved and sung, - Where grew the arts of war and peace,-- - Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! - Eternal summer gilds them yet, - But all, except their sun, is set. - - The Scian and the Teian muse, - The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, - Have found the fame your shores refuse; - Their place of birth alone is mute. - To sounds which echo further west - Than your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’ - - The mountains look on Marathon-- - And Marathon looks on the sea; - And musing there an hour alone, - I dream’d that Greece might still be free, - For standing on the Persians’ grave - I could not deem myself a slave. - - A king sate on the rocky brow - Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; - And ships, by thousands, lay below, - And men in nations;--all were his! - He counted them at break of day-- - And when the sun set where were they? - - And where are they? And where art thou, - My country? On thy voiceless shore - The heroic lay is tuneless now, - The heroic bosom beats no more! - And must thy lyre, so long divine, - Degenerate into hands like mine? - - ’Tis something in the dearth of fame, - Though linked among a fettered race, - To feel at least a patriot’s shame, - Even as I sing, suffuse my face; - For what is left the poet here? - For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear! - - Must _we_ but weep o’er days more blest? - Must _we_ but blush? Our fathers bled. - Earth! render back from out thy breast - A remnant of our Spartan dead! - Of the three hundred grant but three, - To make a new Thermopylæ! - - What, silent still? and silent all? - Ah! no;--the voices of the dead - Sound like a distant torrent’s fall, - And answer, ‘Let one living head, - But one arise,--we come, we come!’ - ’Tis but the living who are dumb. - - In vain--in vain: strike other chords; - Fill high the cup with Samian wine! - Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, - And shed the blood of Scio’s vine! - Hark! rising to the ignoble call-- - How answers each bold Bacchanal! - - Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! - Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- - I see their glorious black eyes shine; - But gazing on each glowing maid, - My own the burning tear-drop laves, - To think such breasts must suckle slaves. - - Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep, - Where nothing, save the waves and I - May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; - There, swan-like, let me sing and die: - A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine-- - Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! - - _Byron._ - - -LI - -THE EVE OF WATERLOO - - There was a sound of revelry by night, - And Belgium’s capital had gathered then - Her Beauty and her Chivalry--and bright - The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men; - A thousand hearts beat happily; and when - Music arose with its voluptuous swell, - Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, - And all went merry as a marriage bell; - But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! - - Did ye not hear it?--No--’twas but the wind, - Or the car rattling o’er the stony street; - On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined; - No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet - To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-- - But, hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, - As if the clouds its echo would repeat; - And nearer--clearer--deadlier than before! - Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the cannon’s opening roar! - - Within a windowed niche of that high hall - Sate Brunswick’s fated Chieftain; he did hear - That sound the first amidst the festival, - And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear; - And when they smiled because he deemed it near, - His heart more truly knew that peal too well - Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, - And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; - He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. - - Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro-- - And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, - And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago - Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness-- - And there were sudden partings, such as press - The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs - Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess - If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, - Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! - - And there was mounting in hot haste--the steed, - The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, - Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, - And swiftly forming in the ranks of war,-- - And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; - And near, the beat of the alarming drum - Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; - While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, - Or whispering, with white lips--‘The foe! They come! they come!’ - - And wild and high the ‘Camerons’ Gathering’ rose! - The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills - Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-- - How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, - Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills - Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers - With the fierce native daring which instils - The stirring memory of a thousand years, - And Evan’s--Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears! - - And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, - Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass-- - Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, - Over the unreturning brave,--alas! - Ere evening to be trodden like the grass - Which now beneath them, but above shall grow - In its next verdure, when this fiery mass - Of living valour rolling on the foe, - And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. - - Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;-- - Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay; - The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, - The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day - Battle’s magnificently-stern array! - The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent - The earth is covered thick with other clay, - Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, - Rider and horse,--friend--foe,--in one red burial blent! - - _Lord Byron._ - - - - -WOLFE - - -LII - -THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE - - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, - As his corse to the ramparts 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, - The sods with our bayonets turning, - By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, - And the lantern dimly burning. - - No useless coffin enclosed his breast, - Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; - 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 steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, - And we bitterly thought of the morrow. - - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed - And smoothed down his lonely pillow, - How the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, - And we far away on the billow! - - 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, - 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; - We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- - But we left him alone with his glory. - - _Charles Wolfe._ - - - - -HEMANS - - -LIII - -THE BENDED BOW - - There was heard the sound of a coming foe, - There was sent through Britain a bended bow; - And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far, - As the land rose up at the sign of war. - - ‘Heard you not the battle horn?-- - Reaper! leave thy golden corn! - Leave it for the birds of heaven, - Swords must flash, and spears be riven! - Leave it for the winds to shed-- - Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red!’ - - And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son; - And the bended bow and the voice passed on. - - ‘Hunter! leave the mountain-chase! - Take the falchion from its place! - Let the wolf go free to-day, - Leave him for a nobler prey! - Let the deer ungall’d sweep by,-- - Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh!’ - - And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done; - And the bended bow and the voice passed on. - - ‘Chieftain! quit the joyous feast! - Stay not till the song hath ceased: - Though the mead be foaming bright, - Though the fires give ruddy light, - Leave the hearth, and leave the hall-- - Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.’ - - And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown; - And the bended bow and the voice passed on. - - ‘Prince! thy father’s deeds are told, - In the bower, and in the hold! - Where the goatherd’s lay is sung, - Where the minstrel’s harp is strung, - Foes are on thy native sea-- - Give our bards a tale of thee!’ - - And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son; - And the bended bow and the voice passed on. - - ‘Mother! stay not thou thy boy! - He must learn the battle’s joy, - Sister bring the sword and spear, - Give thy brother words of cheer! - Maiden! bid thy lover part, - Britain calls the strong in heart!’ - - And the bended bow and the voice passed on; - And the bards made song for a battle won. - - _Felicia Hemans._ - - -LIV - -ENGLAND’S DEAD - - Son of the Ocean Isle! - Where sleep your mighty dead? - Show me what high and stately pile - Is reared o’er Glory’s bed. - - Go, stranger! track the deep-- - Free, free the white sail spread! - Wave may not foam, not wild wind sweep, - Where rest not England’s dead. - - On Egypt’s burning plains, - By the pyramid o’erswayed, - With fearful power the noonday reigns, - And the palm trees yield no shade; - - But let the angry sun - From heaven look fiercely red, - Unfelt by those whose task is done!-- - There slumber England’s dead. - - The hurricane hath might - Along the Indian shore, - And far by Ganges’ banks at night - Is heard the tiger’s roar;-- - - But let the sound roll on! - It hath no tone of dread - For those that from their toils are gone,-- - There slumber England’s dead. - - Loud rush the torrent floods - The western wilds among, - And free in green Columbia’s woods - The hunter’s bow is strung;-- - - But let the floods rush on! - Let the arrow’s flight be sped! - Why should they reck whose task is done?-- - There slumber England’s dead. - - The mountain-storms rise high - In the snowy Pyrenees, - And toss the pine-boughs through the sky - Like rose-leaves on the breeze;-- - - But let the storm rage on! - Let the fresh wreaths be shed! - For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,-- - There slumber England’s dead. - - On the frozen deep’s repose - ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour, - When round the ship the ice-fields close, - And the northern night-clouds lour;-- - - But let the ice drift on! - Let the cold-blue desert spread! - Their course with mast and flag is done,-- - Even there sleep England’s dead. - - The war-like of the isles, - The men of field and wave! - Are not the rocks their funeral piles, - The seas and shores their grave? - - Go, stranger! track the deep-- - Free, free the white sail spread! - Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, - Where rest not England’s dead. - - _Felicia Hemans._ - - - - -MACAULAY - - -LV - -THE ARMADA - - Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England’s praise; - I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, - When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain - The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. - It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, - There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; - Her crew hath seen Castile’s black fleet, beyond Aurigny’s isle, - At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. - At sunrise she escaped their van, by God’s especial grace; - And the tall _Pinta_, till the noon, had held her close in chase. - Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; - The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe’s lofty hall; - Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast, - And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. - With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; - Behind him march the halberdiers; before him sound the drums; - His yeomen round the market cross make clear an ample space; - For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace. - And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, - As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. - Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, - And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down! - So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, - Bohemia’s plume, and Genoa’s bow, and Cæsar’s eagle shield. - So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, - And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. - Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, - fair maids: - Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades: - Thou sun, shine on her joyously: ye breezes, waft her wide; - Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of our pride. - - The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner’s massy fold; - The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold; - Night sank upon the dusky beach and on the purple sea, - Such night in England ne’er had been, nor e’er again shall be. - From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, - That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; - For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread, - High on St. Michael’s Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head. - Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, - Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire. - The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar’s glittering waves: - The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip’s sunless caves! - O’er Longleat’s towers, o’er Cranbourne’s oaks, the fiery - herald flew: - He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu. - Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, - And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down; - The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night; - And saw o’erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red light: - Then bugle’s note and cannon’s roar the death-like silence broke, - And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. - At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires; - At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; - From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear; - And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer; - And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, - And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each - roaring street; - And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, - As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in. - And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, - And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent. - Southward from Surrey’s pleasant hills flew those bright couriers - forth; - High on bleak Hampstead’s swarthy moor they started for the north; - And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still: - All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from - hill to hill: - Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o’er Darwin’s rocky dales, - Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales, - Till twelve fair Counties saw the blaze on Malvern’s lonely height, - Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin’s crest of light, - Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely’s stately fane, - And tower and hamlet rose in arms o’er all the boundless plain; - Till Belvoir’s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, - And Lincoln sped the message on o’er the wide vale of Trent; - Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt’s embattled pile, - And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. - - _Macaulay._ - - -LVI - -A JACOBITE’S EPITAPH - - To my true king I offered free from stain - Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. - For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, - And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. - For him I languished in a foreign clime, - Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood’s prime; - Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees, - And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; - Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, - Each morning started from the dream to weep; - Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave - The resting-place I asked--an early grave. - O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, - From that proud country which was once mine own, - By those white cliffs I never more must see, - By that dear language which I speak like thee, - Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear - O’er English dust. A broken heart lies here. - - _Lord Macaulay._ - - - - -TRENCH - - -LVII - -THE TASK - - Yes, let us own it in confession free, - That when we girt ourselves to quell the wrong, - We deemed it not so giant-like and strong, - But it with our slight effort thought to see - Pushed from its base; yea, almost deemed that we, - Champions of right, might be excused the price - Of pain, and loss, and large self-sacrifice, - Set ever on high things by Heav’n’s decree. - What if this work’s great hardness was concealed - From us, until so far upon our way - That no escape remained us, no retreat,-- - Lest, being at an earlier hour revealed, - We might have shrunk too weakly from the heat, - And shunned the burden of this fiery day? - - _Richard Chenevix Trench._ - - -LVIII - -THE UNFORGOTTEN - - Whom for thy race of heroes wilt thou own, - And, England, who shall be thy joy, thy pride? - As thou art just, oh then not those alone - Who nobly conquering lived, or conquering died. - - Then also in thy roll of heroes write, - For well they earned what best thou canst bestow, - Who being girt and armèd for the fight, - Yielded their arms, but to no mortal foe. - - Far off they pined on fever-stricken coast, - Or sank in sudden arms of painful death; - And faces which their eyes desired the most, - They saw not, as they drew their parting breath. - - Sad doom, to know a mighty work in hand, - Which shall from all the ages honour win; - Upon the threshold of this work to stand, - Arrested there, while others enter in. - - And this was theirs; they saw their fellows bound - To fields of fame which they might never share; - And all the while within their own hearts found - A strength that was not less, to do and dare: - - But knew that never, never with their peers, - They should salute some grand day’s glorious close, - The shout of triumph ringing in their ears, - The light of battle shining on their brows. - - Sad doom;--yet say not Heaven to them assigned - A lot from all of glory quite estranged: - Albeit the laurel which they hoped to bind - About their brows for cypress wreath was changed. - - Heaven gave to them a glory stern, austere, - A glory of all earthly glory shorn; - With firm heart to accept fate’s gift severe, - Bravely to bear the thing that must be borne; - - To see such visions fade and turn to nought, - And in this saddest issue to consent; - If only the great work were duly wrought, - That others should accomplish it, content. - - Then as thou wouldst thyself continue great, - Keep a true eye for what is great indeed; - Nor know it only in its lofty state - And victor’s robes, but in its lowliest weed. - - And now, and when this dreadful work is done, - England, be these too thy delight and pride; - Wear them as near thy heart as any one - Of all who conquering lived, or conquering died. - - _Richard Chenevix Trench._ - - - - -BROWNING - - -LIX - -THE FORCED RECRUIT - -(_Solferino, 1859_) - - In the ranks of the Austrian you found him, - He died with his face to you all; - Yet bury him here where around him - You honour your bravest that fall. - - Venetian, fair-featured and slender, - He lies shot to death in his youth, - With a smile on his lips over-tender - For any mere soldier’s dead mouth. - - No stranger, and yet not a traitor, - Though alien the cloth on his breast, - Underneath it how seldom a greater - Young heart has a shot sent to rest! - - By your enemy tortured and goaded - To march with them, stand in their file, - His musket (see) never was loaded, - He facing your guns with that smile! - - As orphans yearn on to their mothers, - He yearned to your patriot bands;-- - Let me die for our Italy, brothers, - If not in your ranks, by your hands! - - ‘Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me - A ball in the body which may - Deliver my heart here, and tear me - This badge of the Austrian away!’ - - So thought he, so died he this morning. - What then? Many others have died. - Ay, but easy for men to die scorning - The death-stroke, who fought side by side-- - - One tricolor floating above them; - Struck down ’mid triumphant acclaims - Of an Italy rescued to love them - And blazen the brass with their names. - - But he,--without witness or honour, - Mixed, shamed in his country’s regard, - With the tyrants who march in upon her, - Died faithful and passive: ’twas hard. - - ’Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction - Cut off from the guerdon of sons, - With most filial obedience, conviction, - His soul kissed the lips of her guns. - - That moves you? Nay, grudge not to show it, - While digging a grave for him here: - The others who died, says your poet, - Have glory,--let _him_ have a tear. - - _Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ - - - - -TENNYSON - - -LX - -THE ANSWER - - You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease, - Within this region I subsist, - Whose spirits falter in the mist, - And languish for the purple seas. - - It is the land that freemen till, - That sober-suited Freedom chose, - The land, where girt with friends or foes - A man may speak the thing he will; - - A land of settled government, - A land of just and old renown, - Where Freedom slowly broadens down - From precedent to precedent: - - Where faction seldom gathers head, - But by degrees to fulness wrought, - The strength of some diffusive thought - Hath time and space to work and spread. - - Should banded unions persecute - Opinion, and induce a time - When single thought is civil crime, - And individual freedom mute; - - Tho’ Power should make from land to land - The name of Britain trebly great-- - Tho’ every channel of the State - Should fill and choke with golden sand-- - - Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, - Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, - And I will see before I die - The palms and temples of the South. - - _Tennyson._ - - -LXI - -FREEDOM - - Of old sat Freedom on the heights, - The thunders breaking at her feet: - Above her shook the starry lights: - She heard the torrents meet. - - There in her place she did rejoice, - Self-gather’d in her prophet mind, - But fragments of her mighty voice - Came rolling on the wind. - - Then stept she down thro’ town and field - To mingle with the human race, - And part by part to men reveal’d - The fullness of her face-- - - Grave mother of majestic works, - From her isle-altar gazing down, - Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, - And, King-like, wears the crown: - - Her open eyes desire the truth. - The wisdom of a thousand years - Is in them. May perpetual youth - Keep dry their light from tears; - - That her fair form may stand and shine, - Make bright our days and light our dreams, - Turning to scorn with lips divine - The falsehood of extremes! - - _Tennyson._ - - -LXII - -BATTLE SONG - - Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums, - That beat to battle where he stands; - Thy face across his fancy comes, - And gives the battle to his hands: - A moment, while the trumpets blow, - He sees his brood about thy knee; - The next, like fire he meets the foe, - And strikes him dead for thine and thee. - - _Tennyson._ - - -LXIII - -VICTORIA’S REIGN - - Her court was pure; her life serene; - God gave her peace; her land reposed; - A thousand claims to reverence closed - In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; - - And statesmen at her council met - Who knew the seasons when to take - Occasion by the hand, and make - The bounds of freedom wider yet - - By shaping some august decree, - Which kept her throne unshaken still, - Broad-based upon her people’s will, - And compass’d by the inviolate sea. - - _Tennyson._ - - -LXIV - -HANDS ALL ROUND - - First pledge our Queen this solemn night, - Then drink to England, every guest; - That man’s the best Cosmopolite - Who loves his native country best. - May freedom’s oak for ever live - With stronger life from day to day; - That man’s the true Conservative - Who lops the mouldered branch away. - Hands all round! - God the traitor’s hope confound! - To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, - And the great name of England, round and round. - - To all the loyal hearts who long - To keep our English Empire whole! - To all our noble sons, the strong - New England of the Southern Pole! - To England under Indian skies, - To those dark millions of her realm! - To Canada whom we love and prize, - Whatever statesman hold the helm. - Hands all round! - God the traitor’s hope confound! - To this great name of England drink, my friends, - And all her glorious Empire round and round. - - To all our statesmen so they be - True leaders of the land’s desire! - To both our Houses, may they see - Beyond the borough and the shire! - We sail’d wherever ship could sail, - We founded many a mighty state; - Pray God our greatness may not fail - Thro’ craven fears of being great. - Hands all round! - God the traitor’s hope confound! - To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, - And the great name of England, round and round. - - _Tennyson._ - - -LXV - -BRITONS, HOLD YOUR OWN! - - Britain fought her sons of yore-- - Britain fail’d; and never more, - Careless of our growing kin, - Shall we sin our fathers’ sin, - Men that in a narrower day-- - Unprophetic rulers they-- - Drove from out the mother’s nest - That young eagle of the West - To forage for herself alone; - Britons, hold your own! - - Sharers of our glorious past, - Brothers, must we part at last? - Shall we not thro’ good and ill - Cleave to one another still? - Britain’s myriad voices call, - ‘Sons, be wedded each and all, - Into one imperial whole, - One with Britain, heart and soul! - One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne! - Britons, hold your own!’ - - _Tennyson._ - - -LXVI - -WELLINGTON AT ST. PAUL’S - - Who is he that cometh, like an honour’d guest, - With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, - With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest? - Mighty Seaman, this is he - Was great by land as thou by sea. - Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, - The greatest sailor since our world began. - Now to the roll of muffled drums, - To thee the greatest soldier comes; - For this is he - Was great by land as thou by sea; - His foes were thine; he kept us free; - O give him welcome, this is he - Worthy of our gorgeous rites, - And worthy to be laid by thee; - For this is England’s greatest son, - He that gained a hundred fights, - Nor ever lost an English gun. - - Mighty Seaman, tender and true, - And pure as he from taint of craven guile, - O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, - O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, - If aught of things that here befall - Touch a spirit among things divine, - If love of country move thee there at all, - Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine! - And thro’ the centuries let a people’s voice - In full acclaim, - A people’s voice, - The proof and echo of all human fame, - A people’s voice, when they rejoice - At civic revel and pomp and game, - Attest their great commander’s claim - With honour, honour, honour, honour to him, - Eternal honour to his name. - - A people’s voice! we are a people yet. - Tho’ all men else their nobler dreams forget, - Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers; - Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set - His Briton in blown seas and storming showers, - We have a voice, with which to pay the debt - Of boundless love and reverence and regret - To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. - And keep it ours, O God, from brute control; - O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul - Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, - And save the one true seed of freedom sown, - Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, - That sober freedom out of which there springs - Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; - For, saving that, ye help to save mankind - Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, - And drill the raw world for the march of mind, - Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. - - Not once or twice in our fair island-story, - The path of duty was the way to glory: - He that ever following her commands, - On with toil of heart and knees and hands, - Thro’ the long gorge to the far light has won - His path upward, and prevail’d, - Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled - Are close upon the shining table-lands - To which our God Himself is moon and sun. - - Hush! the Dead March wails in the people’s ears: - The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears: - The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears; - Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; - He is gone who seem’d so great.-- - Gone; but nothing can bereave him - Of the force he made his own - Being here, and we believe him - Something far advanced in State, - And that he wears a truer crown - Than any wreath that man can weave him. - - Speak no more of his renown, - Lay your earthly fancies down, - And in the vast cathedral leave him! - God accept him, Christ receive him! - - _Tennyson._ - - -LXVII - -THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE - - Half a league, half a league, - Half a league onward, - All in the valley of Death - Rode the six hundred. - ‘Forward, the Light Brigade! - Charge for the guns!’ he said: - Into the valley of Death - Rode the six hundred. - - ‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’ - Was there a man dismay’d? - Not tho’ the soldier knew - Some one had blunder’d: - Their’s not to make reply, - Their’s not to reason why, - Their’s but to do and die: - Into the valley of Death - Rode the six hundred. - - Cannon to right of them, - Cannon to left of them, - Cannon in front of them - Volley’d and thunder’d; - Storm’d at with shot and shell, - Boldly they rode and well, - Into the jaws of Death, - Into the mouth of Hell - Rode the six hundred. - - Flash’d all their sabres bare, - Flash’d as they turn’d in air - Sabring the gunners there, - Charging an army, while - All the world wonder’d: - Plunged in the battery-smoke - Right thro’ the line they broke; - Cossack and Russian - Reel’d from the sabre-stroke - Shatter’d and sunder’d. - Then they rode back, but not - Not the six hundred. - - Cannon to right of them, - Cannon to left of them, - Cannon behind them - Volley’d and thunder’d; - Storm’d at with shot and shell, - While horse and hero fell, - They that had fought so well - Came thro’ the jaws of Death, - Back from the mouth of Hell, - All that was left of them, - Left of six hundred. - - When can their glory fade? - O the wild charge they made! - All the world wonder’d. - Honour the charge they made! - Honour the Light Brigade, - Noble six hundred! - - _Tennyson._ - - -LXVIII - -THE USE OF WAR - - Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? We have made - them a curse, - Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; - And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse - Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own - hearthstone? - - Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, - When the poor are hovell’d and hustled together, each sex, - like swine, - When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie; - Peace in her vineyard--yes!--but a company forges the wine. - - And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian’s head, - And the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, - And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, - And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life, - When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, - And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children’s bones, - Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land and sea, - War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. - - For I trust if an enemy’s fleet came yonder round by the hill - And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out - of the foam, - That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his - counter and till, - And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard-wand, - home! - - _Lord Tennyson._ - - - - -DOYLE - - -LXIX - -THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS - - Last night, among his fellow roughs, - He jested, quaffed, and swore; - A drunken private of the Buffs, - Who never looked before. - To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown, - He stands in Elgin’s place, - Ambassador from Britain’s crown, - And type of all her race. - - Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, - Bewildered, and alone, - A heart, with English instinct fraught, - He yet can call his own. - Ay, tear his body limb from limb, - Bring cord, or axe, or flame: - He only knows, that not through _him_ - Shall England come to shame. - - Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed, - Like dreams, to come and go; - Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, - One sheet of living snow; - The smoke, above his father’s door, - In grey soft eddyings hung: - Must he then watch it rise no more, - Doomed by himself, so young? - - Yes, honour calls!--with strength like steel - He put the vision by. - Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; - An English lad must die. - And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, - With knee to man unbent, - Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, - To his red grave he went. - - Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed; - Vain, those all-shattering guns; - Unless proud England keep, untamed, - The strong heart of her sons. - So, let his name through Europe ring-- - A man of mean estate, - Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king, - Because his soul was great. - - _Sir Francis Hastings Doyle._ - - - - -BROWNING - - -LXX - -HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD - - O, to be in England, - Now that April’s there, - And whoever wakes in England - Sees, some morning, unaware, - That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf, - Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, - While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough - In England--now! - And after April, when May follows, - And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows-- - Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge - Leans to the field and scatters on the clover - Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray’s edge-- - That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, - Lest you should think he never could recapture - The first fine careless rapture! - And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, - All will be gay when noontide wakes anew - The buttercups, the little children’s dower, - --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! - - _Robert Browning._ - - -LXXI - -HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA - - Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-West died away; - Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; - Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; - In the dimmest North-East distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey; - ‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’--say, - Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, - While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. - - _Robert Browning._ - - - - -MACKAY - - -LXXII - -A SONG OF ENGLAND - - There’s a land, a dear land, where the rights of the free, - Though firm as the earth are as wide as the sea; - Where the primroses bloom, and the nightingales sing, - And the honest poor man is as good as a king. - Showery! Flowery! - Tearful! Cheerful! - England, wave-guarded and green to the shore! - West Land! Best Land! - Thy Land! My Land! - Glory be with her, and Peace evermore! - - There’s a land, a dear land, where our vigour of soul, - Is fed by the tempests that blow from the Pole; - Where a slave cannot breathe, or invader presume, - To ask for more earth than will cover his tomb. - Sea Land! Free Land! - Fairest! Rarest! - Home of brave men, and the girls they adore! - Fearless! Peerless! - Thy Land! My Land! - Glory be with her, and Peace evermore! - - _Charles Mackay._ - - - - -CLOUGH - - -LXXIII - -GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND - - Green fields of England! wheresoe’er - Across this watery waste we fare, - One image at our hearts we bear, - Green fields of England everywhere. - - Sweet eyes in England, I must flee - Past where the waves’ last confines be, - Ere your loved smile I cease to see, - Sweet eyes in England, dear to me! - - Dear home in England, safe and fast - If but in thee my lot lie cast, - The past shall seem a nothing past - To thee, dear home, if won at last; - Dear home in England, won at last! - - _Arthur Hugh Clough._ - - -LXXIV - -THE RALLY - - Say not the struggle naught availeth, - The labour and the wounds are vain, - The enemy faints not, nor faileth, - And as things have been they remain. - - If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; - It may be, in yon smoke conceal’d, - Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers, - And, but for you, possess the field. - - For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, - Seem here no painful inch to gain, - Far back, through creeks and inlets making, - Comes silent, flooding in, the main. - - And not by eastern windows only, - When daylight comes, comes in the light; - In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! - But westward, look, the land is bright! - - _Arthur Hugh Clough._ - - - - -KINGSLEY - - -LXXV - -ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND - - Welcome, wild North-Easter! - Shame it is to see - Odes to every zephyr; - Ne’er a verse to thee. - Welcome, black North-Easter! - O’er the German foam; - O’er the Danish moorlands, - From thy frozen home. - Tired we are of summer, - Tired of gaudy glare, - Showers soft and steaming, - Hot and breathless air. - Tired of listless dreaming, - Through the lazy day: - Jovial wind of winter, - Turn us out to play! - Sweep the golden reed-beds; - Crisp the lazy dyke; - Hunger into madness - Every plunging pike. - Fill the lake with wild-fowl; - Fill the marsh with snipe; - While on dreary moorlands - Lonely curlew pipe. - Through the black fir-forest - Thunder harsh and dry, - Shattering down the snow-flakes - Off the curdled sky. - Hark! the brave North-Easter! - Breast-high lies the scent, - On by holt and headland, - Over heath and bent! - Chime, ye dappled darlings, - Through the sleet and snow. - Who can override you? - Let the horses go! - Chime, ye dappled darlings, - Down the roaring blast; - You shall see a fox die - Ere an hour be past. - Go! and rest to-morrow, - Hunting in your dreams, - While our skates are ringing - O’er the frozen streams. - Let the luscious South-wind - Breathe in lovers’ sighs, - While the lazy gallants - Bask in ladies’ eyes. - What does he but soften - Heart alike and pen? - ’Tis the hard grey weather - Breeds hard Englishmen. - What’s the soft South-Wester? - ’Tis the ladies’ breeze, - Bringing home their true loves - Out of all the seas: - But the black North-Easter, - Through the snow-storms hurled, - Drives our English hearts of oak - Seaward round the world. - Come, as came our fathers, - Heralded by thee, - Conquering from the eastward, - Lords by land and sea. - Come; and strong within us - Stir the Vikings’ blood; - Bracing brain and sinew; - Blow, thou wind of God! - - _Charles Kingsley._ - - - - -YULE - - -LXXVI - -THE _BIRKENHEAD_ - - Amid the loud ebriety of War, - With shouts of ‘La République’ and ‘La Gloire,’ - The _Vengeur’s_ crew, ’twas said, with flying flag - And broadside blazing level with the wave - Went down erect, defiant, to their grave - Beneath the sea! ’Twas but a Frenchman’s brag, - Yet Europe rang with it for many a year. - Now we recount no fable; Europe, hear! - And when they tell thee ‘England is a fen - ‘Corrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay, - ‘Her nerveless burghers lying an easy prey - ‘For the first comer,’ tell how the other day - A crew of half a thousand Englishmen - Went down into the deep in Simon’s Bay! - - Not with the cheer of battle in the throat, - Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood, - But, roused from dreams of home to find their boat - Fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood, - Biding God’s pleasure and their chief’s command. - Calm was the sea, but not less calm that band - Close ranged upon the poop, with bated breath - But flinching not though eye to eye with Death! - - Heroes! Who were those heroes? Veterans steeled - To face the King of Terrors ’mid the scaith - Of many a hurricane and trenchèd field? - Far other: weavers from the stocking-frame; - Boys from the plough; cornets with beardless chin, - But steeped in honour and in discipline! - - Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred name, - Long since divorced from Hope suggests but shame, - Disaster, and thy captains held at bay - By naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thank - Heaven for those undegenerate sons who sank - Aboard the _Birkenhead_ in Simon’s Bay! - - _Sir Henry Yule._ - - - - -CORY - - -LXXVII - -SCHOOL FENCIBLES - - We come in arms, we stand ten score, - Embattled on the Castle green; - We grasp our firelocks tight, for war - Is threatening, and we see our Queen. - And ‘Will the churls last out till we - Have duly hardened bones and thews - For scouring leagues of swamp and sea - Of braggart mobs and corsair crews?’ - We ask; we fear not scoff or smile - At meek attire of blue and grey, - For the proud wrath that thrills our isle - Gives faith and force to this array. - So great a charm is England’s right, - That hearts enlarged together flow, - And each man rises up a knight - To work the evil-thinker’s woe. - And, girt with ancient truth and grace, - We do our service and our suit, - And each can be, whate’er his race, - A Chandos or a Montacute. - Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day, - Bless the real swords that we shall wield, - Repeat the call we now obey - In sunset lands, on some fair field. - Thy flag shall make some Huron rock - As dear to us as Windsor’s keep, - And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mock - The surgings of th’ Ontarian deep. - The stately music of thy Guards, - Which times our march beneath thy ken, - Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards, - From heart to heart, when we are men. - And when we bleed on alien earth, - We’ll call to mind how cheers of ours - Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth - Amongst thy glowing orange bowers. - And if for England’s sake we fall, - So be it, so thy cross be won, - Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall, - And worn in death, for duty done. - Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier’s mate, - Blending his image with the hopes of youth - To hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate - Chills not our fancies with the iron truth. - Death from afar we call, and Death is here, - To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien; - And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer, - Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our Queen. - - _William Cory._ - - - - -HOW - - -LXXVIII - -A NATIONAL HYMN - - To Thee, our God, we fly - For mercy and for grace; - O hear our lowly cry, - And hide not Thou Thy face! - O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand, - And guard and bless our Fatherland! - - Arise, O Lord of Hosts! - Be jealous for Thy Name, - And drive from out our coasts - The sins that put to shame! - O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand, - And guard and bless our Fatherland! - - The powers ordained by Thee - With heavenly wisdom bless, - May they Thy servants be, - And rule in righteousness! - O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand, - And guard and bless our Fatherland! - - Though vile and worthless, still, - Thy people, Lord, are we; - And for our God we will - None other have but Thee. - O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand, - And guard and bless our Fatherland! - - _William Walsham How._ - - - - - INGRAM - - - LXXIX - - A NATION’S WEALTH - - O England, thou hast many a precious dower; - But of all treasures it is thine to claim, - Prize most the memory of each sainted name, - That in thy realm, in field or hall or bower - Hath wrought high deeds or utter’d words of power-- - Unselfish warrior, without fear or blame-- - Statesman, with sleepless watch and steadfast aim - Holding his country’s helm in perilous hour-- - Poet, whose heart is with us to this day - Embalm’d in song--or Priest, who by the ark - Of faith stood firm in troublous times and dark. - Call them not dead, my England! such as they - Not _were_ but _are_; within us each survives, - And lives an endless life in others’ lives. - - _John Kells Ingram._ - - - - -LUSHINGTON - - -LXXX - -THE MUSTER OF THE GUARDS - -(1854) - - Lying here awake, I hear the watchman’s warning-- - ‘Past four o’clock’--on this February morning; - Hark! what is that?--there swells a joyous shiver - Borne down the wind o’er the voices of the river; - O’er the lordly waters flowing, ’tis the martial trumpets blowing, - ’Tis the Grenadier Guards a-going--marching to the war. - - Yes--there they go, through the February morning, - To where the engine whistles its shrill and solemn warning; - And the dull hoarse roar of the multitudes that cheer - Falls ever and anon with a faint crash on the ear; - ’Mid the tears of wives and mothers, and the prayers of many others, - And the cheers of their brothers, they are marching to the war. - - Cheer, boys, cheer! till you crack a thousand throats; - Cheer, boys, cheer! to the merry music’s notes; - Let the girls they leave behind them wave handkerchiefs and scarfs, - Let the hearty farewell ring through the echoing streets - and wharfs; - Come--volley out your holloas--come, cheer the gallant fellows, - The gallant and good fellows, marching to the war. - - Bridge of Waterloo!--let the span of each proud arch - Spring to the feet of the soldiers as they march; - For the last time they went forth, your glorious name was borne - Where the bullets rained like hail among the summer corn: - Ah! we’ll not forget too soon the great Eighteenth of June, - While the British Grenadier’s tune strikes up gaily for the war. - - Bridge of Waterloo!--accept the happy omen, - For the staunchest friends are wrought out of the bravest foemen: - Guards of Waterloo!--the troops whose brunt you bore - Shall stand at your right hand upon the Danube’s shore; - And Trafalgar’s flags shall ride on the tall masts, side by side, - O’er the Black Sea and the Baltic, to sweep the waves of war. - - Die, die away, o’er the bridge and up the street, - Shiver of their music, echo of their feet: - Dawn upon the darkness, chilly day and pale; - Steady rolling engine, flash along the rail; - For the good ship waits in port, with her tackle trim and taut, - And her ready funnels snort, till she bear them to the war. - - Far, far away, they are bound across the billow, - Where the Russian sleeps uneasy on his last plundered pillow; - Where the Cross is stained with fraud by the giant evil-doer, - And the pale Crescent shines with a steady light and pure; - And their coats will be dim with dust, and their bayonets - brown with rust, - Ere they conquer, as we trust, in the mighty game of war. - - Peace, peace, peace, with the vain and silly song, - That we do no sin ourselves, if we wink at others’ wrong; - That to turn the second cheek is _the_ lesson of the Cross, - To be proved by calculation of the profit and the loss: - Go home, you idle teachers! you miserable creatures! - The cannons are God’s preachers, when the time is ripe for war. - - Peace is no peace, if it lets the ill grow stronger, - Merely cheating destiny a very little longer; - War, with its agonies, its horrors, and its crimes; - Is cheaper if discounted and taken up betimes: - When the weeds of wrath are rank, you must plough the poisoned bank, - Sow and reap the crop of Peace with the implements of war. - - God, defend the right, and those that dare to claim it! - God, cleanse the earth from the many wrongs that shame it! - Give peace in our time, but not the peace of trembling, - Won by true strength, not cowardly dissembling; - Let us see in pride returning, as we send them forth in yearning, - Our Grenadier Guards from earning the trophies of the war. - - _Sir Franklin Lushington._ - - - - -PALGRAVE - - -LXXXI - -ALFRED THE GREAT - - The Isle of Roses in her Lindian shrine, - Athena’s dwelling, gleam’d with golden song - Of Pindar, set in gold the walls along, - Blazoning the praise of Héraclés divine. - --O Poets, who for us have wrought the mine - Of old Romance, illusive pearl and gold, - Its star-fair maids, knights of heroic mould, - Ye lend the rays that on their features shine, - - Ideal strength and beauty:--But O thou - Fair Truth!--to thee with deeper faith we bow; - Knowing thy genuine heroes bring with them - Their more than poetry. From these we learn - What men can be. By their own light they burn - As in far heavens the Pleiad diadem. - - The fair-hair’d boy is at his mother’s knee, - A many-colour’d page before them spread, - Gay summer harvest-field of gold and red, - With lines and staves of ancient minstrelsy. - But through her eyes alone the child can see, - From her sweet lips partake the words of song, - And looks as one who feels a hidden wrong, - Or gazes on some feat of gramarye. - - ‘When thou canst use it, thine the book!’ she cried: - He blush’d, and clasp’d it to his breast with pride:-- - ‘Unkingly task!’ his comrades cry; in vain; - All work ennobles nobleness, all art, - He sees; head governs hand; and in his heart - All knowledge for his province he has ta’en. - - Few the bright days, and brief the fruitful rest, - As summer-clouds that o’er the valley flit:-- - To other tasks his genius he must fit; - The Dane is in the land, uneasy guest!--O - sacred Athelney, from pagan quest - Secure, sole haven for the faithful boy - Waiting God’s issue with heroic joy - And unrelaxing purpose in the breast! - - The Dragon and the Raven, inch by inch, - For England fight; nor Dane nor Saxon flinch; - Then Alfred strikes his blow; the realm is free:-- - He, changing at the font his foe to friend, - Yields for the time, to gain the far-off end, - By moderation doubling victory. - - O much-vex’d life, for us too short, too dear! - The laggard body lame behind the soul; - Pain, that ne’er marr’d the mind’s serene control; - Breathing on earth heaven’s æther atmosphere, - God with thee, and the love that casts out fear! - O soul in life’s salt ocean guarding sure - The freshness of youth’s fountain sweet and pure, - And to all natural impulse crystal-clear:-- - - To service or command, to low and high - Equal at once in magnanimity, - The Great by right divine thou only art! - Fair star, that crowns the front of England’s morn, - Royal with Nature’s royalty inborn, - And English to the very heart of heart! - - _Francis Turner Palgrave._ - - -LXXXII - -TRAFALGAR - - _Heard ye the thunder of battle - Low in the South and afar? - Saw ye the flash of the death-cloud - Crimson o’er Trafalgar? - Such another day never - England will look on again, - When the battle fought was the hottest, - And the hero of heroes was slain!_ - - For the fleet of France and the force of Spain were gather’d - for fight, - A greater than Philip their lord, a new Armada in might:-- - And the sails were aloft once more in the deep Gaditanian bay, - Where _Redoubtable_ and _Bucentaure_ and great _Trinidada_ lay; - - Eager-reluctant to close; for across the bloodshed to be - Two navies beheld one prize in its glory,--the throne of the sea! - Which were bravest, who should tell? for both were gallant and true; - But the greatest seaman was ours, of all that sail’d o’er the blue. - - From Cadiz the enemy sallied: they knew not Nelson was there; - His name a navy to us, but to them a flag of despair; - ’Twixt Algeziras and Aquamonte he guarded the coast, - Till he bore from Tavira south; and they now must fight or be lost;-- - Vainly they steered for the Rock and the mid-land sheltering sea, - For he headed the Admirals round, constraining them under his lee, - Villeneuve of France, and Gravina of Spain; so they shifted - their ground, - They could choose,--they were more than we;--and they faced at - Trafalgar round; - Rampart-like ranged in line, a sea-fortress angrily towered! - In the midst, four-storied with guns, the dark _Trinidada_ lower’d. - - So with those--But, meanwhile, as against some dyke that men - massively rear, - From on high the torrent surges, to drive through the dyke - as a spear, - Eagle-eyed e’en in his blindness, our chief sets his double array, - Making the fleet two spears, to thrust at the foe any way, ... - ‘Anyhow!--without orders, each captain his Frenchman may grapple - perforce; - Collingwood first’ (yet the _Victory_ ne’er a whit slacken’d - her course) - ‘Signal for action! Farewell! we shall win, but we meet not again!’ - --Then a low thunder of readiness ran from the decks o’er the main, - And on,--as the message from masthead to masthead flew out - like a flame, - ENGLAND EXPECTS EVERY MAN WILL DO HIS DUTY,--they came. - - --Silent they come:--While the thirty black forts of the foeman’s - array - Clothe them in billowy snow, tier speaking o’er tier as they lay; - Flashes that thrust and drew in, as swords when the battle is rife;-- - But ours stood frowningly smiling, and ready for death as for life. - --O in that interval grim, ere the furies of slaughter embrace, - Thrills o’er each man some far echo of England; some glance - of some face! - --Faces gazing seaward through tears from the ocean-girt shore; - Faces that ne’er can be gazed on again till the death pang - is o’er.... - Lone in his cabin the Admiral kneeling, and all his great heart - As a child’s to the mother, goes forth to the loved one, who - bade him depart - ... O not for death, but glory! her smile would welcome him home! - --Louder and thicker the thunderbolts fall:--and silent they come. - - As when beyond Dongola the lion, whom hunters attack, - Plagued by their darts from afar, leaps in, dividing them back; - So between Spaniard and Frenchman the _Victory_ wedged with a shout, - Gun against gun; a cloud from her decks and lightning went out; - Iron hailing of pitiless death from the sulphury smoke; - Voices hoarse and parch’d, and blood from invisible stroke. - Each man stood to his work, though his mates fell smitten around, - As an oak of the wood, while his fellow, flame-shatter’d, besplinters - the ground:-- - Gluttons of danger for England, but sparing the foe as he lay; - For the spirit of Nelson was on them, and each was Nelson that day. - - ‘She has struck!’--he shouted--‘She burns, the _Redoubtable_! Save - whom we can; - ‘Silence our guns:’--for in him the woman was great in the man, - In that heroic heart each drop girl-gentle and pure, - Dying by those he spared;--and now Death’s triumph was sure! - From the deck the smoke-wreath clear’d, and the foe set his - rifle in rest, - Dastardly aiming, where Nelson stood forth, with the stars on - his breast,-- - ‘In honour I gained them, in honour I die with them!’ ... Then, - in his place, - Fell ... ‘Hardy! ’tis over; but let them not know:’ and he cover’d - his face. - Silent the whole fleet’s darling they bore to the twilight below: - And above the war-thunder came shouting, as foe struck his - flag after foe. - - To his heart death rose: and for Hardy, the faithful, he cried in - his pain,-- - ‘How goes the day with us, Hardy?’... - ‘’Tis ours’:-- - Then he knew, not in vain - Not in vain for his comrades and England he bled: how he left - her secure, - Queen of her own blue seas, while his name and example endure. - O, like a lover he loved her! for her as water he pours - Life-blood and life and love, lavish’d all for her sake, and for ours! - --‘Kiss me, Hardy!--Thank God!--I have done my duty!’--and then - Fled that heroic soul, and left not his like among men. - - _Hear ye the heart of a Nation - Groan, for her saviour is gone; - Gallant and true and tender, - Child and chieftain in one? - Such another day never - England will weep for again, - When the triumph darkened the triumph, - And the hero of heroes was slain._ - - _Francis Turner Palgrave._ - - - - -DOBELL - - -LXXXIII - -A SEA ADVENTURE - - ‘How many?’ said our good captain, - ‘Twenty sail and more!’ - We were homeward bound, - Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the Nore;-- - Right athwart our tack, - The foe came thick and black, - Like hell-birds and foul weather--you might count them by the score! - - The _Betsy Jane_ did slack - To see the game in view; - They knew the Union Jack, - And the tyrant’s flag we knew. - Our captain shouted, ‘Clear the decks!’ and the bo’sun’s whistle blew. - - Then our gallant captain, - With his hand he seized the wheel, - And pointed with his stump to the middle of the foe,-- - ‘Hurrah, lads, in we go!’ - (You should hear the British cheer, - Fore and aft!) - - ‘There are twenty sail,’ sang he, - ‘But little _Betsy Jane_ bobs to nothing on the sea!’ - (You should hear the British cheer, - Fore and aft!) - - ‘See yon ugly craft - With the pennon at her main! - Hurrah, my merry boys, - There goes the _Betsy Jane_!’ - (You should hear the British cheer, - Fore and aft!) - - The foe, he beats to quarters, and the Russian bugles sound; - And the little _Betsy Jane_ she leaps upon the sea. - ‘Port and starboard!’ cried our captain; - ‘Pay it in, my hearts!’ sang he. - - ‘We’re old England’s sons, - And we’ll fight for her to-day!’ - (You should hear the British cheer, - Fore and aft!) - ‘Fire away!’ - - In she runs, - And her guns - Thunder round. - - _Sydney Dobell._ - - - - -ALEXANDER - - -LXXXIV - -WAR - - They say that ‘war is hell,’ the ‘great accursed,’ - The sin impossible to be forgiven; - Yet I can look beyond it at its worst, - And still find blue in Heaven. - - And as I note how nobly natures form - Under the war’s red rain, I deem it true - That He who made the earthquake and the storm - Perchance makes battles too! - - The life He loves is not the life of span - Abbreviated by each passing breath, - It is the true humanity of man - Victorious over death, - - The long expectance of the upward gaze, - Sense ineradicable of things afar, - Fair hope of finding after many days - The bright and morning star. - - Methinks I see how spirits may be tried, - Transfigured into beauty on war’s verge, - Like flowers, whose tremulous grace is learnt beside - The trampling of the surge. - - And now, not only Englishmen at need - Have won a fiery and unequal fray,-- - No infantry has ever done such deed - Since Albuera’s day! - - Those who live on amid our homes to dwell - Have grasped the higher lessons that endure,-- - The gallant Private learns to practise well - His heroism obscure. - - His heart beats high as one for whom is made - A mighty music solemnly, what time - The oratorio of the cannonade - Rolls through the hills sublime. - - Yet his the dangerous posts that few can mark, - The crimson death, the dread unerring aim, - The fatal ball that whizzes through the dark, - The just-recorded name-- - - The faithful following of the flag all day, - he duty done that brings no nation’s thanks, - The _Ama Nesciri_[1] of some grim and grey - À Kempis of the ranks. - - These are the things our commonweal to guard, - The patient strength that is too proud to press, - The duty done for duty, not reward, - The lofty littleness. - - And they of greater state who never turned, - Taking their path of duty higher and higher, - What do we deem that they, too, may have learned - In that baptismal fire? - - Not that the only end beneath the sun - Is to make every sea a trading lake, - And all our splendid English history one - Voluminous mistake. - - They who marched up the bluffs last stormy week-- - Some of them, ere they reached the mountain’s crown, - The wind of battle breathing on their cheek - Suddenly laid them down. - - Like sleepers--not like those whose race is run-- - Fast, fast asleep amid the cannon’s roar, - Them no reveillé and no morning gun - Shall ever waken more. - - And the boy-beauty passed from off the face - Of those who lived, and into it instead - Came proud forgetfulness of ball and race, - Sweet commune with the dead. - - And thoughts beyond their thoughts the Spirit lent, - And manly tears made mist upon their eyes, - And to them came a great presentiment - Of high self-sacrifice. - - Thus, as the heaven’s many-coloured flames - At sunset are but dust in rich disguise, - The ascending earthquake dust of battle frames - God’s pictures in the skies. - - _William Alexander._ - - [1] The heading of a remarkable chapter in the _De Imitatione - Christi_. - - - - -PROCTER - - -LXXXV - -THE LESSON OF THE WAR - - The feast is spread through England - For rich and poor to-day; - Greetings and laughter may be there, - But thoughts are far away; - Over the stormy ocean, - Over the dreary track, - Where some are gone, whom England - Will never welcome back. - - Breathless she waits, and listens - For every eastern breeze - That bears upon its bloody wings - News from beyond the seas. - The leafless branches stirring - Make many a watcher start; - The distant tramp of steeds may send - A throb from heart to heart. - - The rulers of the nation, - The poor ones at their gate, - With the same eager wonder - The same great news await. - The poor man’s stay and comfort, - The rich man’s joy and pride, - Upon the bleak Crimean shore - Are fighting side by side. - - The bullet comes--and either - A desolate hearth may see; - And God alone to-night knows where - The vacant place may be! - The dread that stirs the peasant - Thrills nobles’ hearts with fear-- - Yet above selfish sorrow - Both hold their country dear. - - The rich man who reposes - In his ancestral shade, - The peasant at his ploughshare, - The worker at his trade, - Each one his all has perilled, - Each has the same great stake, - Each soul can but have patience, - Each heart can only break! - - Hushed is all party clamour; - One thought in every heart, - One dread in every household, - Has bid such strife depart. - England has called her children; - Long silent--the word came - That lit the smouldering ashes - Through all the land to flame. - - O you who toil and suffer, - You gladly heard the call; - But those you sometimes envy - Have they not given their all? - O you who rule the nation, - Take now the toil-worn hand-- - Brothers you are in sorrow, - In duty to your land. - Learn but this noble lesson - Ere Peace returns again, - And the life-blood of Old England - Will not be shed in vain. - - _Adelaide Anne Procter._ - - - - -MASSEY - - -LXXXVI - -SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE’S LAST FIGHT - - Our second Richard Lion-Heart - In days of great Queen Bess, - He did this deed, he played this part, - With true old nobleness, - And wrath heroic that was nursed - To bear the fiercest battle-burst, - When maddened foes should wreak their worst. - - Signalled the English Admiral, - ‘Weigh or cut anchors.’ For - A Spanish fleet bore down, in all - The majesty of war, - Athwart our tack for many a mile, - As there we lay off Florez Isle, - With crews half sick, all tired of toil. - - Eleven of our twelve ships escaped; - Sir Richard stood alone! - Though they were three-and-fifty sail-- - A hundred men to one-- - The old Sea-Rover would not run, - So long as he had man or gun; - But he could die when all was done. - - ‘The Devil’s broken loose, my lads, - In shape of popish Spain: - And we must sink him in the sea, - Or hound him home again. - Now, you old sea-dogs, show your paws! - Have at them tooth and nail and claws!’ - And then his long, bright blade he draws. - - The deck was cleared, the boatswain blew; - The grim sea-lions stand; - The death-fires lit in every eye, - The burning match in hand. - With mail of glorious intent - All hearts were clad; and in they went, - A force that cut through where ’twas sent. - - ‘Push home, my hardy pikemen, - For we play a desperate part; - To-day, my gunners, let them feel - The pulse of England’s heart! - They shall remember long that we - Once lived; and think how shamefully - We shook them--One to fifty-three!’ - - With face of one who cheerily goes - To meet his doom that day, - Sir Richard sprang upon his foes; - The foremost gave him way; - His round shot smashed them through and through, - At every flash white splinters flew, - And madder grew his fighting few. - - They clasp the little ship _Revenge_, - As in the arms of fire; - They run aboard her, six at once; - Hearts beat, hot guns leap higher;-- - Through bloody gaps the boarders swarm, - But still our English stay the storm, - The bulwark in their breast is firm. - - Ship after ship, like broken waves - That wash upon a rock, - Those mighty galleons fall back foiled, - And shattered from the shock. - With fire she answers all their blows; - Again--again in pieces strows - The girdle round her as they close. - - Through all that night the great white storm - Of worlds in silence rolled; - Sirius with green-azure sparkle, - Mars in ruddy gold. - Heaven looked with stillness terrible - Down on a fight most fierce and fell-- - A sea transfigured into hell! - - Some know not they are wounded till - ’Tis slippery where they stand; - Then each one tighter grips his steel, - As ’twere salvation’s hand. - Grim faces glow through lurid night - With sweat of spirit shining bright: - Only the dead on deck turn white. - - At day-break the flame picture fades - In blackness and in blood; - There, after fifteen hours of fight, - The unconquered Sea-King stood - Defying all the power of Spain: - Fifteen armadas hurled in vain, - And fifteen hundred foemen slain! - - About that little bark _Revenge_, - The baffled Spaniards ride - At distance. Two of their good ships - Were sunken at her side; - The rest lie round her in a ring, - As, round the dying forest-king - The dogs afraid of his death-spring. - - Our pikes all broken, powder spent, - Sails, masts to shivers blown; - And with her dead and wounded crew - The ship was settling down. - Sir Richard’s wounds were hot and deep, - Then cried he, with a proud, pale lip, - ‘Ho, Master Gunner, sink the ship!’ - - ‘Make ready now, my mariners, - To go aloft with me, - That nothing to the Spaniard - May remain of victory. - They cannot take us, nor we yield; - So let us leave our battle-field, - Under the shelter of God’s shield.’ - - They had not heart to dare fulfil - The stern commander’s word: - With swelling hearts and welling eyes, - They carried him aboard - The Spaniards’ ship; and round him stand - The warriors of his wasted band: - Then said he, feeling death at hand, - - ‘Here die I, Richard Grenville, - With a joyful and quiet mind; - I reach a soldier’s end, I leave - A soldier’s fame behind. - Who for his Queen and country fought, - For Honour and Religion wrought, - And died as a true soldier ought.’ - - Earth never returned a worthier trust - For hand of Heaven to take, - Since Arthur’s sword, Excalibur, - Was cast into the lake, - And the King’s grievous wounds were dressed, - And healed, by weeping Queens, who blessed, - And bore him to a valley of rest. - - Old heroes who could grandly do, - As they could greatly dare, - A vesture very glorious - Their shining spirits wear - Of noble deeds! God give us grace, - That we may see such face to face, - In our great day that comes apace! - - _Gerald Massey._ - - - - -BROWN - - -LXXXVII - -LAND, HO! - - I know ’tis but a loom of land, - Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice, - I know I cannot hear His voice - Upon the shore, nor see Him stand; - Yet is it land, ho! land. - - The land! the land! the lovely land! - ‘Far off’ dost say? _Far off_--ah, blessed home! - Farewell! farewell! thou salt sea-foam! - Ah, keel upon the silver sand-- - Land, ho! land. - - You cannot see the land, my land, - You cannot see, and yet the land is there-- - My land, my land, through murky air-- - I did not say ’twas close at hand-- - But--land, ho! land. - - Dost hear the bells of my sweet land, - Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds? - No voice, ’tis true, no spoken words, - No tongue that thou may’st understand-- - Yet is it land, ho! land. - - It’s clad in purple mist, my land, - In regal robe it is apparelléd, - A crown is set upon its head, - And on its breast a golden band-- - Land, ho! land. - - Dost wonder that I long for land? - My land is not a land as others are-- - Upon its crest there beams a star, - And lilies grow upon the strand-- - Land, ho! land. - - Give me the helm! there is the land! - Ha! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze! - And what my spirit sees it sees-- - Leap, bark, as leaps the thunderbrand-- - Land, ho! land. - - _Thomas Edward Brown._ - - - - -TREVALDWYN - - -LXXXVIII - -THE _GEORGE_ OF LOOE - - O, ’twas merry down to Looe when the news was carried through - That the _George_ would put to sea all with the morning tide; - And all her jolly crew hurrah’d till they were blue - When the captain said, ‘My lads, we’ll tan the Frenchman’s hide!’ - - For Captain Davy Dann was a famous fightin’ man, - Who lov’d the smell o’ powder and the thunder o’ the guns, - And off the coast of France often made the Frenchmen dance - To the music from his sloop of only ninety tons. - - So at the break o’ day there were hundreds on the quay - To see the gallant ship a-warping out to sea; - And the Mayor, Daniel Chubb, was hoisted on a tub, - And he cried, ‘Good luck to Dann, with a three times three!’ - - For the news that came from Fowey was that ev’ry man and boy - And all the gallants there were expecting of a ship. - And the lively lads o’ Looe, they thought they’d watch her too, - Lest the Frenchman showed his heels and gave ’em all the slip. - - So along by Talland Bay the good ship sailed away, - And the boats were out at Polperro to see what they could see; - And old Dann, he cried, ‘Ahoy! you’d better come to Fowey, - And help to blow the Mounseers to the bottom of the sea!’ - - Now, ’twas almost set o’ sun, and the day was almost done, - When we sighted of a frigate beating up against the wind; - And we put on all our sail till we came within her hail, - And old Dann politely asked, ‘Will you follow us behind?’ - - But the Frenchmen fore and aft only stood and grinned and laughed, - And never guessed the captain was in earnest, don’t you see? - For we’d only half her guns, and were only ninety tons, - And they thought they’d blow us easy to the bottom o’ the sea. - - But our brave old Captain Dann--oh, he was a proper man!-- - Sang out with voice like thunder unto ev’ry man aboard: - ‘Now all you men of Looe just show what you can do, - And we’ll board her, and we’ll take her, by the help o’ the Lord!’ - - Then up her sides we swarm’d, and along her deck we storm’d, - And sword and pike were busy for the space of half an hour; - But before the day was done, tho’ they number’d two to one, - Her commander had to yield, and his flag to lower. - - Then we turn’d our ship about, and while the stars came out - We tow’d our prize right cheerily past Fowey and Polperro; - And we blest old Captain Dann, for we hadn’t lost a man, - And our wounded all were doing well a-down below. - - And when we came to Looe, all the town was there to view, - And the mayor in his chain and gown he cried out lustily, - ‘Nine cheers for Captain Dann, and three for every man, - And the good ship _George_ that carried them to victory!’ - - _Benn Wilkes Jones Trevaldwyn._ - - - - -ARNOLD - - -LXXXIX - -THE FIRST DISTRIBUTION OF THE VICTORIA CROSS - -(_June 26, 1857_) - - To-day the people gather from the streets, - To-day the soldiers muster near and far; - Peace, with a glad look and a grateful, meets - Her rugged brother War. - - To-day the Queen of all the English land, - She who sits high o’er Kaisers and o’er Kings, - Gives with her royal hand--th’ Imperial hand - Whose grasp the earth enrings-- - - Her Cross of Valour to the worthiest; - No golden toy with milky pearl besprent, - But simple bronze, and for a warrior’s breast - A fair, fit ornament. - - And richer than red gold that dull bronze seems, - Since it was bought with lavish waste and worth - Whereto the wealth of earth’s gold-sanded streams - Were but a lack, and dearth. - - Muscovite metal makes this English Cross, - Won in a rain of blood and wreath of flame; - The guns that thundered for their brave lives’ loss - Are worn hence, for their fame! - - Ay, listen! all ye maidens laughing-eyed, - And all ye English mothers, be aware! - Those who shall pass before ye at noontide - Your friends and champions are. - - The men of all the army and the fleet, - The very bravest of the very brave, - Linesman and Lord, these fought with equal feet, - Firm-planted on their grave. - - The men who, setting light their blood and breath - So they might win a victor’s haught renown, - Held their steel straight against the face of Death, - And frowned his frowning down. - - And some that grasped the bomb, all fury-fraught, - And hurled it far, to spend its spite away-- - Between the rescue and the risk no thought-- - Shall pass our Queen this day. - - And some who climbed the deadly glacis-side, - For all that steel could stay, or savage shell; - And some whose blood upon the Colours dried - Tells if they bore them well. - - Some, too, who, gentle-hearted even in strife, - Seeing their fellow or their friend go down, - Saved his, at peril of their own dear life, - Winning the Civil Crown. - - Well done for them; and, fair Isle, well for thee! - While that thy bosom beareth sons like those; - ‘This precious stone set in the silver sea’ - Shall never fear her foes! - - _Sir Edwin Arnold._ - - - - -GARNETT - - -XC - -ABROAD - - Forests that beard the avalanche, - Levels, empurpled slopes of vine, - Wrecks, sadly gay with flower and branch, - I love you, but you are not mine! - - The sweet domestic sanctity - Fades in the fiery sun, like dew; - My Love beheld and passed you by, - My fathers shed no blood for you. - - Pause, rambling clouds, while fancy fain - Your white similitude doth trace - To England’s cliffs, so may your rain - Fall blissful on your native place! - - _Richard Garnett._ - - - - -GILBERT - - -XCI - -THE ENGLISH GIRL - - A wonderful joy our eyes to bless - In her magnificent comeliness, - Is an English girl of eleven stone two, - And five foot ten in her dancing shoe! - She follows the hounds, and on she pounds-- - The ‘field’ tails off and the muffs diminish-- - Over the hedges and brooks she bounds - Straight as a crow from find to finish. - At cricket, her kin will lose or win-- - She and her maids, on grass and clover, - Eleven maids out--eleven maids in-- - (And perhaps an occasional ‘maiden over’). - - _Go search the world and search the sea, - Then come you home and sing with me - There’s no such gold and no such pearl - As a bright and beautiful English girl!_ - - With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs, - She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims-- - She plays, she sings, she dances, too, - From ten or eleven till all is blue! - At ball or drum, till small hours come - (Chaperon’s fan conceals her yawning), - She’ll waltz away like a teetotum, - And never go home till daylight’s dawning. - Lawn tennis may share her favours fair-- - Her eyes a-dance and her cheeks a-glowing-- - Down comes her hair, but what does she care? - It’s all her own, and it’s worth the showing! - - Her soul is sweet as the ocean air, - For prudery knows no haven there; - To find mock-modesty, please apply - To the conscious blush and the downcast eye. - Rich in the things contentment brings, - In every pure enjoyment wealthy, - Blithe as a beautiful bird she sings, - For body and mind are hale and healthy. - Her eyes they thrill with a right good will-- - Her heart is light as a floating feather-- - As pure and bright as the mountain rill - That leaps and laughs in the Highland heather. - - _Go search the world and search the sea, - Then come you home and sing with me - There’s no such gold and no such pearl - As a bright and beautiful English girl!_ - - _William Schwenk Gilbert._ - - - - -WATTS-DUNTON - - -XCII - -THE BREATH OF AVON - -TO ENGLISH-SPEAKING PILGRIMS ON SHAKESPEARE’S BIRTHDAY - - I - - Whate’er of woe the Dark may hide in womb - For England, mother of kings of battle and song-- - Rapine, or racial hate’s mysterious wrong, - Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom-- - Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom, - Bind her to that great daughter sever’d long-- - To near and far-off children young and strong-- - With fetters woven of Avon’s flower perfume. - Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, ye - Whose hands around the world are join’d by him, - Who make his speech the language of the sea, - Till winds of ocean waft from rim to rim - The Breath of Avon: let this great day be - A Feast of Race no power shall ever dim. - - - II - - From where the steeds of earth’s twin oceans toss - Their manes along Columbia’s chariot-way; - From where Australia’s long blue billows play; - From where the morn, quenching the Southern Cross, - Startling the frigate-bird and albatross - Asleep in air, breaks over Table Bay-- - Come hither, pilgrims, where these rushes sway - ‘Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss! - For, if ye found the breath of ocean sweet, - Sweeter is Avon’s earthy, flowery smell, - Distill’d from roots that feel the coming spell - Of May, who bids all flowers that lov’d him meet - In meadows that, remembering Shakespeare’s feet, - Hold still a dream of music where they fell. - - _Theodore Watts-Dunton._ - - -XCIII - -ENGLAND STANDS ALONE - -(‘ENGLAND STANDS ALONE--WITHOUT AN ALLY.’ - - --_A Continental Newspaper_) - - ‘She stands alone: ally nor friend has she,’ - Saith Europe of our England--her who bore - Drake, Blake, and Nelson--Warrior-Queen who wore - Light’s conquering glaive that strikes the conquered free. - Alone!--From Canada comes o’er the sea, - And from that English coast with coral shore, - The old-world cry Europe hath heard of yore - From Dover cliffs: ‘Ready, aye ready we!’ - ‘Europe,’ saith England, ‘hath forgot my boys!-- - Forgot how tall, in yonder golden zone - ‘Neath Austral skies, my youngest born have grown - (Bearers of bayonets now and swords for toys)-- - Forgot ’mid boltless thunder--harmless noise-- - The sons with whom old England ‘stands alone!’ - - _Theodore Watts-Dunton._ - - - - -SWINBURNE - - -XCIV - -ENGLAND - - England, queen of the waves, whose green inviolate girdle enrings - thee round, - Mother fair as the morning, where is now the place of thy - foemen found? - Still the sea that salutes us free proclaims them stricken, acclaims - thee crowned. - Times may change, and the skies grow strange with signs of treason, - and fraud, and fear: - Foes in union of strange communion may rise against thee from - far and near: - Sloth and greed on thy strength may feed as cankers waxing from - year to year. - - Yet, though treason and fierce unreason should league and lie and - defame and smite, - We that know thee, how far below thee the hatred burns of the - sons of night, - We that love thee, behold above thee the witness written of - life in light. - - Life that shines from thee shows forth signs that none may read not - but eyeless foes: - Hate, born blind, in his abject mind grows hopeful now but as - madness grows: - Love, born wise, with exultant eyes adores thy glory, beholds and - glows. - Truth is in thee, and none may win thee to lie, forsaking the - face of truth: - Freedom lives by the grace she gives thee, born again from thy - deathless youth: - Faith should fail, and the world turn pale, wert thou the prey of the - serpent’s tooth. - - Greed and fraud, unabashed, unawed, may strive to sting thee at - heel in vain: - Craft and fear and mistrust may leer and mourn and murmur and - plead and plain: - Thou art thou: and thy sunbright brow is hers that blasted the - strength of Spain. - - Mother, mother beloved, none other could claim in place of thee - England’s place: - Earth bears none that beholds the sun so pure of record, so clothed - with grace: - Dear our mother, nor son nor brother is thine, as strong or as - fair of face. - How shall thou be abased? or how shall fear take hold of thy - heart? of thine, - England, maiden immortal, laden with charge of life and with - hopes divine? - Earth shall wither, when eyes turned hither behold not light in her - darkness shine. - - England, none that is born thy son, and lives, by grace of thy - glory, free, - Lives and yearns not at heart and burns with hope to serve as he - worships thee; - None may sing thee: the sea-wind’s wing beats down our songs as it - hails the sea. - - _Algernon Charles Swinburne._ - - -XCV - -A JACOBITE’S EXILE - -(1746) - - The weary day rins down and dies, - The weary night wears through: - And never an hour is fair wi’ flower, - And never a flower wi’ dew. - - I would the day were night for me, - I would the night were day: - For then would I stand in my ain fair land, - As now in dreams I may. - - O lordly flow the Loire and Seine, - And loud the dark Durance: - But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne - Than a’ the fields of France; - And the waves of Till that speak sae still - Gleam goodlier where they glance. - - O weel were they that fell fighting - On dark Drumossie’s day: - They keep their hame ayont the faem - And we die far away. - - O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep, - But night and day wake we; - And ever between the sea-banks green - Sounds loud the sundering sea. - - And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep, - But sweet and fast sleep they; - And the mool that haps them roun’ and laps them - Is e’en their country’s clay; - But the land we tread that are not dead - Is strange as night by day. - - Strange as night in a strange man’s sight, - Though fair as dawn it be: - For what is here that a stranger’s cheer - Should yet wax blithe to see? - - The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep, - The fields are green and gold: - The hill-streams sing, and the hill-sides ring, - As ours at home of old. - - But hills and flowers are nane of ours, - And ours are over sea: - And the kind strange land whereon we stand, - It wotsna what were we - Or ever we came, wi’ scathe and shame, - To try what end might be. - - Scathe, and shame, and a waefu’ name, - And a weary time and strange, - Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing - Can die, and cannot change. - - Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, - Though sair be they to dree: - But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, - Mair keen than wind and sea. - - Ill may we thole the night’s watches, - And ill the weary day: - And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, - A waefu’ gift gie they; - For the sangs they sing us, the sights they bring us, - The morn blaws all away. - - On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, - The burn rins blithe and fain: - There’s nought wi’ me I wadna gie - To look thereon again. - - On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide: - There sounds nae hunting-horn - That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat - Round banks where Tyne is born. - - The Wansbeck sings with all her springs, - The bents and braes give ear; - But the wood that rings wi’ the sang she sings - I may not see nor hear; - For far and far thae blithe burns are, - And strange is a’ thing near. - - The light there lightens, the day there brightens, - The loud wind there lives free: - Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me - That I wad hear or see. - - But O gin I were there again, - Afar ayont the faem, - Cauld and dead in the sweet, saft bed - That haps my sires at hame! - - We’ll see nae mair the sea-banks fair, - And the sweet grey gleaming sky, - And the lordly strand of Northumberland, - And the goodly towers thereby; - And none shall know but the winds that blow - The graves wherein we lie. - - _Algernon Charles Swinburne._ - - -XCVI - -NEW YEAR’S DAY - - New Year, be good to England. Bid her name - Shine sunlike as of old on all the sea: - Make strong her soul: set all her spirit free: - Bind fast her home-born foes with links of shame - More strong than iron and more keen than flame: - Seal up their lips for shame’s sake: so shall she - Who was the light that lightened freedom be, - For all false tongues, in all men’s eyes the same. - - O last-born child of Time, earth’s eldest lord, - God undiscrowned of godhead, who for man - Begets all good and evil things that live, - Do thou, his new-begotten son, implored - Of hearts that hope and fear not, make thy span - Bright with such light as history bids thee give. - - _Algernon Charles Swinburne._ - - -XCVII - -TO WILLIAM MORRIS - - Truth, winged and enkindled with rapture - And sense of the radiance of yore, - Fulfilled you with power to recapture - What never might singer before-- - The life, the delight, and the sorrow - Of troublous and chivalrous years - That knew not of night or of morrow, - Of hopes or of fears. - - But wider the wing and the vision - That quicken the spirit have spread - Since memory beheld with derision - Man’s hope to be more than his dead. - From the mists and the snows and the thunders - Your spirit has brought for us forth - Light, music, and joy in the wonders - And charms of the North. - - The wars and the woes and the glories - That quicken and lighten and rain - From the clouds of its chronicled stories, - The passion, the pride, and the pain, - Where echoes were mute and the token - Was lost of the spells that they spake, - Rise bright at your bidding, unbroken - Of ages that break. - - For you, and for none of us other, - Time is not: the dead that must live - Hold commune with you as a brother - By grace of the life that you give. - The heart that was in them is in you, - Their soul in your spirit endures: - The strength of their song is the sinew - Of this that is yours. - - Hence is it that life, everlasting - As light and as music, abides - In the sound of the surge of it, casting - Sound back to the surge of the tides, - Till sons of the sons of the Norsemen - Watch, hurtling to windward and lea, - Round England, unbacked of her horsemen, - The steeds of the sea. - - _Algernon Charles Swinburne._ - - - - -HARDY - - -XCVIII - -THE GOING OF THE BATTERY - - Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchingly - Trudged on beside them through mirk and through mire, - They stepping steadily--only too readily!-- - Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher. - - Great guns were gleaming there--living things seeming there-- - Cloaked in their tar cloths, upnosed to the night: - Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe, - Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight. - - Lamplight all drearily, blinking and blearily - Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss, - While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them - Not to court peril that honour could miss. - - Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded those eyes of ours, - When at last moved away under the arch - All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them - Treading back slowly the track of their march. - - Someone said ‘Nevermore will they come! Evermore - Are they now lost to us!’ Oh, it was wrong! - Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways-- - Bear them through safely--in brief time or long. - - Yet--voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us, - Hint, in the night-time, when life-beats are low, - Other and graver things.... Hold we to braver things-- - Wait we--in trust--what Time’s fullness shall show. - - _Thomas Hardy._ - - - - -DOBSON - - -XCIX - -BALLAD OF THE ARMADA - - King Philip had vaunted his claims; - He had sworn for a year he would sack us; - With an army of heathenish names - He was coming to fagot and stack us; - Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, - And scatter our ships on the main; - But we had bold Neptune to back us-- - And where are the galleons of Spain? - - His carackes were christened of dames - To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; - With his saints and his gilded stern-frames - He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us; - Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, - And Drake to his Devon again, - And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus-- - For where are the galleons of Spain? - - Let his Majesty hang to St. James - The axe that he whetted to hack us; - He must play at some lustier games - Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; - To his mines of Peru he would pack us - To tug at his bullet and chain; - Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!-- - But where are the galleons of Spain? - - - ENVOY - - Gloriana!--the Don may attack us - Whenever his stomach be fain; - He must reach us before he can rack us, ... - And where are the galleons of Spain? - - _Austin Dobson._ - - -C - -RANK AND FILE - - O undistinguished Dead! - Whom the bent covers, or the rock-strewn steep - Shows to the stars, for you I mourn--I weep, - O undistinguished Dead! - - None knows your name. - Blackened and blurred in the wild battle’s brunt, - Hotly you fell ... with all your wounds in front:-- - This is your fame! - - _Austin Dobson._ - - - - -BRIDGES - - -CI - -THE FAIR BRASS - - An effigy of brass - Trodden by careless feet - Of worshippers that pass, - Beautiful and complete, - - Lieth in the sombre aisle - Of this old church unwreckt, - And still from modern style - Shielded by kind neglect. - - It shows a warrior arm’d: - Across his iron breast - His hands by death are charmed - To leave his sword at rest, - - Wherewith he led his men - O’ersea, and smote to hell - The astonisht Saracen, - Nor doubted he did well. - - Would we could teach our sons - His trust in face of doom, - Or give our bravest ones - A comparable tomb: - - Such as to look on shrives - The heart of half its care; - So in each line survives - The spirit that made it fair, - - So fair the characters, - With which the dusty scroll, - That tells his title, stirs - A requiem for his soul. - - Yet dearer far to me, - And brave as he are they, - Who fight by land and sea - For England at this day; - - Whose vile memorials, - In mournful marbles gilt, - Deface the beauteous walls - By growing glory built. - - Heirs of our antique shrines, - Sires of our future fame, - Whose starry honour shines - In many a noble name - - Across the deathful days, - Link’d in the brotherhood - That loves our country’s praise, - And lives for heavenly good. - - _Robert Bridges._ - - - - -SKRINE - - -CII - -THE GENTLE - - We come from tower and grange, - Where the grey woodlands range, - Folding chivalric halls in ancient ease; - From Erin’s rain-wet rocks, - Or where the ocean-shocks - Thunder between the glimmering Hebrides; - And many-spired cities grave, - With terraced riverain hoar lapped by the storied wave. - - Taught in proud England’s school, - Her honour’s knightly rule, - To do and dare and bear and not to lie, - With priest’s or scholar’s lore - Or statesman’s subtle store - Of garnered wisdom, proved in councils high, - We serve her bidding here, or far - Shepherd the imperial flock under an alien star. - - Leechcraft of heaven or earth - We bear to scanted hearth - And lightless doorway and dim beds of pain: - With master-craft we steer - Dusk labour’s march, and cheer - His blind innumerable-handed train; - Or in the cannon-shaken air - Frankly the gentle die that simple men may dare. - - The Asian moonbeams fall - O’er our boys’ graves, and all - The o’er-watching hills are names of their young glory: - Sleep the blithe swordsman hands - Beside red Ethiop sands, - Or drear uprise of wintry promontory: - The headstone of a hero slain - Charms for his Empress-Isle each threshold of her reign. - - O for the blood that fell - So gladly given and well, - O for all spirits that lived for England’s honour, - Ere folly ruin or fear - Her whom these held so dear, - Ere fate or treason shame the crown upon her, - Rise, brothers of her knightly roll, - Close fast our order’s ranks and guard great England whole! - - _John Huntley Skrine._ - - -CIII - -THE MOTHER AND THE SONS - - Sons in my gates of the West, - Where the long tides foam in the dark of the pine, - And the cornlands crowd to the dim sky-line, - And wide as the air are the meadows of kine, - What cheer from my gates of the West? - - ‘Peace in thy gates of the West, - England our mother, and rest, - In our sounding channels and headlands frore - The hot Norse blood of the northern hoar - Is lord of the wave as the lords of yore, - Guarding thy gates of the West. - - But thou, O mother, be strong - In thy seas for a girdle of towers, - Holding thine own from wrong, - Thine own that is ours. - Till the sons that are bone of thy bone, - Till the brood of the lion upgrown - In a day not long, - Shall war for our England’s own, - For the pride of the ocean throne, - Be strong, O mother, be strong!’ - - Sons in my gates of the morn, - That steward the measureless harvest gold - And temples and towers of the Orient old - From the seas of the palm to Himálya cold, - What cheer in my gates of the morn? - - ‘Fair as our India’s morn - Thy peace, as a sunrise, is born. - Where thy banner is broad in the Orient light - There is law from the seas to Himálya’s height, - For the banner of might is the banner of right. - Good cheer in thy gates of the morn.’ - - From the Isles of the South what word? - True South! long ago, when I called not, it came, - And ‘England’s are ours’ ran the war-word aflame, - ‘And a thousand will bleed ere the mother have shame!’ - From my sons of the South what word? - - ‘Mother, what need of a word - For the love that outspake with the sword? - In the day of thy storm, in the clash of the powers, - When thy children close round thee grown great with the hours, - They shall know who have wronged thee if ‘England’s be ours.’ - We bring thee a deed for a word. - - But thou, O mother, be strong, - In thy seas for a girdle of towers, - Holding thine own from wrong, - Thine own that is ours. - Till the sons that are bone of thy bone, - Till the brood of the lion upgrown - In a day not long, - Shall war for our England’s own, - For the pride of the ocean throne, - Be strong, O mother, be strong!’ - - _John Huntley Skrine._ - - - - -HENLEY - - -CIV - -ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND - - What have I done for you, - England, my England? - What is there I would not do, - England, my own? - With your glorious eyes austere, - As the Lord were walking near, - Whispering terrible things and dear - As the Song on your bugles blown, England-- - Round the world on your bugles blown! - - Where shall the watchful Sun, - England, my England, - Match the master-work you’ve done, - England, my own? - When shall he rejoice agen - Such a breed of mighty men - As come forward, one to ten, - To the Song on your bugles blown, England-- - Down the years on your bugles blown? - - Ever the faith endures, - England, my England:-- - ‘Take us and break us: we are yours, - England, my own! - Life is good, and joy runs high - Between English earth and sky: - Death is death; but we shall die - To the Song on your bugles blown, England-- - To the stars on your bugles blown!’ - - They call you proud and hard, - England, my England: - You with worlds to watch and ward, - England, my own! - You whose mailed hand keeps the keys - Of such teeming destinies - You could know nor dread nor ease - Were the Song on your bugles blown, England-- - Round the Pit on your bugles blown! - - Mother of Ships whose might, - England, my England, - Is the fierce old Sea’s delight, - England, my own, - Chosen daughter of the Lord, - Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword, - There’s the menace of the Word - In the Song on your bugles blown, England-- - Out of heaven on your bugles blown! - - _William Ernest Henley._ - - - - -MACKAY - - -CV - -A SONG OF THE SEA - - Free as the wind that leaps from out the North, - When storms are hurrying forth, - Up-springs the voice of England, trumpet-clear, - Which all the world shall hear, - As one may hear God’s thunder over-head,-- - A voice that echoes through the sunset red, - And through the fiery portals of the morn - Where, day by day, the golden hours are born,-- - A voice to urge the strengthening of the bands - That bind our Empire Lands - With such a love as none shall put to scorn! - - They little know our England who deny - The claim we have, from zone to furthest zone, - To belt the beauteous earth, - And treat the clamorous ocean as our own - In all the measuring of its monstrous girth. - The tempest calls to us, and we reply; - And not, as cowards do, in under-tone! - The sun that sets for others sets no more - On Britain’s world-wide shore - Which all the tides of all the seas have known. - - We have no lust of strife: - We seek no vile dissension for base ends; - Freedom and fame and England are old friends. - Yet, if our foes desire it, let them come, - Whate’er their numbers be! - They know the road to England, mile by mile, - And they shall learn, full soon, that strength nor guile - Will much avail them in an English sea; - We will not hurl them backward to the waves,-- - We’ll give them graves! - - ’Tis much to be so honoured in the main, - And feel no further stain - Than one’s own blood outpoured in lieu of wine. - ’Tis much to die in England, and for this - To win the sabre-kiss - Of some true man who deems his cause divine, - And loves his country well. - A foe may calmly dwell - In our sweet soil with daisies for his quilt,-- - Their snows to hide his guilt, - And earth’s good warmth about him where he lies - Beyond the burden of all battle-cries, - And made half-English by his resting-place:-- - God give him grace! - - We love the sea,--the loud, the leaping sea,-- - The rush and roar of waters--the thick foam,-- - The sea-bird’s sudden cry,-- - The gale that bends the lithe and towering masts - Of good ships bounding home, - That spread to the great sky - Exultant flags unmatched in their degree! - And ’tis a joy that lasts, - A joy that thrills the Briton to the soul - Who knows the nearest goal - To all he asks of fortune and of fame, - From dusk to dawn and dawn to sunset-flame. - He knows that he is free, - With all the freedom of the waves and winds - That have the storm in fee. - - And this our glory still:--to bear the palm - In all true enterprise, - And everywhere, in tempest and in calm, - To front the future with unfearing eyes, - And sway the seas where our advancement lies, - With Freedom’s flag uplifted, and unfurled; - And this our rallying-cry, whate’er befall, - Goodwill to men, and peace throughout the world, - But England,--England,--England over all! - - _Eric Mackay._ - - - - -SHARP - - -CVI - -THE BALLAD OF THE RAM - - Who ’as ’eard the Ram a-callin’ on the green fields o’ the sea, - Let ’em wander east or west an’ mighty fast: - For it’s bad to ’ear the Ram when he’s up an’ runnin’ free - With the angry bit o’ ribbon at the mast. - - It’s rush an’ surge an’ dash when the Ram is on the leap, - But smash an’ crash for them as stops the way: - The biggest ship goes down right there that ain’t got sense to keep - The shore-walk o’ the werry nearest bay. - - For Frenchy ships, an’ German too, an’ Russian, you may bet, - It’s safer for to land an’ ’ome by tram, - Than out to come an’ gallivant an’ risk the kind o’ wet - That follers runnin’ counter to a Ram. - - For when the _Terror_ lifts ’is ’ead an’ goes for wot is near, - I’m sorry for them ships wot sails so free: - It’s best to up an’ elsewhere, an’ be werry far from ’ere, - When Rams ’ave took to bleatin’ on the sea! - - _William Sharp._ - - - - -RODD - - -CVII - -SPRING THOUGHTS - - My England, island England, such leagues and leagues away, - It’s years since I was with thee, when April wanes to May. - - Years since I saw the primrose, and watched the brown hillside - Put on white crowns of blossom and blush like April’s bride; - - Years since I heard thy skylark, and caught the throbbing note - Which all the soul of springtide sends through the blackbird’s throat. - - O England, island England, if it has been my lot - To live long years in alien lands, with men who love thee not, - - I do but love thee better who know each wind that blows, - The wind that slays the blossom, the wind that buds the rose, - - The wind that shakes the taper mast and keeps the topsail furled, - The wind that braces nerve and arm to battle with the world: - - I love thy moss-deep grasses, thy great untortured trees, - The cliffs that wall thy havens, the weed-scents of thy seas. - - The dreamy river reaches, the quiet English homes, - The milky path of sorrel down which the springtide comes. - - Oh land so loved through length of years, so tended and caressed, - The land that never stranger wronged nor foeman dared to waste, - - Remember those thou speedest forth round all the world to be - Thy witness to the nations, thy warders on the sea! - - And keep for those who leave thee and find no better place, - The olden smile of welcome, the unchanged mother face! - - _Sir Rennell Rodd._ - - - - -WATSON - - -CVIII - -ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES - - She stands, a thousand wintered tree, - By countless morns impearled; - Her broad roots coil beneath the sea, - Her branches sweep the world; - Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed, - Clothe the remotest strand - With forests from her scatterings made, - New nations fostered in her shade, - And linking land with land. - - O ye by wandering tempest sown - ’Neath every alien star, - Forget not whence the breath was blown - That wafted you afar! - For ye are still her ancient seed - On younger soil let fall-- - Children of Britain’s island-breed, - To whom the Mother in her need - Perchance may one day call. - - _William Watson._ - - - - -DOYLE - - -CIX - -THE SONG OF THE BOW - - What of the bow? - The bow was made in England: - Of true wood, of yew-wood, - The wood of English bows; - So men who are free - Love the old yew-tree - And the land where the yew-tree grows. - - What of the cord? - The cord was made in England: - A rough cord, a tough cord, - A cord that bow-men love; - And so we will sing - Of the hempen string - And the land where the cord was wove. - - What of the shaft? - The shaft was cut in England: - A long shaft, a strong shaft, - Barbed and trim and true; - So we’ll drink all together - To the grey goose-feather - And the land where the grey goose flew. - - What of the mark? - Ah, seek it not in England, - A bold mark, our old mark, - Is waiting over-sea. - When the strings harp in chorus, - And the lion flag is o’er us, - It is there that our mark will be. - - What of the men? - The men were bred in England; - The bow-men--the yeomen, - The lads of dale and fell. - Here’s to you--and to you! - To the hearts that are true - And the land where the true hearts dwell! - - _Arthur Conan Doyle._ - - -CX - -A BALLAD OF THE RANKS - - Who carries the gun? - A lad from over the Tweed. - Then let him go, for well we know - He comes of a soldier breed. - So drink together to rock and heather, - Out where the red deer run, - And stand aside for Scotland’s pride-- - The man who carries the gun! - - _For the Colonel rides before, - The Major’s on the flank, - The Captains and the Adjutant - Are in the foremost rank. - But when it’s ‘Action front!’ - And there’s fighting to be done, - Come one, come all, you stand or fall - By the man who carries the gun._ - - Who carries the gun? - A lad from a Yorkshire dale. - Then let him go, for well we know - The heart that never will fail. - Here’s to the fire of Lancashire, - And here’s to her soldier son! - For the hard-bit North has sent him forth-- - The lad who carries the gun. - - Who carries the gun? - A lad from a Midland shire. - Then let him go, for well we know - He comes of an English sire. - Here’s a glass to a Midland lass - And each can choose the one, - But East and West we claim the best - For the man who carries the gun. - - Who carries the gun? - A lad from the hills of Wales. - Then let him go, for well we know - That Taffy is hard as nails. - There are several ll’s in the place where he dwells, - And of w’s more than one, - With a ‘Llan’ and a ‘pen,’ but it breeds good men - And it’s they who carry the gun. - - Who carries the gun? - A lad from the windy West. - Then let him go, for well we know - That he is one of the best. - There’s Bristol rough, and Gloucester tough, - And Devon yields to none. - Or you may get in Somerset - Your lad to carry the gun. - - Who carries the gun? - A lad from London town. - Then let him go, for well we know - The stuff that never backs down. - He has learned to joke at the powder smoke, - For he is the fog-smoke’s sun, - And his heart is light, and his pluck is right-- - The man who carries the gun. - - Who carries the gun? - A lad from the Emerald Isle. - Then let him go, for well we know - We’ve tried him many a while. - We’ve tried him East, we’ve tried him West, - We’ve tried him sea and land, - But the man to beat old Erin’s best - Has never yet been planned. - - Who carries the gun? - It’s you, and you, and you; - So let us go, and we won’t say no - If they give us a job to do. - Here we stand with a cross-linked hand, - Comrades every one; - So one last cup, and drink it up - To the man who carries the gun? - - _For the Colonel rides before, - The Major’s on the flank, - The Captains and the Adjutant - Are in the foremost rank. - And when it’s ‘Action front!’ - And there’s fighting to be done, - Come one, come all, you stand or fall - By the man who carries the gun._ - - _Arthur Conan Doyle._ - - - - -PAIN - - -CXI - -OUR DEAD - - Sye, do yer ’ear thet bugle callin’ - Sutthink stringe through the city’s din? - Do yer shut yer eyes when the evenin’ ’s fallin’, - An’ see quite plain wheer they’re fallin’ in? - An’ theer ain’t no sarnd as they falls in, - An’ they mawch quick step with a silent tread - Through all ar ’earts, through all ar ’earts, - The Comp’ny of ar Dead. - - A woman’s son, and a woman’s lover-- - Yer’d think as nobody ’eld ’im dear, - As ’e stands, a clear mawk, art o’ cover, - An’ leads the rush when the end is near; - One more ridge and the end is near, - One more step an’ the bullet’s sped. - My God, but they’re well-officered, - The Comp’ny of ar Dead! - - Never they’ll ’ear the crard a-cheerin’, - These ’ull never come beck agine; - Theer welkim ’ome is beyond our ’earin’, - But theer nimes is writ, an’ theer nimes remine, - An’ deep an’ lawstin’ theer nimes remine - Writ in theer blood for theer country shed; - An’ they stan’s up strite an’ they knows no shime, - The Comp’ny of ar Dead. - - _Barry Pain._ - - - - -NEWBOLT - - -CXII - -ADMIRALS ALL - -A SONG OF SEA KINGS - - Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake, - Here’s to the bold and free! - Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake, - Hail to the Kings of the sea! - Admirals all, for England’s sake, - Honour be yours and fame! - And honour, as long as waves shall break, - To Nelson’s peerless name! - - _Admirals all, for England’s sake, - Honour be yours and fame! - And honour, as long as waves shall break, - To Nelson’s peerless name!_ - - Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay - With the galleons fair in sight; - Howard at last must give him his way, - And the word was passed to fight. - Never was schoolboy gayer than he, - Since holidays first began: - He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea, - And under the guns he ran. - - Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared, - Their cities he put to the sack; - He singed His Catholic Majesty’s beard, - And harried his ships to wrack. - He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls - When the great Armada came; - But he said, ‘They must wait their turn, good souls,’ - And he stooped and finished the game. - - Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold, - Duncan he had but two; - But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled, - And his colours aloft he flew. - ‘I’ve taken the depth to a fathom,’ he cried, - ‘And I’ll sink with a right good will: - For I know when we’re all of us under the tide - My flag will be fluttering still.’ - - Splinters were flying above, below, - When Nelson sailed the Sound: - ‘Mark you, I wouldn’t be elsewhere now,’ - Said he, ‘for a thousand pound!’ - The Admiral’s signal bade him fly, - But he wickedly wagged his head: - He clapped the glass to his sightless eye, - And ‘I’m damned if I see it!’ he said. - - Admirals all, they said their say - (The echoes are ringing still). - Admirals all, they went their way - To the haven under the hill. - But they left us a kingdom none can take-- - The realm of the circling sea-- - To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake, - And the Rodneys yet to be. - - _Admirals all, for England’s sake, - Honour be yours and fame! - And honour, as long as waves shall break, - To Nelson’s peerless name!_ - - _Henry Newbolt._ - - -CXIII - -DRAKE’S DRUM - - Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand mile away, - (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?) - Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, - An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. - Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships, - Wi’ sailor lads a-dancin’ heel-an’-toe, - An’ the shore-lights flashin’, an’ the night-tide dashin’, - He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. - - Drake he was a Devon man, an’ rüled the Devon seas, - (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?), - Rovin’ tho’ his death fell, he went wi’ heart at ease, - An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. - ‘Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, - Strike et when your powder’s runnin’ low; - If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven, - An’ drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago.’ - - Drake he’s in his hammock till the great Armadas come, - (Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?), - Slung atween the round shot, listenin’ for the drum, - An’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe. - Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, - Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; - Where the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag flyin’, - They shall find him ware an’ wakin’, as they found him long ago! - - _Henry Newbolt._ - - -CXIV - -A TOAST - - Drake’s luck to all that sail with Drake - For promised lands of gold! - Brave lads, whatever storms may break, - We’ve weathered worse of old! - To-night the loving-cup we’ll drain, - To-morrow for the Spanish Main! - - _Henry Newbolt._ - - - - -KIPLING - - -CXV - -THE FLAG OF ENGLAND - - Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro-- - And what should they know of England who only England know?-- - The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, - They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the - English Flag. - - Must we borrow a clout from the Boer--to plaster anew with dirt? - An Irish liar’s bandage, or an English coward’s shirt? - We may not speak of England? her Flag’s to sell or share. - What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare! - - The North Wind blew:--‘From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go; - I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe; - By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God, - And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod. - - I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame, - Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came; - I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast, - And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the - spirit passed. - - The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night, - The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light: - What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare, - Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!’ - - The South Wind sighed:--‘From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta’en - Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, - Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed - breakers croon - Their endless ocean legends to the lazy locked lagoon. - - Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, - I waked the palms to laughter--I tossed the scud in the breeze-- - Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, - But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown. - - I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp - on the Horn; - I have chased it North, to the Lizard--ribboned and rolled and torn; - I have spread its fold o’er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; - I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free. - - My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, - Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross. - What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare, - Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!’ - - The East Wind roared:--‘From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come, - And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home. - Look--look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon - I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon! - - The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, - I raped your richest roadstead--I plundered Singapore! - I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, - And I heaved your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled - crows. - - Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake, - But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England’s sake-- - Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid-- - Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed. - - The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows, - The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. - What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, - Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!’ - - The West Wind called:--‘In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly - That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. - They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, - And I loose my neck from their service and whelm them all - in my wrath. - - I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole, - They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll: - For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, - And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death. - - But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day - I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, - First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, - Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by. - - The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it--the frozen dews have kissed-- - The morning stars have hailed it, a fellow-star in the mist. - What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, - Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!’ - - _Rudyard Kipling._ - - -CXVI - -RECESSIONAL - - God of our fathers, known of old-- - Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- - Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold - Dominion over palm and pine-- - Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, - Lest we forget--lest we forget! - - The tumult and the shouting dies-- - The captains and the kings depart-- - Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, - An humble and a contrite heart. - Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, - Lest we forget--lest we forget! - - Far-called our navies melt away-- - On dune and headland sinks the fire-- - Lo, all our pomp of yesterday - Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! - Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, - Lest we forget--lest we forget! - - If, drunk with sight of power, we loose - Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- - Such boasting as the Gentiles use - Or lesser breeds without the Law-- - Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, - Lest we forget--lest we forget! - - For heathen heart that puts her trust - In reeking tube and iron shard-- - All valiant dust that builds on dust, - And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- - For frantic boast and foolish word, - Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! - - _Rudyard Kipling._ - - - - -WATT - - -CXVII - -THE GREY MOTHER - - Lo, how they come to me, - Long through the night I call them, - Ah, how they turn to me! - - East and South my children scatter, - North and West the world they wander, - - Yet they come back to me, - Come with their brave hearts beating, - Longing to die for me, - - Me, the grey, old, weary Mother, - Throned amid the northern waters, - - Where they have died for me, - Died with their songs around me, - Girding my shores for me. - - Narrow was my dwelling for them, - Homes they builded o’er the ocean, - - Yet they leave all for me, - Hearing their Mother calling, - Bringing their lives for me. - - Far from South Seas swiftly sailing, - Out from under stars I know not, - - Come they to fight for me, - Sons of the sons I nurtured, - God keep them safe for me! - - Long ago their fathers saved me, - Died for me among the heather, - - Now they come back to me, - Come, in their children’s children ... - Brave of the brave for me. - - In the wilds and waves they slumber, - Deep they slumber in the deserts, - - Rise they from graves for me, - Graves where they lay forgotten, - Shades of the brave for me. - - Yet my soul is veiled in sadness, - For I see them fall and perish, - - Strewing the hills for me, - Claiming the world in dying, - Bought with their blood for me. - - Hear the grey, old, Northern Mother, - Blessing now her dying children,-- - - God keep you safe for me, - Christ watch you in your sleeping, - Where ye have died for me! - - And when God’s own slogan soundeth, - All the dead world’s dust awaking, - - Ah, will ye look for me? - Bravely we’ll stand together - I and my sons with me. - - _Lauchlan MacLean Watt._ - - - - -BOWLES - - -CXVIII - -THE SONG OF THE SNOTTIES[A] - - Listen! my brothers of Eton and Harrow, - Hearken! my brothers of over the seas, - Say! do your class-rooms seem dingy and narrow? - List to the sound of the sea-scented breeze. - Now for a moment if dreary your lot is, - Wet bob or dry bob whichever you be, - List to the tale and the song of the snotties, - The song of the snotties who sail on the sea. - - _The song of the snotties - (The poor little snotties), - Good luck to the snotties wherever they be, - The dirk and the patches, - The bruises and scratches, - The song of the snotties who sail on the sea!_ - - Early we left you and late are returning - Back to the land of our story and birth, - Back to the land of our glory and yearning, - Back from the uttermost ends of the earth. - Hear you the bucket and clang of the brasses - Working together by perfect decree? - That is the tale of the glory which passes-- - That is the song of the snotties at sea! - - Often at noon when the gale’s at its strongest, - Sadly we think of the days that are gone; - Often at night when the watches are longest - Have your remembrances heartened us on. - And in the mazes of dim recollection, - Still we’ll remember the days that are past, - Till, on the hopes of a schoolboy affection, - Death and his angels shall trample at last. - - What though the enemy taunt and deride us! - Have we forgotten the triumphs of yore? - What if the oceans may seem to divide us! - Brothers, remember the friendship we bore. - Lo! it is finished--the day of probations. - Up! and we stand for the England to be. - Then, as the Head and the Front of the Nations, - Brothers, your health!--from the snotties at sea! - - _‘Stand well,’ say the snotties - (‘Good luck,’ say the snotties), - ‘And wisely and firmly and great shall we be; - For monarchies tremble, - And empires dissemble, - But Britain shall stand’--say the snotties at sea!_ - - _George Frederic Stewart Bowles._ - - [A] From _A Gun-Room Ditty Box_ (Cassell & Co., 1898). By - permission of author and publishers. - - - - -II - -WALES - - - - -GRAY - - -CXIX - -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 th’ 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 agonizing 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 diction 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. - - _Thomas Gray._ - - - - -HUNT - - -CXX - -BODRYDDAN - - O land of Druid and of Bard, - Worthy of bearded Time’s regard, - Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales, - Proud with mountains, rich with vales, - And of such valour that in thee - Was born a third of chivalry - (And is to come again, they say, - Blowing its trumpets into day, - With sudden earthquake from the ground, - And in the midst, great Arthur crown’d), - I used to think of thee and thine - As one of an old faded line - Living in his hills apart, - Whose pride I knew, but not his heart:-- - But now that I have seen thy face, - Thy fields, and ever youthful race, - And women’s lips of rosiest word - (So rich they open), and have heard - The harp still leaping in thy halls, - Quenchless as the waterfalls, - I know thee full of pulse as strong - As the sea’s more ancient song - And of a sympathy as wide; - And all this truth, and more beside, - I should have known, had I but seen, - O Flint, thy little shore; and been - Where Truth and Dream walk, hand-in-hand, - Bodryddan’s living Fairyland. - - _James Henry Leigh Hunt._ - - - - -HEMANS - - -CXXI - -THE HARP OF WALES - - Harp of the mountain-land! sound forth again - As when the foaming Hirla’s horn was crown’d, - And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, - And the bright mead at Owain’s feast went round: - Wake with the spirit and the power of yore! - Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more! - - Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came - O’er the blue waters with his thousand oars: - Through Mona’s oaks he sent the wasting flame; - The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores: - All gave their ashes to the wind and sea-- - Ring out; thou harp! he could not silence thee. - - Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon pass’d, - His banners floated on Eryri’s gales; - But thou wert heard above the trumpet’s blast, - E’en when his towers rose loftiest o’er the vales! - _Thine_ was the voice that cheer’d the brave and free; - They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee. - - Those were dark years!--They saw the valiant fall, - The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain’s board, - The hearth left lonely in the ruin’d hall-- - Yet power was _thine_--a gift in every chord! - Call back that spirit to the days of peace, - Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease! - - _Felicia Hemans._ - - -CXXII - -PRINCE MADOG’S FAREWELL - - Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day - On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep? - Too fair is the sight for a wand’rer whose way - Lies far o’er the measureless paths of the deep. - Fall shadows of twilight, and veil the green shore, - That the heart of the mighty may waver no more! - - Why rise in my thoughts, ye free songs of the land - Where the harp’s lofty soul on each wild wind is borne? - Be hush’d! be forgotten! for ne’er shall the land - Of the minstrel with melody greet my return. - No, no! let your echoes still float on the breeze, - And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of seas! - - ’Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth - Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh; - Away! we will bear over ocean and earth - A name and a spirit that never shall die. - My course to the winds, to the stars I resign; - But my soul’s quenchless fire, oh, my country, is thine! - - _Felicia Hemans._ - - - - -JONES - - -CXXIII - -THE MARCH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH - - Glyndwr, see thy comet flaming! - Hear a heav’nly voice declaiming, - To the world below proclaiming - ‘Cambria shall be free!’ - While thy star on high is beaming, - Soldiers from the mountain teeming, - With their spears and lances gleaming, - Come to follow thee. - Hear the trumpet sounding, - While the steeds are bounding! - On the gale from hill and dale - The war-cry is resounding. - - Warriors famed in song and story, - Coming from the mountains hoary, - Rushing to the field of glory, - Eager for the fray,-- - To the valley wending, - Hearths and homes defending - With their proud and valiant Prince - From ancient kings descending,-- - See the mighty host advancing, - Sunbeams on their helmets dancing! - On his gallant charger prancing - Glyndwr leads the way. - - Now to battle they are going, - Every heart with courage glowing, - Pride and passion overflowing, - In the furious strife; - Lo, the din of war enrages, - Vengeance crowns the hate of ages, - Sternly foe with foe engages, - Feeding Death with Life! - Hear the trumpets braying, - And the horses neighing! - Hot the strife while fiery foes - Are one another slaying! - - Arrows fly as swift as lightning, - Shout on shout the tumult height’ning, - Conquest’s ruddy wing is bright’ning - Helmet, sword and shield; - With their lances flashing, - Warriors wild are crashing - Through the tyrant’s serried ranks, - Whilst onwards they are dashing! - Now the enemy is flying, - Trampling on the dead and dying; - Victory aloft is crying - ‘Cambria wins the field!’ - - _John Jones._ - - - - -MORRIS - - -CXXIV - -LLEWELYN AP GRUFFYDD - - After dead centuries, - Neglect, derision, scorn, - And secular miseries, - At last our Cymric race again is born, - Opens again its heavy sleep-worn eyes, - And fronts a brighter morn. - Shall then our souls forget, - Dazzled by visions of our Wales to Be, - The Wales that Was, the Wales undying yet, - The old heroic Cymric chivalry? - Nay! one we are, indeed, - With that dim Britain of our distant sires; - Still the same love the patriot’s bosom fires; - With the same wounds our loyal spirits bleed; - The heroes of the past are living still - By each sequestered vale, and cloud-compelling hill. - - Dear heart that wast so strong - To guide the storm of battle year by year, - Last of our Cymric Princes! dauntless King! - Whose brave soul knew not fear! - Thou from Eryri’s summits, swooping down - Like some swift eagle, o’er the affrighted town - And frowning Norman castles hovering, - Onward didst bear the flag of Victory; - And oft the proud invader dravest back - In ruin from thy country’s bounds, and far - Didst roll from her the refluent wave of war, - Till, ’neath the swelling flood, - The low fat Lloegrian plains were sunk in blood. - - I see thee when thy lonely widowed heart - Grew weary of its pain, - In one last desperate onset vain - Hurl thyself on thy country’s deadly foes; - From north to south the swift rebellion sped, - The castles fell, the land arose; - Wales reared once more her weary war-worn head - Through triumph and defeat, a chequered sum, - Till the sure end should come, - The traitorous ambush, and the murderous spear; - Still ’mid the cloistered glories of Cwmhir, - I hear the chants sung for the kingly dead, - While Cambria mourned thy dear dishonoured head. - - Strong son of Wales! thy fate - Not without tears, our Cymric memories keep; - Our faithful, unforgetting natures weep - The ancestral fallen Great. - Not with the stalwart arm - After our age-long peace, - We serve her now, nor keen uplifted sword, - But with the written or the spoken word - Would fain her power increase; - The Light we strive to spread - Is Knowledge, and its power - Comes not from captured town or leaguered tower. - A closer brotherhood - Unites the Cymric and the Anglian blood, - Yet separate, side by side they dwell, not one, - Distinct till Time be done. - - But we who in that peaceful victory - Our faith, our hope repose, - With grateful hearts, Llewelyn, think of thee - Who fought’st our country’s foes; - Whose generous hand was open to reward - The dauntless patriot bard, - Who loved’st the arts of peace, yet knew’st through life - Only incessant strife; - Who ne’er like old Iorwerth’s happier son, - Didst rest from battles won, - But strovest for us still, and not in vain; - Since from that ancient pain, - After six centuries, Wales of thy love - Feels through her veins new patriot currents move, - And from thy ashes, like the Phœnix springs - Skyward on soaring wings, - And fronts, grown stronger for the days that were, - Whatever Fortune, ’neath God’s infinite air, - Fate and the Years prepare! - - _Sir Lewis Morris._ - - - - -JONES - - -CXXV - -RHUDDLAN MARSH - - Arvon’s heights hide the bright sun from our gazing, - Night’s dark pall enshrouds all in its embracing; - Still as death--not a breath mars the deep silence, - On mine ear waves roll near with soft hush’d cadence. - O the start of my heart’s quick palpitating, - Anger’s thrill doth me fill when meditating - On the day when the fray crushed the brave Cambrian, - When, through guile, pile on pile heaped Morfa Rhuddlan! - - See, at once Britain’s sons’ bosoms are swelling, - Each face hot with fierce thought from each heart welling; - Strong arms bare through the air fierce blows are dealing, - Till the foes with the blows serried are reeling! - Through the day Britons pray in their great anguish,-- - ‘Thou, on high, hear our cry--help us to vanquish! - Hedge around the dear ground of our lov’d Britain, - Speed our host, or we’re lost on Morfa Rhuddlan!’ - - Like a dart through my heart anguish is flowing, - Hark, how loud, fierce, and proud is the foes’ crowing! - But, O host, do not boast as of aught glorious, - ’Twas thy swarms, not thine arms, made thee victorious! - See, yon scores at their doors watching in terrors, - Full of care for the fare of their lov’d warriors! - Up the rocks quickly flock sire, child, and woman,-- - Each heart bleeds for the deeds on Morfa Rhuddlan. - - _Richard Bellis Jones._ - - - - -JONES - - -CXXVI - -LIBERTY - - See, see where royal Snowdon rears - Her hoary head above her peers - To cry that Wales is free! - O hills which guard our liberties, - With outstretched arms to where you rise - In all your pride, I turn my eyes - And echo, ‘Wales is free!’ - O’er giant Idris’ lofty seat, - O’er Berwyn and Plynlimon great - And hills which round them lower meet, - Blow winds of liberty. - And like the breezes high and strong, - Which through the cloudwrack sweep along, - Each dweller in this land of song - Is free, is free, is free! - - Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleep - Over that wretch’s eyelids creep - Who bears with wrong and shame. - Make him to feel thy spirit high, - And, like a hero, do or die, - And smite the arm of tyranny, - And lay its haunts aflame,-- - Rather than peace which makes thee slave, - Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive, - Lay foul oppression in its grave - No more the light to see! - Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze, - And like the rolling thunder raise - Thy triumph-song of joy and praise - To God--that thou art free! - - _Edmund Osborne Jones._ - - -CXXVII - -THE POETS OF WALES - - Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring high - Dwells genius basking in thy quiet air, - And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare, - And all wrapt round with fullest harmony - Of streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly - ’Neath Nature their fit foster-mother’s care, - Thy children learn from infant hours to bear - And work the will of God. Thy scenery - So varied-wild, so strangely sweet and strong, - Works on them and to music moulds their mind, - Till flows their fancy in poetic rills. - The voice of Nature breathes in every song; - And we may read therein thy features kind, - As in some tarn that nestles ’neath thy hills. - - Thy fragrant breezes wander through the maze - Of all their songs as through a woodland reach; - Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peach - In laden orchards on late summer days. - Their work is Nature’s own--not theirs the praise - By culture won which midnight studies teach; - Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech, - And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays. - As to remotest ages in the past - We trace thy joyous story, more and more - Bards won high honour mid thy hills and vales. - So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last, - And ocean echoing beat upon thy shore, - May poets never cease to sing for Wales! - - _Edmund Osborne Jones._ - - - - -III - -SCOTLAND - - - - -RAMSAY - - -CXXVIII - -FAREWELL TO LOCHABER - - Fareweel to Lochaber, fareweel to my Jean, - Where heartsome wi’ her I ha’e mony days been; - For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, - We’ll maybe return to Lochaber no more. - These tears that I shed, they are a’ for my dear, - And no’ for the dangers attending on weir; - Though borne on rough seas to a far distant shore, - Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. - - Though hurricanes rage, and rise ev’ry wind, - They’ll ne’er make a tempest like that in my mind; - Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar, - That’s naething like leaving my love on the shore. - To leave thee behind me, my heart is sair pain’d; - But by ease that’s inglorious no fame can be gained; - And beauty and love’s the reward of the brave; - And I maun deserve it before I can crave. - - Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse; - Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? - Without it, I ne’er can have merit for thee; - And, wanting thy favour, I’d better not be. - I gae then, my lass, to win glory and fame; - And if I should chance to come glorious hame, - I’ll bring a heart to thee with love running o’er, - And then I’ll leave thee and Lochaber no more. - - _Allan Ramsay._ - - - - -ELLIOT - - -CXXIX - -THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST - -A LAMENT FOR FLODDEN - - I’ve heard the liltin’ at our ewe-milkin’, - Lasses a liltin’ before dawn o’ day; - But now there’s a moanin’ on ilka green loanin’, - The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. - - At buchts in the mornin’, nae blythe lads are scornin’, - Lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae; - Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighin’ and sabbin’, - Ilk ane lifts her laiglin and hies her away. - - In har’st at the shearin’, nae youths now are jeerin’, - The bandsters are runkled, and lyart and gray; - At fair or at preachin’, nae wooin’, nae fleechin’,-- - The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. - - At e’en, in the gloamin’, nae swankies are roamin’ - ’Bout stacks, ’mang the lassies at bogle to play; - But each ane sits dreary, lamentin’ her dearie,-- - The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. - - Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! - The English for ance by guile wan the day; - The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, - The prime of our land now lie cauld in the clay. - - We’ll hear nae mair liltin’ at our ewe-milkin’, - Women and bairns are dowie and wae; - Sighin’ and moanin’ on ilka green loanin’,-- - The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. - - _Jean Elliott._ - - - - -GRANT - - -CXXX - -THE HIGHLAND LADDIE - - O where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone? - O where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone? - He’s gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, - And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home. - - O where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay? - O where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay? - He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey, - And many a blessing follow’d him, the day he went away. - - O what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? - O what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? - A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, - And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star. - - Suppose, ah suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound - Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound? - The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, - The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye. - - But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonnie bounds, - But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonnie bounds, - His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, - While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds. - - _Anne Macivar Grant._ - - - - -BURNS - - -CXXXI - -MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS - - _My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, - My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, - A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-- - My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!_ - - Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, - The birth-place of valour, the country of worth! - Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, - The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. - - Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow; - Farewell to the straths and green valleys below, - Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, - Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods! - - _My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, - My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, - A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-- - My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!_ - - _Robert Burns._ - - -CXXXII - -BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN - - Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, - Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, - Welcome to your gory bed - Or to victorie! - - Now’s the day, and now’s the hour: - See the front o’ battle lour, - See approach proud Edward’s power-- - Chains and slaverie! - - Wha will be a traitor knave? - Wha can fill a coward’s grave? - Wha sae base as be a slave?-- - Let him turn, and flee! - - Wha for Scotland’s King and Law - Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, - Freeman stand or freeman fa’, - Let him follow me! - - By Oppression’s woes and pains, - By your sons in servile chains, - We will drain our dearest veins - But they shall be free! - - Lay the proud usurpers low! - Tyrants fall in every foe! - Liberty’s in every blow! - Let us do, or die! - - _Robert Burns._ - - -CXXXIII - -THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS - - Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? - Then let the loons beware, Sir, - There’s wooden walls upon our seas, - And volunteers on shore, Sir! - The Nith shall run to Corsincon, - And Criffel sink in Solway, - Ere we permit a foreign foe - On British ground to rally! - - O let us not, like snarling tykes, - In wrangling be divided, - Till, slap! come in an unco loun, - And wi’ a rung decide it! - Be Britain still to Britain true, - Amang oursels united! - For never but by British hands - Maun British wrangs be righted! - - The kettle o’ the Kirk and State, - Perhaps a clout may fail in’t; - But Deil a foreign tinkler loon - Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t! - Our fathers’ blude the kettle bought, - And wha wad dare to spoil it, - By Heav’ns! the sacrilegious dog - Shall fuel be to boil it! - - The wretch that wad a tyrant own, - And the wretch, his true-sworn brother, - Who would set the mob above the throne, - May they be damned together! - Who will not sing ‘God save the King,’ - Shall hang as high’s the steeple; - But while we sing ‘God Save the King,’ - We’ll ne’er forget the People! - - _Robert Burns._ - - -CXXXIV - -THEIR GROVES O’ SWEET MYRTLE - - Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, - Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume! - Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan, - Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom; - Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, - Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly, unseen; - For there, lightly tripping amang the white flowers, - A-list’ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. - - Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny vallies, - And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave, - Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, - What are they?--the haunt of the tyrant and slave! - The slave’s spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains - The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain: - He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, - Save Love’s willing fetters--the chains o’ his Jean. - - _Robert Burns._ - - - - -SCOTT - - -CXXXV - -THE OUTCAST - - Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, - Who never to himself hath said, - This is my own, my native land! - Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, - As home his footsteps he hath turned, - From wandering on a foreign strand! - If such there breathe, go, mark him well; - From him no minstrel raptures swell; - High though his titles, proud his name, - Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; - Despite those titles, power, and pelf, - The wretch, concentred all in self, - Living, shall forfeit fair renown, - And, doubly dying, shall go down - To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, - Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung. - - _Sir Walter Scott._ - - -CXXXVI - -FLODDEN FIELD - - By this, though deep the evening fell, - Still rose the battle’s deadly swell, - For still the Scots around their king, - Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. - Where’s now their victor waward wing, - Where Huntly, and where Home?-- - O, for a blast of that dread horn, - On Fontarabian echoes borne, - That to King Charles did come, - When Rowland brave, and Olivier, - And every paladin and peer, - On Roncesvalles died! - Such blast might warn them, not in vain, - To quit the plunder of the slain, - And turn the doubtful day again, - While yet on Flodden side, - Afar, the Royal Standard flies, - And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, - Our Caledonian pride! - - But as they left the dark’ning heath, - More desperate grew the strife of death. - The English shafts in volleys hail’d, - In headlong charge their horse assail’d; - Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep - To break the Scottish circle deep, - That fought around their king. - But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, - Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, - Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, - Unbroken was the ring; - The stubborn spearmen still made good - Their dark impenetrable wood, - Each stepping where his comrade stood, - The instant that he fell. - No thought was there of dastard flight; - Link’d in the serried phalanx tight, - Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, - As fearlessly and well; - Till utter darkness closed her wing - O’er their thin host and wounded king. - Then skilful Surrey’s sage commands - Led back from strife his shattered bands; - And from the charge they drew, - As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, - Sweep back to ocean blue. - Then did their loss his foemen know; - Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, - They melted from the field as snow, - When streams are swoln and south winds blow, - Dissolves in silent dew. - Tweed’s echoes heard the ceaseless plash, - While many a broken band, - Disorder’d, through her currents dash, - To gain the Scottish land; - To town and tower, to down and dale, - To tell red Flodden’s dismal tale, - And raise the universal wail. - Tradition, legend, time, and song, - Shall many an age that wail prolong: - Still from the sire the son shall hear - Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, - Of Flodden’s fatal field, - When shiver’d was fair Scotland’s spear, - And broken was her shield! - - _Sir Walter Scott._ - - -CXXXVII - -GATHERING-SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK - - Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, - Pibroch of Donuil, - Wake thy wild voice anew, - Summon Clan-Conuil. - Come away, come away, - Hark to the summons! - Come in your war array, - Gentles and commons. - - Come from deep glen and - From mountain so rocky, - The war-pipe and pennon - Are at Inverlocky. - Come every hill-plaid and - True heart that wears one, - Come every steel blade and - Strong hand that bears one. - - Leave untended the herd, - The flock without shelter; - Leave the corpse uninterred, - The bride at the altar; - Leave the deer, leave the steer, - Leave nets and barges: - Come with your fighting gear, - Broadswords and targes. - - Come as the winds come when - Forests are rended, - Come as the waves come when - Navies are stranded: - Faster come, faster come, - Faster and faster, - Chief, vassal, page and groom, - Tenant and master. - - Fast they come, fast they come; - See how they gather! - Wide waves the eagle plume - Blended with heather. - Cast your plaids, draw your blades, - Forward each man set! - Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, - Knell for the onset! - - _Sir Walter Scott._ - - -CXXXVIII - -OVER THE BORDER - - March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, - Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? - March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, - All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. - Many a banner spread, - Flutters above your head, - Many a crest that is famous in story; - Mount and make ready then, - Sons of the mountain glen, - Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory! - - Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing, - Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; - Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, - Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. - Trumpets are sounding, - War-steeds are bounding, - Stand to your arms then, and march in good order, - England shall many a day - Tell of the bloody fray, - When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border! - - _Sir Walter Scott._ - - -CXXXIX - -BONNIE DUNDEE - - To the Lords of Convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke, - Ere the King’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; - So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, - Come follow the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. - - _Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, - Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; - Come open the West Port, and let me gang free, - And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!_ - - Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, - The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; - But the Provost, douce man, said, ‘Just e’en let him be, - The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee!’ - - As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, - Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; - But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, - Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonnie Dundee. - - With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed, - As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged; - There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e’e, - As they watched for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee. - - These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, - And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers; - But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free, - At the toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. - - He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, - And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; - ‘Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three - For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.’ - - The Gordon demands of him which way he goes: - ‘Where’er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! - Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, - Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. - - There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth, - If there’s lords in the lowlands, there’s chiefs in the North; - There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three - Will cry _Hoigh!_ for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. - - There’s brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; - There’s steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; - The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free - At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. - - Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, - Ere I own a usurper, I’ll couch with the fox; - And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, - You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!’ - - He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, - The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, - Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lee - Died away the wild war-notes of Bonnie Dundee. - - _Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, - Come saddle the horses, and call up the men, - Come open the gates, and let me gae free, - For it’s up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!_ - - _Sir Walter Scott._ - - -CXL - -WAR-SONG - - To horse! to horse! the standard flies, - The bugles sound the call; - The Gallic navy stems the seas, - The voice of battle’s on the breeze, - Arouse ye, one and all! - - From high Dunedin’s towers we come, - A band of brothers true; - Our casques the leopard’s spoils surround, - With Scotland’s hardy thistle crown’d; - We boast the red and blue. - - Though tamely crouch to Gallia’s frown, - Dull Holland’s tardy train; - Their ravish’d toys though Romans mourn; - Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn; - And, foaming, gnaw the chain; - - Oh! had they mark’d the avenging call - Their brethren’s murder gave, - Disunion ne’er their ranks had mown, - Nor patriot valour desperate grown, - Sought freedom in the grave! - - Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, - In Freedom’s temple born, - Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, - To hail a master in our isle, - Or brook a victor’s scorn? - - No! though destruction o’er the land - Come pouring as a flood, - The sun, that sees our falling day, - Shall mark our sabres’ deadly sway, - And set that night in blood. - - For gold let Gallia’s legions fight, - Or plunder’s bloody gain; - Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, - To guard our king, to fence our law, - Nor shall their edge be vain. - - If ever breath of British gale - Shall fan the tricolor, - Or footstep of invader rude, - With rapine foul, and red with blood, - Pollute our happy shore-- - - Then farewell home! and farewell friends! - Adieu each tender tie! - Resolved, we mingle in the tide, - Where charging squadrons furious ride, - To conquer or to die. - - To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; - High sounds our bugle call; - Combined by honour’s sacred tie, - Our word is _Laws and Liberty_! - March forward, one and all! - - _Sir Walter Scott._ - - - - -LEYDEN - - -CXLI - -ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN - - Green Flodden! on thy bloodstained head - Descend no rain or vernal dew; - But still, thou charnel of the dead, - May whitening bones thy surface strew! - Soon as I tread thy rush-clad vale, - Wild fancy feels the clasping mail; - The rancour of a thousand years - Glows in my breast; again I burn - To see the banner’d pomp of war return, - And mark, beneath the moon, the silver light of spears. - - Lo! bursting from their common tomb, - The spirits of the ancient dead - Dimly streak the parted gloom - With awful faces, ghastly red; - As once, around their martial king, - They closed the death-devoted ring, - With dauntless hearts, unknown to yield; - In slow procession round the pile - Of heaving corses, moves each shadowy file, - And chants, in solemn strain, the dirge of Flodden Field. - - What youth, of graceful form and mien, - Foremost leads the spectred brave, - While o’er his mantle’s folds of green - His amber locks redundant wave? - When slow returns the fated day, - That viewed their chieftain’s long array, - Wild to the harp’s deep plaintive string, - The virgins raise the funeral strain, - From Ord’s black mountain to the northern main, - And mourn the emerald hue which paints the vest of spring! - - Alas! that Scottish maid should sing - The combat where her lover fell! - That Scottish bard should wake the string, - The triumph of our foes to tell! - Yet Teviot’s sons, with high disdain, - Have kindled at the thrilling strain, - That mourn’d their martial fathers’ bier; - And at the sacred font, the priest - Through ages left the master-hand unblessed, - To urge, with keener aim, the blood-encrusted spear. - - Red Flodden! when thy plaintive strain - In early youth rose soft and sweet, - My life-blood, through each throbbing vein, - With wild tumultuous passion beat; - And oft in fancied might, I trode - The spear-strewn path to Fame’s abode, - Encircled with a sanguine flood; - And thought I heard the mingling hum, - When, croaking hoarse, the birds of carrion come - Afar, on rustling wing, to feast on English blood. - - Rude Border Chiefs, of mighty name, - And iron soul, who sternly tore - The blossoms from the tree of fame, - And purpled deep their tints with gore, - Rush from brown ruins, scarr’d with age, - That frown o’er haunted Hermitage; - Where, long by spells mysterious bound, - They pace their round, with lifeless smile, - And shake, with restless foot, the guilty pile, - Till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burdened ground. - - Shades of the dead! on Alfer’s plain - Who scorned with backward step to move, - But struggling ’mid the hills of slain, - Against the Sacred Standard strove; - Amid the lanes of war I trace - Each broad claymore and ponderous mace: - Where’er the surge of arms is tost, - Your glittering spears, in close array, - Sweep, like the spider’s filmy web, away - The flower of Norman pride, and England’s victor host. - - But distant fleets each warrior ghost, - With surly sounds that murmur far; - Such sounds were heard when Syria’s host - Roll’d from the walls of proud Samàr. - Around my solitary head - Gleam the blue lightnings of the dead, - While murmur low the shadowy band-- - ‘Lament no more the warrior’s doom! - Blood, blood alone, should dew the hero’s tomb, - Who falls, ’mid circling spears, to save his native land.’ - - _John Leyden._ - - - - -CUNNINGHAM - - -CXLII - -LOYALTY - - It’s hame, an’ it’s hame, hame fain wad I be, - O it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! - When the flower is i’ the bud and the leaf is on the tree, - The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; - For it’s hame, an’ it’s hame, hame fain wad I be, - O it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! - - The green leaf o’ loyaltie’s begun for to fa’, - The bonnie white rose it is witherin’ an’ a’, - But I’ll water’t wi’ the blude of usurpin’ tyrannie, - An’ green it will grow in my ain countrie. - For it’s hame, an’ it’s hame, hame fain wad I be, - O it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! - - The great are now gane, a’ wha ventured to save; - The new grass is springin’ on the tap o’ their grave: - But the sun thro’ the mirk blinks blythe in my e’e, - ‘I’ll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.’ - For it’s hame, an’ it’s hame, hame fain wad I be, - O it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! - - _Allan Cunningham._ - - - - -ANONYMOUS - - -CXLIII - -THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN’ - - The Campbells are comin’, O-ho, O-ho! - The Campbells are comin’, O-ho! - The Campbells are comin’ to bonnie Lochleven! - The Campbells are comin’, O-ho, O-ho! - - Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay; - Upon the Lomonds I lay; - I lookit doun to bonnie Lochleven, - An’ saw three perches play. - - Great Argyll he goes before; - He makes the cannons an’ guns to roar, - Wi’ sound of trumpet, pipe, and drum; - The Campbells are comin’, O-ho, O-ho! - - The Campbells they are a’ in arms, - Their loyal faith and truth to show, - Wi’ banners rattlin’ in the wind, - The Campbells are comin’, O-ho, O-ho! - - _Anonymous._ - - - - -GILFILLAN - - -CXLIV - -MY AIN COUNTRIE - - Oh! why left I my hame? - Why did I cross the deep? - Oh! why left I the land - Where my forefathers sleep? - I sigh for Scotia’s shore, - And I gaze across the sea, - But I canna get a blink - O’ my ain countrie. - - The palm-tree waveth high, - And fair the myrtle springs; - And to the Indian maid - The bulbul sweetly sings. - But I dinna see the broom, - Wi’ its tassels on the lea; - Nor hear the linties’ sang - O’ my ain countrie. - - Oh! here no Sabbath bell - Awakes the Sabbath morn, - Nor sang of reapers heard - Amang the yellow corn; - For the tyrant’s voice is here, - And the wail o’ slaverie; - But the sun o’ freedom shines - In my ain countrie. - - There’s a hope for every woe, - And a balm for every pain; - But the first joys of our heart - Come never back again. - There’s a track upon the deep, - And a path across the sea; - But for me there’s nae return - To my ain countrie. - - _Robert Gilfillan._ - - - - -STEVENSON - - -CXLV - -IN THE HIGHLANDS - - In the Highlands, in the country places, - Where the old plain men have rosy faces, - And the young fair maidens - Quiet eyes; - Where essential silence cheers and blesses, - And for ever in the hill-recesses - _Her_ more lovely music - Broods and dies. - - O to mount again where erst I haunted; - Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted; - And the low green meadows - Bright with sward; - And when even dies, the million-tinted, - And the night has come, and planets glinted, - Lo, the valley hollow - Lamp-bestarred! - - O to dream, O to awake and wander - There, and with delight to take and render, - Through the trance of silence, - Quiet breath; - Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, - Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; - Only the winds and rivers, - Life and death. - - _Robert Louis Stevenson._ - - -CXLVI - -EXILED - - Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, - Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, - Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, - My heart remembers how! - - Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, - Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, - Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races, - And winds, austere and pure: - - Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying, - Hills of home! and to hear again the call; - Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, - And hear no more at all! - - _Robert Louis Stevenson._ - - - - -MUNRO - - -CXLVII - -TO EXILES - - Are you not weary in your distant places, - Far, far from Scotland of the mist of storm, - In stagnant airs, the sun-smite on your faces, - The days so long and warm? - When all around you lie the strange fields sleeping, - The ghastly woods where no dear memories roam, - Do not your sad hearts over seas come leaping - To the Highlands and the Lowlands of your home? - - Wild cries the Winter, loud through all our valleys - The midnights roar, the grey noons echo back; - About the scalloped coasts the eager galleys - Beat for kind harbours from the horizons black; - We tread the miry roads, the rain-drenched heather, - We are the men, we battle, we endure! - God’s pity for you, exiles, in your weather - Of swooning winds, calm seas, and skies demure! - - Wild cries the Winter, and we walk song-haunted - Over the hills and by the thundering falls, - Or where the dirge of a brave past is chaunted - In dolorous dusks by immemorial walls. - Though hails may beat us and the great mists blind us, - And lightning rend the pine-tree on the hill, - Yet are we strong, yet shall the morning find us - Children of tempest all unshaken still. - - We wander where the little grey towns cluster - Deep in the hills or selvedging the sea, - By farm-lands lone, by woods where wild-fowl muster - To shelter from the day’s inclemency; - And night will come, and then far through the darkling - A light will shine out in the sounding glen, - And it will mind us of some fond eye’s sparkling, - And we’ll be happy then. - - Let torrents pour, then, let the great winds rally, - Snow-silence fall or lightning blast the pine, - That light of home shines warmly in the valley, - And, exiled son of Scotland, it is thine. - Far have you wandered over seas of longing, - And now you drowse, and now you well may weep, - When all the recollections come a-thronging, - Of this rude country where your fathers sleep. - - They sleep, but still the hearth is warmly glowing - While the wild Winter blusters round their land; - That light of home, the wind so bitter blowing-- - Look, look and listen, do you understand? - Love, strength, and tempest--oh, come back and share them! - Here is the cottage, here the open door; - We have the hearts, although we do not bare them,-- - They’re yours, and you are ours for evermore. - - _Neil Munro._ - - - - -JACOBITE SONGS - - - - -ANONYMOUS - - -CXLVIII - -THE KING OVER THE WATER - - Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa’ - Safely o’er the friendly main; - Mony a heart will break in twa, - Should he ne’er come back again. - - _Will ye no’ come back again? - Will ye no’ come back again? - Better lo’ed ye canna be-- - Will ye no’ come back again?_ - - The hills he trod were a’ his ain, - And bed beneath the birken tree; - The bush that hid him on the plain, - There’s none on earth can claim but he. - - Sweet the laverock’s note and lang, - Liltin’ wildly up the glen; - But he sings nae ither sang - Than ‘Will ye no come back again?’ - - Whene’er I hear the blackbird sing - Unto the e’enin’ sinkin’ down, - Or merle that makes the woods to ring, - To me they hae nae ither soun’ - Than-- - - _Will ye no come back again? - Will ye no come back again? - Better lo’ed ye canna be-- - Will ye no come back again?_ - - _Anonymous._ - - -CXLIX - -WELCOME, ROYAL CHARLIE! - - _Oh! he was lang o’ comin’, - Lang, lang, lang o’ comin’, - Oh! he was lang o’ comin! - Welcome, Royal Charlie!_ - - When he on Moidart’s shore did stand, - The friends he had within the land - Came down and shook him by the hand, - And welcomed Royal Charlie. - - The dress that our Prince Charlie had, - Was bonnet blue, and tartan plaid; - And O! he was a handsome lad, - A true king’s son was Charlie. - - _But oh! he was lang o’ comin’, - Lang, lang, lang o’ comin’, - Oh! he was lang o’ comin’, - Welcome, Royal Charlie!_ - - _Anonymous._ - - -CL - -CAM’ YE BY ATHOL? - - Cam’ ye by Athol, lad wi’ the philabeg, - Down by the Tummel, or banks of the Garry? - Saw ye the lads wi’ their bonnets an’ white cockades, - Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie? - - _Follow thee, follow thee, wha wadna follow thee? - Lang hast thou lo’ed an’ trusted us fairly! - Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee? - King o’ the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie!_ - - I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald; - But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry; - Health to Macdonald an’ gallant Clanronald, - These are the men that will die for their Charlie! - - I’ll to Lochiel an’ Appin, an’ kneel to them; - Down by Lord Murray an’ Roy o’ Kildarlie; - Brave Macintosh, he shall fly to the fiel’ wi’ them; - These are the lads I can trust wi’ my Charlie. - - Down thro’ the Lowlands, down wi’ the Whigamore, - Loyal true Highlanders, down wi’ them rarely; - Ronald an’ Donald drive on wi’ the braid claymore, - Over the necks o’ the foes o’ Prince Charlie! - - _Follow thee, follow thee, wha wadna follow thee? - Lang hast thou lo’ed an’ trusted us fairly! - Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee? - King o’ the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie!_ - - _Anonymous._ - - -CLI - -LADY KEITH’S LAMENT - - I may sit in my wee croo house, - At the rock and the reel to toil fu’ dreary; - I may think on the day that’s gane, - And sigh and sab till I grow weary. - I ne’er could brook, I ne’er could brook, - A foreign loon to own or flatter; - But I will sing a rantin’ sang, - That day our king comes owre the water. - - O gin I live to see the day, - That I hae begg’d, and begg’d frae Heaven, - I’ll fling my rock and reel away, - And dance and sing frae morn till even: - For there is are I winna name, - That comes the reigning bike to scatter; - And I’ll put on my bridal gown, - That day our king comes owre the water. - - I hae seen the gude auld day, - The day o’ pride and chieftain glory, - When royal Stuarts bare the sway, - And ne’er heard tell o’ Whig nor Tory. - Tho’ lyart be my locks and grey, - And eild has crooked me down--what matter? - I’ll dance and sing anither day, - That day our king comes owre the water. - - A curse on dull and drawling Whig, - The whining, ranting, low deceiver, - Wi’ heart sae black, and look sae big, - And canting tongue o’ clishmaclaver! - My father was a good lord’s son, - My mother was an earl’s daughter, - And I’ll be Lady Keith again, - That day our king comes owre the water. - - _Anonymous._ - - - - -BURNS - - -CLII - -O’ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE - - _We’ll o’er the water, we’ll o’er the sea, - We’ll o’er the water to Charlie! - Come weal, come woe, we’ll gather and go, - And live and die wi’ Charlie._ - - Come, boat me o’er, come row me o’er, - Come boat me o’er to Charlie! - I’ll gie John Ross another bawbee - To boat me o’er to Charlie. - - I lo’e weel my Charlie’s name, - Though some there be abhor him; - But, O! to see Auld Nick gaun hame, - And Charlie’s foes before him! - - I swear and vow by moon and stars - And sun that shines so early, - If I had twenty thousand lives, - I’d die as aft for Charlie! - - _We’ll o’er the water, we’ll o’er the sea, - We’ll o’er the water to Charlie! - Come weal, come woe, we’ll gather and go, - And live and die wi’ Charlie!_ - - _Robert Burns._ - - -CLIII - -A SONG OF EXILE - - Frae the friends and land I love - Driv’n by Fortune’s felly spite, - Frae my best belov’d I rove, - Never mair to taste delight! - Never mair maun hope to find - Ease frae toil, relief frae care. - When remembrance wracks the mind, - Pleasures but unveil despair. - - Brightest climes shall mirk appear, - Desert ilka blooming shore, - Till the Fates, nae mair severe, - Friendship, love, and peace restore; - Till Revenge with laurell’d head - Bring our banish’d hame again, - And ilk loyal, bonnie lad - Cross the seas, and win his ain! - - _Robert Burns._ - - -CLIV - -KENMURE’S MARCH - - O, Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie, - O, Kenmure’s on and awa! - An’ Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord - That ever Galloway saw! - - Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie, - Success to Kenmure’s band! - There’s no a heart that fears a Whig - That rides by Kenmure’s hand. - - Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie, - Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine! - There ne’er was a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude, - Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line. - - O, Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie, - O, Kenmure’s lads are men! - Their hearts and swords are metal true, - And that their faes shall ken. - - They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie, - They’ll live or die wi’ fame! - But soon wi’ sounding Victorie - May Kenmure’s lord come hame! - - Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie, - Here’s him that’s far awa! - And here’s the flower that I lo’e best-- - The rose that’s like the sna! - - _Robert Burns._ - - -CLV - -A JACOBITE’S FAREWELL - - 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 fareweel, - For I maun cross the main, - My dear-- - For I maun cross the main. - - He turn’d him right and round about - Upon the Irish shore, - And gae his bridle reins a shake, - With adieu for evermore, - My dear-- - And adieu for evermore! - - The soger frae 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. - - _Robert Burns._ - - - - -NAIRN - - -CLVI - -CHARLIE IS MY DARLING - - _Oh! Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling, - Oh! Charlie is my darling, the young Chevalier!_ - - As he cam’ marchin’ up the street, - The pipes played loud and clear, - An’ a’ the folk cam’ rinnin’ oot - To meet the Chevalier. - - Wi’ Hieland bonnets on their heads, - An’ claymores bricht an’ clear, - They cam’ to fecht for Scotland’s richt, - An’ the young Chevalier. - - They’ve left their bonnie Hieland hills, - Their wives and bairnies dear, - To draw the sword for Scotland’s lord, - The young Chevalier. - - _Oh! Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling, - Oh! Charlie is my darling, the young Chevalier!_ - - _Lady Nairn._ - - -CLVII - -WHA’LL BE KING BUT CHARLIE? - - The news frae Moidart cam’ yestreen - Will soon gar mony ferlie; - For ships o’ war hae just come in, - And landed Royal Charlie. - - _Come through the heather, around him gather, - Ye’re a’ the welcomer early; - Around him cling wi’ a’ your kin; - For wha’ll be King but Charlie?_ - - The Hieland clans wi’ sword in hand, - Frae John o’ Groats to Airlie, - Hae to a man declared to stand - Or fa’ wi’ Royal Charlie. - - There’s ne’er a lass in a’ the land, - But vows both late an’ early, - To man she’ll ne’er gie heart or han’, - Wha wadna fecht for Charlie. - - Then here’s a health to Charlie’s cause, - An’ be’t complete an’ early; - His very name our hearts’ blood warms-- - To arms for Royal Charlie! - - _Come through the heather, around him gather, - Come Ronald, come Donald, come a’ thegither, - And claim your rightfu’, lawfu’ King, - For wha’ll be King but Charlie?_ - - _Lady Nairn._ - - - - -GLEN - - -CLVIII - -WAE’S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE - - A wee bird cam’ to our ha’ door, - He warbled sweet an’ clearly, - An’ aye the o’ercome o’ his sang, - Was ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ - O! when I heard the bonnie, bonnie bird, - The tears cam’ droppin’ rarely; - I took my bonnet aff my head, - For weel I lo’ed Prince Charlie. - - Quoth I, ‘My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, - Is that a sang ye borrow? - Are these some words ye’ve learnt by heart, - Or a lilt o’ dool an’ sorrow?’ - ‘O! no, no, no,’ the wee bird sang, - ‘I’ve flown sin’ mornin’ early, - But sic a day o’ wind an’ rain-- - Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie! - - On hills that are by right his ain, - He roams a lonely stranger, - On ilka hand he’s press’d by want, - On ilka side by danger: - Yestreen I met him in a glen, - My heart maist burstit fairly; - For sairly changed indeed was he-- - O! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ - - Dark night cam’ on, the tempest roar’d - Cauld o’er the hills an’ valleys; - An’ whaur was’t that your prince lay down, - Whase hame should be a palace? - He row’d him in a Hieland plaid, - Which cover’d him but sparely, - An’ slept beneath a bush o’ broom-- - O! wae’s me for Prince Charlie! - - But now the bird saw some red-coats, - An’ he shook his wings wi’ anger; - ‘O! this is no a land for me; - I’ll tarry here nae langer.’ - A while he hover’d on the wing, - Ere he departed fairly, - But weel I mind the fareweel strain - Was ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ - - _William Glen._ - - - - -BOULTON - - -CLIX - -SKYE BOAT-SONG - - _Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, - ‘Onward’ the sailors cry; - Carry the lad that’s born to be king - Over the sea to Skye!_ - - Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar, - Thunder-clouds rend the air; - Baffled, our foes stand by the shore, - Follow they will not dare. - - Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep; - Ocean’s a royal bed. - Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep - Watch by your weary head. - - Many’s the lad fought on that day - Well the claymore could wield, - When the night came silently lay - Dead on Culloden’s field. - - Burned are our homes, exile and death - Scatter the loyal men; - Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath - Charlie will come again. - - _Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, - ‘Onward’ the sailors cry; - Carry the lad that’s born to be king - Over the sea to Skye!_ - - _Harold Boulton._ - - - - -MATHESON - - -CLX - -A KISS OF THE KING’S HAND - - It wasna from a golden throne, - Or a bower with milk-white roses blown, - But ’mid the kelp on northern sand - That I got a kiss of the King’s hand. - - I durstna raise my een to see - If he even cared to glance at me; - His princely brow with care was crossed, - For his true men slain and kingdom lost. - - Think not his hand was soft and white - Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight, - Or round his wrists were ruffles grand, - When I got a kiss of the King’s hand. - - But dearer far to my twa een - Was the ragged sleeve of red and green - Owre that young weary hand that fain - With the guid broadsword had found its ain. - - Farewell for ever! the distance grey - And the lapping ocean seemed to say-- - For him a home in a foreign land, - And for me one kiss of the King’s hand. - - _Sarah Robertson Matheson._ - - - - -IV - -IRELAND - - - - -GOLDSMITH - - -CLXI - -HOME - - In all my wanderings round this world of care, - In all my griefs--and God has given my share-- - I still had hopes my later hours to crown, - Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; - To husband out life’s taper at the close - And keep the flame from wasting by repose; - I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, - Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, - Around my fire an evening group to draw, - And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; - And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, - Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, - I still had hopes, my long vexations past, - Here to return--and die at home at last. - - _Oliver Goldsmith._ - - - - -ANONYMOUS - - -CLXII - -THE WEARIN’ O’ THE GREEN - - O, Paddy dear! an’ did ye hear the news that’s goin’ round? - The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground; - No more St. Patrick’s Day we’ll keep, his colour can’t be seen, - For there’s a cruel law agin the wearin’ o’ the green! - I met wid Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand, - And he said, ‘How’s poor Ould Ireland, and how does she stand?’ - She’s the most disthressful country that iver yet was seen, - For they’re hangin’ men and women there for wearin’ o’ the green. - - An’ if the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red, - Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed; - Then pull the shamrock from your hat and throw it on the sod,-- - And never fear, ’twill take root there, tho’ under foot ’tis trod! - When law can stop the blades of grass from growin’ as they grow, - And when the leaves in summer-time their colour dare not show, - Then I will change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen, - But till that day, plaze God, I’ll stick to wearin’ o’ the green. - - _Anonymous._ - - - - -MOORE - - -CLXIII - -THE MINSTREL BOY - - The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, - In the ranks of death you’ll find him; - His father’s sword he has girded on, - And his wild harp slung behind him. - ‘Land of song!’ said the warrior bard, - ‘Tho’ all the world betrays thee, - One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, - One faithful harp shall praise thee!’ - - The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman’s chain - Could not bring his proud soul under; - The harp he loved ne’er spoke again, - For he tore its chords asunder; - And said, ‘No chain shall sully thee, - Thou soul of love and bravery! - Thy songs were made for the pure and free, - They shall never sound in slavery.’ - - _Thomas Moore._ - - -CLXIV - -A SONG OF THE IRISH - - Remember the glories of Brien the brave, - Tho’ the days of the hero are o’er, - Tho’ lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave, - He returns to Kincora no more! - That star of the field, which so often has pour’d - Its beam on the battle, is set; - But enough of its glory remains on each sword - To light us to victory yet! - - Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint - Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, - Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print - The footstep of slavery there? - No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, - Go, tell our invaders the Danes, - That ’tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine - Than to sleep but a moment in chains. - - Forget not our wounded companions, who stood - In the day of distress by our side; - While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, - They stirred not, but conquered and died! - The sun that now blesses our arms with his light, - Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain: - Oh! let him not blush when he leaves us to-night - To find that they fell there in vain! - - _Thomas Moore._ - - -CLXV - -DEPARTED GLORY - - The harp that once through Tara’s halls - The soul of music shed, - Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls, - As if that soul were fled.-- - So sleeps the pride of former days, - So glory’s thrill is o’er, - And hearts, that once beat high for praise, - Now feel that pulse no more. - - No more to chiefs and ladies bright - The harp of Tara swells; - The chord alone, that breaks at night, - Its tale of ruin tells. - Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, - The only throb she gives, - Is when some heart indignant breaks, - To show that still she lives. - - _Thomas Moore._ - - -CLXVI - -THE CHOICE - - O, where’s the slave so lowly, - Condemn’d to chains unholy, - Who, could he burst - His bonds at first, - Would pine beneath them slowly? - What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, - Would wait till time decay’d it, - When thus its wing - At once may spring - To the throne of Him who made it? - - Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all, - Who live to weep our fall! - - Less dear the laurel growing, - Alive, untouch’d and blowing, - Than that, whose braid - Is pluck’d to shade - The brows with victory glowing. - We tread the land that bore us, - Her green flag glitters o’er us, - The friends we’ve tried - Are by our side - And the foe we hate before us. - - Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all, - Who live to weep our fall! - - _Thomas Moore._ - - -CLXVII - -A SONG OF TRUE LOVE - - She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, - And lovers are round her, sighing: - But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, - For her heart in the grave is lying. - - She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, - Every note which he lov’d awaking;-- - Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, - How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking. - - He had liv’d for his love, for his country he died, - They were all that to life had entwin’d him; - Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, - Nor long will his love stay behind him. - - O! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, - When they promise a glorious morrow; - They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west, - From her own loved Island of Sorrow. - - _Thomas Moore._ - - -CLXVIII - -TO ERIN - - Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, - Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies! - Shining through sorrow’s stream, - Saddening through pleasure’s beam, - Thy suns with doubtful gleam, - Weep while they rise. - - Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, - Erin, thy languid smile ne’er shall increase, - Till, like the rainbow’s light, - Thy various tints unite, - And form in Heaven’s sight - One arch of peace! - - _Thomas Moore._ - - -CLXIX - -THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP - - Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee, - The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long, - When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, - And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! - The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness - Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; - But, so oft hast thou echo’d the deep sigh of sadness, - That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. - - Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, - This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! - Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, - Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine; - If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, - Have throbb’d at thy lay, ’tis thy glory alone; - I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, - And all the wild sweetness I wak’d was thy own. - - _Thomas Moore._ - - - - -TONNA - - -CLXX - -THE MAIDEN CITY - - Where Foyle her swelling waters - Rolls northward to the main, - Here, Queen of Erin’s daughters, - Fair Derry fixed her reign: - A holy temple crowned her, - And commerce graced her street, - A rampart wall was round her, - The river at her feet: - And here she sat alone, boys, - And looking from the hill, - Vow’d the Maiden on her throne, boys, - Would be a Maiden still. - - From Antrim crossing over, - In famous eighty-eight, - A plumed and belted lover - Came to the Ferry Gate; - She summoned to defend her - Our sires--a beardless race-- - They shouted, ‘No surrender!’ - And slamm’d it in his face. - Then in a quiet tone, boys, - They told him ’twas their will - That the Maiden on her throne, boys, - Should be a Maiden still. - - Next, crushing all before him, - A kingly wooer came - (The royal banner o’er him - Blushed crimson-deep for shame); - He showed the Pope’s commission, - Nor dreamed to be refused, - She pitied his condition, - But begged to stand excused. - In short, the fact is known, boys, - She chased him from the hill, - For the Maiden on her throne, boys, - Would be a Maiden still. - - On our brave sires descending, - ’Twas then the tempest broke, - Their peaceful dwellings rending - ’Mid blood, and flame, and smoke. - That hallow’d graveyard yonder - Swells with the slaughtered dead-- - O, brothers! pause and ponder, - It was for us they bled; - And while their gifts we own, boys-- - The fane that tops our hill, - O, the Maiden on her throne, boys, - Shall be a Maiden still. - - Nor wily tongue shall move us, - Nor tyrant arm affright, - We’ll look to One above us, - Who ne’er forsook the right; - Who will may crouch and tender - The birthright of the free, - But, brothers, ‘No surrender!’ - No compromise for me! - We want no barrier stone, boys, - No gates to guard the hill, - Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys, - Shall be a Maiden still! - - _Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna._ - - - - -MANGAN - - -CLXXI - -KINCORA - -(_From the Irish_) - - O, where, Kincora! is Brien the Great? - And where is the beauty that once was thine? - O, where are the princes and nobles that sate - At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine? - Where, O, Kincora? - - O, where, Kincora! are thy valorous lords? - O, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone? - O, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords? - And where are the warriors Brien led on? - Where, O, Kincora? - - And where is Donogh, King Brien’s son? - And where is Conàing, the beautiful chief? - And Kiàn and Corc? Alas! they are gone; - They have left me this night alone with my grief! - Left me, Kincora! - - O, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds? - And where is Kiàn, who was son of Molloy? - And where is king Lonergan, fame of whose deeds - In the red battle no time can destroy? - Where, O, Kincora! - - I am MacLaig, and my home is on the lake: - Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled, - Came Brien to ask me, and I went for his sake, - O, my grief! that I should live and Brien be dead! - Dead, O, Kincora! - - _James Clarence Mangan._ - - -CLXXII - -DARK ROSALEEN - -(_From the Irish_) - - O! my Dark Rosaleen, - Do not sigh, do not weep! - The priests are on the ocean green, - They march along the deep. - There’s wine from the royal Pope, - Upon the ocean green; - And Spanish ale shall give you hope, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, - Shall give you health, and help, and hope, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - Over hills, and through dales, - Have I roamed for your sake; - All yesterday I sailed with sails - On river and on lake. - The Erne at its highest flood - I dashed across unseen, - For there was lightning in my blood - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - O! there was lightning in my blood, - Red lightning lightened through my blood, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - All day long, in unrest, - To and fro do I move, - The very soul within my breast - Is wasted for you, love! - The heart in my bosom faints - To think of you, my Queen, - My life of life, my saint of saints, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - To hear your sweet and sad complaints, - My life, my love, my saint of saints, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - Woe and pain, pain and woe, - Are my lot, night and noon, - To see your bright face clouded so, - Like to the mournful moon. - But yet will I rear your throne - Again in golden sheen; - ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - ’Tis you shall have the golden throne, - ’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - Over dews, over sands, - Will I fly for your weal; - Your holy, delicate white hands - Shall girdle me with steel. - At home, in your emerald bowers, - From morning’s dawn till e’en, - You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - You’ll think of me through daylight’s hours, - My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - I could scale the blue air, - I could plough the high hills, - O! I could kneel all night in prayer, - To heal your many ills! - And one beamy smile from you - Would float like light between - My toils and me, my own, my true, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - Would give me life and soul anew, - A second life, a soul anew, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - O! the Erne shall run red - With redundance of blood, - The earth shall rock beneath our tread, - And flames wrap hill and wood, - And gun-peal and slogan cry - Wake many a glen serene, - Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, - Ere you can fade, ere you can die, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - _James Clarence Mangan._ - - - - -DUFFERIN - - -CLXXIII - -THE BAY OF DUBLIN - - O, Bay of Dublin! how my heart you’re troublin’, - Your beauty haunts me like a fever dream; - Like frozen fountains, that the sun sets bubblin’, - My heart’s blood warms when I but hear your name; - And never till this life’s pulsation ceases, - My early, latest thought you’ll fail to be,-- - O! none here knows how very fair that place is, - And no one cares how dear it is to me. - Sweet Wicklow mountains! the soft sunlight sleepin’ - On your green uplands is a picture rare; - You crowd around me like young maidens peepin’ - And puzzlin’ me to say which is most fair, - As tho’ you longed to see your own sweet faces - Reflected in that smooth and silver sea. - My fondest blessin’ on those lovely places, - Tho’ no one cares how dear they are to me. - How often when alone at work I’m sittin’ - And musin’ sadly on the days of yore, - I think I see my pretty Katie knittin’, - The childer playin’ round the cabin door; - I think I see the neighbours’ kindly faces - All gathered round, their long-lost friend to see; - Tho’ none here knows how very fair that place is, - Heav’n knows how dear my poor home was to me. - - _Lady Dufferin._ - - -CLXXIV - -LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT - - I’m sitting on the stile, Mary, - Where we sat, side by side, - That bright May morning long ago - When first you were my bride. - The corn was springing fresh and green, - The lark sang loud and high, - The red was on your lip, Mary, - The love-light in your eye. - - The place is little changed, Mary, - The day is bright as then, - The lark’s loud song is in my ear, - The corn is green again; - But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, - Your breath warm on my cheek, - And I still keep listening for the words - You never more may speak. - - ’Tis but a step down yonder lane, - The little Church stands near-- - The Church where we were wed, Mary-- - I see the spire from here; - But the graveyard lies between, Mary,-- - My step might break your rest,-- - Where you, my darling, lie asleep, - With your baby on your breast. - - I’m very lonely now, Mary,-- - The poor make no new friends;-- - But, O! they love the better still - The few our Father sends. - And you were all I had, Mary, - My blessing and my pride; - There’s nothing left to care for now - Since my poor Mary died. - - Yours was the good brave heart, Mary, - That still kept hoping on, - When trust in God had left my soul, - And half my strength was gone. - There was comfort ever on your lip, - And the kind look on your brow. - I bless you, Mary, for that same, - Though you can’t hear me now. - - I thank you for the patient smile - When your heart was fit to break; - When the hunger pain was gnawing there, - You hid it for my sake. - I bless you for the pleasant word - When your heart was sad and sore. - O! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, - Where grief can’t reach you more! - - I’m bidding you a long farewell, - My Mary--kind and true! - But I’ll not forget you, darling, - In the land I’m going to. - They say there’s bread and work for all, - And the sun shines always there; - But I’ll not forget old Ireland, - Were it fifty times as fair. - - And when amid those grand old woods - I sit and shut my eyes, - My heart will travel back again - To where my Mary lies; - I’ll think I see the little stile - Where we sat, side by side,-- - And the springing corn and the bright May morn, - When first you were my bride. - - _Lady Dufferin._ - - - - -FERGUSON - - -CLXXV - -O’BYRNE’S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW - -(_From the Irish_) - - God be with the Irish host! - Never be their battle lost! - For, in battle, never yet - Have they basely earned defeat. - - Host of armour, red and bright, - May ye fight a valiant fight! - For the green spot of the earth, - For the land that gave you birth. - - Like a wild beast in his den, - Lies the chief by hill and glen, - While the strangers, proud and savage, - Creean’s richest valleys ravage. - - When old Leinster’s sons of fame, - Heads of many a warlike name, - Redden their victorious hilts, - On the Gaul, my soul exults. - - When the grim Gaul, who have come, - Hither o’er the ocean foam, - From the fight victorious go, - Then my heart sinks deadly low. - - Bless the blades our warriors draw, - God be with Clan Ranelagh! - But my soul is weak for fear, - Thinking of their danger here. - - Have them in Thy holy keeping, - God be with them lying sleeping, - God be with them standing fighting, - Erin’s foes in battle smiting! - - _Sir Samuel Ferguson._ - - -CLXXVI - -THE HILLS OF IRELAND - -(_From the Irish_) - - A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, - _Uileacán dubh O!_ - Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear, - _Uileacán dubh O!_ - There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, - And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann’d, - There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand - On the fair hills of holy Ireland. - - Curl’d he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, - _Uileacán dubh O!_ - Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea, - _Uileacán dubh O!_ - And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, - Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, - And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, - For the fair hills of holy Ireland. - - _Sir Samuel Ferguson._ - - - - -DAVIS - - -CLXXVII - -MY LAND - - She is a rich and rare land; - O! she’s a fresh and fair land; - She is a dear and rare land-- - This native land of mine. - - No men than hers are braver-- - Her women’s hearts ne’er waver; - I’d freely die to save her, - And think my lot divine. - - She’s not a dull or cold land; - No! she’s a warm and bold land; - O! she’s a true and old land-- - This native land of mine. - - Could beauty ever guard her, - And virtue still reward her, - No foe would cross her border-- - No friend within it pine! - - O, she’s a fresh and fair land; - O, she’s a true and rare land! - Yes, she’s a rare and fair land-- - This native land of mine. - - _Thomas Davis._ - - -CLXXVIII - -THE DEAD CHIEF - - ‘Did they dare, did they dare to slay Owen Roe O’Neill?’ - ‘Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.’ - ‘May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow! - May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Roe! - - Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.’ - ‘From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords; - But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his way, - And he died at Cloc Uachtar upon St. Leonard’s Day.’ - - ‘Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead; - Quench the hearth, and hold the breath--with ashes strew the head. - How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore! - Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more. - - Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, - Sure we never won a battle--’twas Owen won them all. - Had he lived--had he lived--our dear country had been free; - But he’s dead, but he’s dead, and ’tis slaves we’ll ever be. - - O’Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh, - Audley and MacMahon--ye are valiant, wise, and true; - But--what are ye all to our darling who is gone? - The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle’s Cornerstone! - - Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride! - Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died! - Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb--weep him, young men and old; - Weep for him, ye women--your Beautiful lies cold! - - We thought you would not die--we were sure you would not go, - And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell’s cruel blow-- - Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky-- - O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die? - - Soft as woman’s was your voice, O’Neill! bright was your eye, - O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die? - Your troubles are all over, you’re at rest with God on high; - But we’re slaves, and we’re orphans, Owen!--why did you die?’ - - _Thomas Davis._ - - - - -DE VERE - - -CLXXIX - -THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE - - The Little Black Rose shall be red at last; - What made it black but the March wind dry, - And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast? - It shall redden the hills when June is nigh! - - The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last; - What drove her forth but the dragon fly? - In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, - With her mild gold horn, and her slow, dark eye. - - The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last! - The pine long-bleeding, it shall not die! - This song is secret. Mine ear it passed - In a wind o’er the plains at Athenry. - - _Aubrey de Vere._ - - - - -INGRAM - - -CLXXX - -THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD - - Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? - Who blushes at the name? - When cowards mock the patriot’s fate, - Who hangs his head for shame? - He’s all a knave or half a slave, - Who slights his country thus; - But a true man, like you, man, - Will fill your glass with us. - - We drink the memory of the brave, - The faithful and the few: - Some lie far off beyond the wave, - Some sleep in Ireland, too. - All, all are gone; but still lives on - The fame of those who died; - And true men, like you men, - Remember them with pride. - - Some on the shores of distant lands - Their weary hearts have laid, - And by the stranger’s heedless hands - Their lonely graves were made; - But though their clay be far away - Beyond th’ Atlantic foam, - In true men, like you, men, - Their spirit’s still at home. - - The dust of some is Irish earth; - Among their own they rest; - And the same land that gave them birth - Has caught them to her breast; - And we will pray that from their clay - Full many a race may start - Of true men, like you, men, - To act as brave a part. - - They rose in dark and evil days - To right their native land; - They kindled here a living blaze - That nothing shall withstand. - Alas! that might can vanquish right-- - They fell and pass’d away; - But true men, like you, men, - Are plenty here to-day. - - Then here’s their memory! may it be - For us a guiding light, - To cheer our strife for liberty - And teach us to unite. - Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still, - Though sad as theirs your fate, - And true men, be you, men, - Like those of Ninety-Eight! - - _John Kells Ingram._ - - -CLXXXI - -NATIONAL PRESAGE - - Unhappy Erin, what a lot was thine! - Half-conquer’d by a greedy robber band; - Ill govern’d now with lax, now ruthless hand; - Mislead by zealots, wresting laws divine - To sanction every dark or mad design; - Lured by false lights of pseudo-patriot league - Through crooked paths of faction and intrigue; - And drugg’d with selfish flattery’s poison’d wine. - Yet, reading all thy mournful history, - Thy children, with a mystic faith sublime, - Turn to the future, confident that Fate, - Become at last thy friend, reserves for thee, - To be thy portion in the coming time, - They know not what--but surely something great. - - _John Kells Ingram._ - - - - -SIGERSON - - -CLXXXII - -THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS - -(_From the Irish_) - - Lo, our land this night is lone! - Hear ye not sad Erin’s moan? - Maidens weep and true men sorrow, - Lone the Brave Race night and morrow. - - Lone this night is Fola’s plain,-- - Though the foemen swarm amain-- - Far from Erin, generous-hearted, - Far her Flower of Sons is parted. - - Great the hardship! great the grief! - Ulster wails Tirconaill’s Chief, - From Emain west to Assarue - Wails gallant, gentle, generous Hugh. - - Children’s joy no more rejoices,-- - Fetters silence Song’s sweet voices-- - Change upon our chiefs, alas! - Bare the altar, banned the Mass. - - Homes are hearthless, harps in fetters, - Guerdon’s none for men of letters, - Banquets none, nor merry meetings, - Hills ring not the chase’s greetings. - - Songs of war make no heart stronger, - Songs of peace inspire no longer,-- - In great halls, at close of days, - Sound no more our fathers’ lays. - - Foemen camp in Neimid’s plains; - Who shall break our heavy chains? - What Naisi, son of Conn, shall prove - A Moses to the land we love? - - She has none who now can aid her, - All have gone before the invader; - Banba’s bonds and cruel cross - Steal the very soul from us! - - _George Sigerson._ - - -CLXXXIII - -LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUA O’NEILL - -(_From the Irish_) - - How great the loss is thy loss to me! - A loss to all who had speech with thee:-- - On earth can so hard a heart there be - As not to weep for the death of Eoghan? - Och, ochón! ’tis I am stricken, - Unto death the isle may sicken, - Thine the soul which all did quicken; - --And thou ’neath the sod! - - I stood at Cavan o’er thy tomb, - Thou spok’st no word through all thy gloom; - O want! O ruin! O bitter doom! - O great, lost heir of the house of Niall! - I care not now whom Death may borrow, - Despair sits by me, night and morrow, - My life henceforth is one long sorrow; - --And thou ’neath the sod! - - O child of heroes, heroic child! - Thou’dst smite our foe in battle wild, - Thou’dst right all wrong, O just and mild! - And who lives now--since dead is Eoghan? - In place of feasts, alas! there’s crying, - In place of song, sad woe and sighing, - Alas, I live with my heart a-dying, - --And thou ’neath the sod! - - My woe, was ever so cruel woe? - My heart is torn with rending throe! - I grieve that I am not lying low - In silent death by thy side, Eoghan! - Thou wast skilled all straits to ravel, - And thousands broughtst from death and cavil, - They journey safe who with thee travel, - --And thou with thy God! - - _George Sigerson._ - - - - -SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG - - -CLXXXIV - -THE OLD COUNTRY - - Not tasselled palm or bended cypress wooing - The languid wind on temple-crownèd heights, - Not heaven’s myriad stars in lustre strewing - Smooth sapphire bays in hushed Ionian nights, - Not the clear peak of dawn-encrimsoned snow, - Or plumage-lighted wood, or gilded pile - Sparkling amid the imperial city’s glow, - Endears our Isle. - - Thine the weird splendour of the restless billow - For ever breaking over lonely shores, - The reedy mere that is the wild-swan’s pillow, - The crag to whose torn spire the eagle soars, - The moorland where the solitary hern - Spreads his grey wings upon the breezes cold, - The pink sweet heather’s bloom, the waving fern, - The gorse’s gold. - - And we who draw our being from thy being, - Blown by the untimely blast about the earth, - Back in love’s visions to thy bosom fleeing, - Droop with thy sorrows, brighten with thy mirth; - O, from afar, with sad and straining eyes, - Tired arms across the darkness and the foam - We stretch to thy bluff capes and sombre skies, - Belovèd home! - - The nurselings of thy moorlands and thy mountains, - Thy children tempered by thy winter gales, - Swayed by the tumult of thy headlong fountains - That clothe with pasture green thy grassy vales, - True to one love in climes’ and years’ despite, - We yearn, in our last hour, upon thy breast, - When the Great Darkness wraps thee from our sight, - To sink to rest! - - _George Francis Savage-Armstrong._ - - - - -GRAVES - - -CLXXXV - -THE SONGS OF ERIN - - (‘Music shall outlive all the songs of the birds.’--_Old Irish_) - - I’ve heard the lark’s cry thrill the sky o’er the meadows of Lusk, - And the first joyous gush of the thrush from Adare’s April Wood; - At thy lone music’s spell, Philomel, magic-stricken I’ve stood, - When, in Espan afar, star on star trembled out of the dusk. - - While Dunkerron’s blue dove murmured love, ’neath her nest I - have sighed, - And by mazy Culdaff with a laugh mocked the cuckoo’s refrain; - Derrycarn’s dusky bird I have heard piping joy hard by pain, - And the swan’s last lament sobbing sent over Moyle’s mystic tide. - - Yet as bright shadows pass from the glass of the darkening lake, - As the rose’s rapt sigh will soon die, when the zephyr is stilled; - In oblivion grey sleeps each lay that those birds ever trilled, - But the songs Erin sings from her strings shall immortally wake. - - _Alfred Perceval Graves._ - - - - -CASEY - - -CLXXXVI - -THE RISING OF THE MOON - -(1798) - - ‘O, then, tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, tell me why you hurry so?’ - ‘Hush, _ma bouchal_, hush and listen;’ and his cheeks were all aglow: - ‘I bear orders from the Captain--get you ready quick and soon; - For the pikes must be together at the risin’ o’ the moon.’ - - ‘O, then, tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, where the gath’rin’ is to be?’ - ‘At the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me; - One word more--for signal token, whistle up the marchin’ tune, - With your pike upon your shoulder, by the risin’ o’ the moon.’ - - Out from many a mud-wall cabin eyes were watching through that night, - Many a manly heart was throbbing for the blessed warning light. - Murmurs passed along the valleys, like the banshee’s lonely croon, - And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of the moon. - - There, beside the singing river, that dark mass of men was seen-- - Far above the shining weapons hung their own beloved Green. - ‘Death to every foe and traitor! Forward! strike the marchin’ tune, - And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom! ’tis the risin’ o’ the moon!’ - - Well they fought for poor old Ireland, and full bitter was - their fate; - (O, what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of Ninety-Eight!) - Yet, thank God, e’en still are beating hearts in manhood’s - burning noon, - Who would follow in their footsteps at the rising of the moon! - - _John Keegan Casey._ - - - - -ROLLESTON - - -CLXXXVII - -THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS - -(_From the Irish of Angus O’Gillan_) - - In a quiet-water’d land, a land of roses, - Stands Saint Kieran’s city fair; - And the warriors of Erinn in their famous generations - Slumber there - - There below the dewy hillside sleep the noblest - Of the Clan of Conn, - Each beneath his stone with name in branching Ogham - And the sacred knot thereon. - - There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, - There the sons of Cairbrè sleep-- - Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran’s plain of crosses - Now their final hosting keep. - - And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, - And right many a lord of Breagh; - Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, - Kind in hall and fierce in fray. - - Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter - In the red earth lies at rest; - Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, - Many a swan-white breast. - - _Thomas William Rolleston._ - - - - -HINKSON - - -CLXXXVIII - -SHAMROCK SONG - - O the red rose may be fair, - And the lily statelier; - But my shamrock, one in three, - Takes the very heart of me! - - Many a lover hath the rose - When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows; - And in many a bower is heard - Her sweet praise from bee and bird. - - Through the gold hours dreameth she, - In her warm heart passionately, - Her fair face hung languid-wise: - O her breath of honey and spice! - - Like a fair saint virginal - Stands your lily silver and tall; - Over all the flowers that be - Is my shamrock dear to me. - - Shines the lily like the sun, - Crystal-pure, a cold sweet nun; - With her austere lip she sings - To her heart of heavenly things. - - Gazeth through a night of June - To her sister-saint the moon; - With the stars communeth long - Of the angels and their song. - - But when summer died last year - Rose and lily died with her; - Shamrock stayeth every day, - Be the winds or gold or grey. - - Irish hills, grey as the dove, - Know the little plant I love; - Warm and fair it mantles them, - Stretching down from throat to hem. - - And it laughs o’er many a vale, - Sheltered safe from storm and gale; - Sky and sun and stars thereof - Love the gentle plant I love. - - Soft it clothes the ruined floor, - Of many an abbey, grey and hoar, - And the still home of the dead - With its green is carpeted. - - Roses for an hour of love, - With the joy and pain thereof; - Stand my lilies white to see - All for prayer and purity. - - These are white as the harvest moon, - Roses flush like the heart of June; - But my shamrock brave and gay, - Glads the tired eyes every day. - - O the red rose shineth rare, - And the lily saintly fair; - But my shamrock, one in three, - Takes the inmost heart of me! - - _Katharine Tynan Hinkson._ - - - - -JOHNSON - - -CLXXXIX - -WAYS OF WAR - - A terrible and splendid trust - Heartens the host of Inisfail: - Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust, - A lighting glory of the Gael. - - Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers, - And Tara the assembling place: - But each sweet wind of Ireland bears - The trump of battle on its race. - - From Dursey Isle to Donegal, - From Howth to Achill, the glad noise - Rings: and the heirs of glory fall, - Or victory crowns their fighting joys. - - A dream! a dream! an ancient dream! - Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail, - Some weapons on some field must gleam, - Some burning glory fire the Gael. - - That field may lie beneath the sun, - Fair for the treading of an host: - That field in realms of thought be won, - And armed minds do their uttermost: - - Some way, to faithful Inisfail, - Shall come the majesty and awe - Of martial truth, that must prevail, - To lay on all the eternal law. - - _Lionel Johnson._ - - - - -V - -CANADA - - - - -SMITH - - -CXC - -THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE - - O, the East is but West, with the sun a little hotter; - And the pine becomes a palm, by the dark Egyptian water: - And the Nile’s like many a stream we know, that fills its - brimming cup,-- - We’ll think it is the Ottawa, as we track the batteaux up! - _Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! - It’s easy shooting homeward, when we’re at the top!_ - - O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river; - But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sunbeams quiver; - And the mocking mirage spreads its view, afar on either hand; - But strong we bend the sturdy oar, towards the Southern land! - - O, we’ve tracked the Rapids up, and o’er many a portage crossing; - And it’s often such we’ve seen, though so loud the waves are tossing! - Then, it’s homeward when the run is o’er! o’er stream, and - ocean deep-- - To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows sleep! - - And it yet may come to pass, that the hearts and hands so ready - May be sought again to help, when some poise is off the steady! - And the Maple and the Pine be matched, with British Oak the while, - As once beneath Egyptian suns, the Canadians on the Nile! - _Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! - It’s easy shooting homeward, when we’re at the top!_ - - _William Wye Smith._ - - - - -ANDERSON - - -CXCI - -THE DEATH OF WOLFE - - ‘On with the charge!’ he cries, and waves his sword;-- - One rolling cheer five thousand voices swell;-- - The levelled guns pour forth their leaden shower, - While thund’ring cannons’ roar half drowns the Huron yell. - - ‘On with the charge!’ with shout and cheer they come;-- - No laggard there upon that field of fame. - The lurid plain gleams like a seething hell, - And every rock and tree send forth their bolts of flame. - - On! on! they sweep. Uprise the waiting ranks-- - Still as the grave--unmoved as granite wall;-- - The foe before--the dizzy crags behind-- - They fight, the day to win, or like true warriors fall. - - Forward they sternly move, then halt to wait - That raging sea of human life now near;-- - ‘Fire!’ rings from right to left,--each musket rings, - As if a thunder-peal had struck the startled ear. - - Again, and yet again that volley flies,-- - With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field;-- - All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam, - And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely wield. - - And down the line swells high the British cheer, - That on a future day woke Minden’s plain, - And the loud slogan that fair Scotland’s foes - Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear again. - - And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed - On dark Culloden moor o’er trampled dead, - Now sounds the ‘Onset’ that each clansman knows, - Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood is shed. - - And on that day no nobler stained the sod, - Than his, who for his country life laid down; - Who, for a mighty Empire battled there, - And strove from rival’s brow to wrest the laurel crown. - - Twice struck,--he recks not, but still heads the charge, - But, ah! fate guides the marksman’s fatal ball:-- - With bleeding breast, he claims a comrade’s aid,-- - ‘We win,--let not my soldiers see their Leader fall.’ - - Full well he feels life’s tide is ebbing fast,-- - When hark! ‘They run; see how they run!’ they cry. - ‘Who run?’ ‘The foe.’ His eyes flash forth one gleam, - Then murm’ring low he sighs, ‘Praise God, in peace I die.’ - - Far rolls the battle’s din, and leaves its dead, - As when a cyclone thro’ the forest cleaves;-- - And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain, - As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn leaves. - - The Fleur de Lys lies trodden on the ground,-- - The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave,-- - ‘All’s well’ resounds from tower and battlement, - And England’s banners proudly o’er the ramparts wave. - - Slowly the mighty warships sail away, - To tell their country of an empire won; - But, ah! they bear the death-roll of the slain, - And all that mortal is of Britain’s noblest son. - - With bowèd head they lay their hero down, - And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;-- - Loud salvoes sing the soldier’s lullaby, - And weeping millions bathe with tears his honoured grave. - - Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion’s hills,-- - And rends the very sky a people’s joy;-- - And even when grief broods o’er the vacant chair, - The mother’s heart still nobly gives her gallant boy. - - And while broad England gleams with glorious light, - And merry peals from every belfry ring;-- - One little village lies all dark and still, - No fires are lighted there--no battle songs they sing. - - There in her lonely cot, in widow’s weeds, - A mother mourns--the silent tear-drops fall;-- - She too had given to swell proud England’s fame, - But, ah! she gave the widow’s mite--she gave her all! - - _Duncan Anderson._ - - - - -CURZON - - -CXCII - -THE LOYALISTS - - O ye, who with your blood and sweat - Watered the furrows of this land,-- - See where upon a nation’s brow, - In honour’s front, ye proudly stand - - Who for her pride abased your own, - And gladly on her altar laid - All bounty of the outer world, - All memories that your glory made. - - And to her service bowed your strength, - Took labour for your shield and crest; - See where upon a nation’s brow, - Her diadem ye proudly rest! - - _Sarah Anne Curzon._ - - - - -RAND - - -CXCIII - -THE WHITETHROAT - - Shy bird of the silver arrows of song, - That cleave our Northern air so clear, - Thy notes prolong, prolong, - I listen, I hear-- - ‘I love--dear--Canada, - Canada, Canada!’ - - O plumes of the pointed dusky fir, - Screen of a swelling patriot heart, - The copse is all astir - And echoes thy part!... - - Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes - As the noise of the day dies down; - And silence strings her lutes, - The Whitethroat to crown.... - - O bird of the silver arrows of song, - Shy poet of Canada dear, - Thy notes prolong, prolong, - We listen, we hear-- - ‘I--love--dear--Canada, - Canada, Canada!’ - - _Theodore Harding Rand._ - - - - -CHRISTIE - - -CXCIV - -WELCOME HOME - -(_July 23, 1885_) - - War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil - And battle-scarred they come--victorious! - Exultingly we greet them--cleave the sky - With cheers, and fling our banners to the winds; - We raise triumphant songs, and strew their path - To do them homage--bid them ‘Welcome Home!’ - - We laid our country’s honour in their hands - And sent them forth undoubting. Said farewell - With hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame, - To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow. - To-day they come again, and bring their gift-- - Of all earth’s gifts most precious--trust redeemed. - We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry, - Words of all words the sweetest--‘Welcome Home!’ - - O brave true hearts! O steadfast loyal hearts! - They come, and lay their trophies at our feet; - They show us work accomplished, hardships borne, - Courageous deeds, and patience under pain, - Their country’s name upheld and glorified, - And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil. - What guerdon have we for such service done? - Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers; - Our country’s smile, and her most just rewards; - The victor’s laurel laid upon their brows - And all the love that speaks in ‘Welcome Home!’ - - Bays for the heroes: for the martyrs, palms. - To those who come not, who ‘though dead yet speak’ - A lesson to be guarded in our souls - While the land lives for whose dear sake they died-- - Whose lives thrice sacred are the price of Peace, - Whose memory, thrice belovèd thrice revered, - Shall be their country’s heritage, to hold - Eternal pattern to her living sons-- - What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all. - A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves, - Are all the tribute left. Already theirs - A Nation’s safety, gratitude and tears, - Imperishable honour, endless rest. - - And ye, O stricken hearted! to whom earth - Is dark, though Peace is smiling, whom no pride - Can soothe, no triumph-pæan can console-- - Ye surely will not fail them--will not shrink - To perfect now your sacrifice of love? - ’Tis yours to stifle sobs and check your tears, - Lest echo of your grief should reach and break - Their hard-won joy in Heaven, where God Himself - Has met and crowned them, and has said ‘Well done!’ - - _Annie Rothwell Christie._ - - - - -PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY - - -CXCV - -THEIR TESTAMENT - - Why is it that ye grieve, O, weak in faith, - Who turn toward High Heaven upbraiding eyes? - Think ye that God will count your children’s death - Vain sacrifice? - - Half-mast your flags? Nay, fly them at the head! - We reap the harvest where we sowed the corn; - See, from the red graves of your gallant dead, - An Empire born! - - Do ye not know ye cannot cure a flaw - Unless the steel runs molten-red again: - That men’s mere words could not together draw - Those who were twain? - - Do you not see the Anglo-Saxon breed - Grew less than kin, on every continent; - That brothers had forgotten, in their greed, - What ‘brother’ meant? - - Do ye not hear from all the humming wires - Which bind the mother to each colony, - How He works surely for our best desires - To weld the free - - With blood of freemen into one Grand Whole, - To open all the gates of all the Earth? - Do ye not see your Greater Britain’s soul - Has come to birth? - - Do ye not hear above the sighs--the song - From all those outland hearts, which peace kept dumb:-- - ‘There is no fight too fierce, no trail too long, - When Love cries ‘Come!’’ - - Can ye beat steel from iron in the sun, - Or crown Earth’s master on a bloodless field? - As Abram offered to his God his son, - Our best _we_ yield. - - And God gives answer. In the battle smoke-- - Tried in war’s crucible, washed white in tears, - The Saxon heart of Greater Britain woke, - One for all years. - - Lift up your eyes! Your glory is revealed! - See, through war’s clouds, the rising of your Sun! - Hear ye God’s voice! _Their testament is sealed - And ye be one!_ - - _Clive Phillipps-Wolley._ - - - - -ROBERTS - - -CXCVI - -CANADA - - O Child of Nations, giant-limbed, - Who stand’st among the nations now - Unheeded, unadored, unhymned, - With unanointed brow,-- - - How long the ignoble sloth, how long - The trust in greatness not thine own? - Surely the lion’s brood is strong - To front the world alone! - - How long the indolence, ere thou dare - Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame-- - Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear - A nation’s franchise, nation’s name? - - The Saxon force, the Celtic fire, - These are thy Manhood’s heritage! - Why rest with babes and slaves? Seek higher - The place of race and age. - - I see to every wind unfurled - The flag that bears the Maple-Wreath; - Thy swift keels furrow round the world - Its blood-red folds beneath; - - Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas; - Thy white sails swell with alien gales; - To stream on each remotest breeze - The black smoke of thy pipes exhales. - - O Falterer, let thy past convince - Thy future,--all the growth, the gain, - The fame since Cartier knew thee, since - Thy shores beheld Champlain! - - Montcalm and Wolfe! Wolfe and Montcalm! - Quebec, thy storied citadel - Attest in burning song and psalm - How here thy heroes fell! - - O Thou that bor’st the battle’s brunt - At Queenston and at Lundy’s Lane,-- - On whose scant ranks but iron front - The battle broke in vain!-- - - Whose was the danger, whose the day, - From whose triumphant throats the cheers, - At Chrysler’s Farm, at Chateauquay, - Storming like clarion-bursts our ears? - - On soft Pacific slopes,--beside - Strange floods that Northward rave and fall-- - Where chafes Acadia’s chainless tide-- - Thy sons await thy call. - - They wait; but some in exile, some - With strangers housed, in stranger lands;-- - And some Canadian lips are dumb - Beneath Egyptian sands. - - O mystic Nile! Thy secret yields - Before us; thy most ancient dreams - Are mixed with far Canadian fields - And murmur of Canadian streams. - - But thou, my Country, dream not thou! - Wake, and behold how night is done; - How on thy breast, and o’er thy brow, - Bursts the uprising Sun! - - _Charles George Douglas Roberts._ - - - - -CAMPBELL - - -CXCVII - -ENGLAND - - England, England, England, - Girdled by ocean and skies, - And the power of a world, and the heart of a race, - And a hope that never dies. - - England, England, England, - Wherever a true heart beats, - Wherever the rivers of commerce flow, - Wherever the bugles of conquest blow, - Wherever the glories of liberty grow, - ’Tis the name that the world repeats. - - And ye who dwell in the shadow - Of the century’s sculptured piles, - Where sleep our century-honoured dead - While the great world thunders overhead, - And far out miles on miles, - Beyond the smoke of the mighty town, - The blue Thames dimples and smiles; - Not yours alone the glory of old, - Of the splendid thousand years, - Of Britain’s might and Britain’s right - And the brunt of British spears. - - Not yours alone, for the great world round - Ready to dare and do, - Scot and Celt and Norman and Dane, - With the Northman’s sinew and heart and brain, - And the Northman’s courage for blessing or bane - Are England’s heroes too. - - North and south and east and west, - Wherever their triumphs be, - Their glory goes home to the ocean-girt isle - Where the heather blooms and the roses smile - With the green isle under her lee; - And if ever the smoke of an alien gun - Should threaten her iron repose, - Shoulder to shoulder against the world, - Face to face with her foes, - Scot and Celt and Saxon are one - Where the glory of England goes. - And we of the newer and vaster West, - Where the great war banners are furled, - And commerce hurries her teeming hosts, - And the cannon are silent along our coasts, - Saxon and Gaul, Canadians claim - A part in the glory and pride and aim - Of the Empire that girdles the world. - - England, England, England, - Wherever the daring heart - By Arctic floe or torrid strand - Thy heroes play their part; - For as long as conquest holds the earth, - Or commerce sweeps the sea, - By orient jungle or western plain, - Will the Saxon spirit be. - - And whatever the people that dwell beneath, - Or whatever the alien tongue, - Over the freedom and peace of the world - Is the flag of England flung. - Till the last great freedom is found, - And the last great truth be taught, - Till the last great deed be done - And the last great battle is fought; - Till the last great fighter is slain in the last great fight - And the war-wolf is dead in his den, - England, breeder of hope and valour and might, - Iron mother of men. - - Yea, England, England, England, - Till honour and valour are dead, - Till the world’s great cannons rust, - Till the world’s great hopes are dust, - Till faith and freedom be fled, - Till wisdom and justice have passed - To sleep with those who sleep in the many-chambered vast, - Till glory and knowledge are charnelled dust in dust, - To all that is best in the world’s unrest, - In heart and mind you are wed. - While out from the Indian jungle - To the far Canadian snows, - Over the east and over the west, - Over the worst and over the best, - The flag of the world to its winds unfurled, - The blood-red ensign blows. - - _William Wilfred Campbell._ - - -CXCVIII - -THE WORLD-MOTHER - - By crag and lonely moor she stands, - This mother of half a world’s great men, - And kens them far by sea-wracked lands, - Or orient jungle or western fen. - - And far out ’mid the mad turmoil, - Or where the desert places keep - Their lonely hush, her children toil, - Or wrapt in wide-world honour sleep. - - By Egypt’s sands or western wave, - She kens her latest heroes rest, - With Scotland’s honour o’er each grave, - And Britain’s flag above each breast. - - And some at home.--Her mother love - Keeps crooning wind-songs o’er their graves, - Where Arthur’s castle looms above, - Or Strathy storms or Solway raves. - - Or Lomond unto Nevis bends - In olden love of clouds and dew; - Where Trossach unto Stirling sends - Greetings that build the years anew. - - Out where her miles of heather sweep, - Her dust of legend in his breast, - ’Neath agèd Dryburgh’s aisle and keep, - Her Wizard Walter takes his rest. - - And her loved ploughman, he of Ayr, - More loved than any singer loved - By heart of man amidst those rare, - High souls the world hath tried and proved; - - Whose songs are first to heart and tongue, - Wherever Scotsmen greet together, - And, far-out alien scenes among, - Go mad at the glint of a sprig of heather. - - And he her latest wayward child, - Her Louis of the magic pen, - Who sleeps by tropic crater piled, - Far, far, alas! from misted glen; - - Who loved her, knew her, drew her so, - Beyond all common poet’s whim;-- - In dreams the whaups are calling low, - In sooth her heart is woe for him. - - And they, her warriors, greater none - E’er drew the blade of daring forth, - Her Colin under Indian sun, - Her Donald of the fighting North. - - Or he, her greatest hero, he - Who sleeps somewhere by Nilus’ sands, - Brave Gordon, mightiest of those free, - Great captains of her fighting bands. - - Yea, these and myriad myriads more, - Who stormed the fort or ploughed the main, - To free the wave or win the shore, - She calls in vain, she calls in vain. - - Brave sons of her, far severed wide - By purpling peak or reeling foam; - From western ridge or orient side, - She calls them home, she calls them home. - - And far, from east to western sea, - The answering word comes back to her:-- - ‘Our hands were slack, our hopes were free, - We answered to the blood astir; - - The life by Kelpie loch was dull, - The homeward slothful work was done, - We followed where the world was full, - To dree the weird our fates had spun. - - We built the brig, we reared the town, - We spanned the earth with lightning gleam, - We ploughed, we fought, ’mid smile and frown, - Where all the world’s four corners team. - - But under all the surge of life, - The mad race-fight for mastery, - Though foremost in the surgent strife, - Our hearts went back, went back to thee.’ - - For the Scotsman’s speech is wise and slow, - And the Scotsman’s thought it is hard to ken, - But through all the yearnings of men that go, - His heart is the heart of the northern glen. - - His song is the song of the windy moor, - And the humming pipes of the squirling din; - And his love is the love of the shieling door, - And the smell of the smoking peat within. - - And nohap how much of the alien blood - Is crossed with the strain that holds him fast, - ‘Mid the world’s great ill and the world’s great good, - He yearns to the Mother of men at last. - - For there’s something strong and something true - In the wind where the sprig of heather is blown; - And something great in the blood so blue, - That makes him stand like a man alone. - - Yea, give him the road and loose him free, - He sets his teeth to the fiercest blast, - For there’s never a toil in a far countrie, - But a Scotsman tackles it hard and fast. - - He builds their commerce, he sings their songs, - He weaves their creeds with an iron twist, - And making of laws or righting of wrongs, - He grinds it all as the Scotsman’s grist. - - Yea, there by crag and moor she stands, - This mother of half a world’s great men, - And out of the heart of her haunted lands - She calls her children home again. - - And over the glens and the wild sea floors - She peers so still as she counts her cost, - With the whaups low calling over the moors, - ‘Woe, woe, for the great ones she hath lost.’ - - _William Wilfred Campbell._ - - - - -SCOTT - - -CXCIX - -QUEBEC - - Fierce on this bastion beats the noon-day sun; - The city sleeps beneath me, old and grey; - On convent roofs the quivering sunbeams play, - And batteries guarded by dismantled gun. - No breeze comes from the northern hills which run - Circling the blue mist of the summer’s day; - No ripple stirs the great stream on its way - To those dim headlands where its rest is won. - - What thunders shook these silent crags of yore! - What smoke of battle rolled up plain and gorge - While two worlds closed in strife for one brief span! - What echoes still come ringing back once more! - For on these heights of old God set His forge; - His strokes wrought here the destinies of man. - - _Frederick George Scott._ - - -CC - -IN MEMORIAM - - Growing to full manhood now, - With the care-lines on our brow, - We, the youngest of the nations, - With no childish lamentations, - Weep, as only strong men weep, - For the noble hearts that sleep, - Pillowed where they fought and bled, - The loved and lost, our glorious dead! - - Toil and sorrow come with age, - Manhood’s rightful heritage; - Toil our arms more strong shall render, - Sorrow make our heart more tender, - In the heartlessness of time; - Honour lays a wreath sublime-- - Deathless glory--where they bled, - Our loved and lost, our glorious dead! - - Wild the prairie grasses wave - O’er each hero’s new-made grave; - Time shall write such wrinkles o’er us, - But the future spreads before us - Glorious in that sunset land-- - Nerving every heart and hand, - Comes a brightness none can shed, - But the dead, the glorious dead! - - Lay them where they fought and fell; - Every heart shall ring their knell, - For the lessons they have taught us, - For the glory they have brought us. - Tho’ our hearts are sad and bowed, - Nobleness still makes us proud-- - Proud of light their names will shed - In the roll-call of our dead! - - Growing to full manhood now, - With the care-lines on our brow, - We, the youngest of the nations, - With no childish lamentations, - Weep, as only strong men weep, - For the noble hearts that sleep - Where the call of duty led, - Where the lonely prairies spread, - Where for us they fought and bled, - Our ever loved and glorious dead! - - _Frederick George Scott._ - - - - -SHERMAN - - -CCI - -A WORD FROM CANADA - - Lest it be said - _One sits at ease - Westward, beyond the outer seas, - Who thanks me not that my decrees - Fall light as love, nor bends her knees - To make one prayer - That peace my latter days may find_,-- - Lest all these bitter things be said - And we be counted as one dead, - Alone and unaccredited - I give this message to the wind: - - Secure in thy security, - Though children, not unwise are we; - And filled with unplumbed love for thee,-- - Call thou but once, if thou wouldst see! - Where the grey bergs - Come down from Labrador, and where - The long Pacific rollers break - Against the pines, for thy word’s sake - Each listeneth,--alive, awake, - And with thy strength made strong to dare. - - And though our love is strong as spring, - Sweet is it, too,--as sweet a thing - As when the first swamp-robins sing - Unto the dawn their welcoming. - Yea, and more sweet - Than the clean savour of the reeds - Where yesterday the June floods were,-- - Than perfumed piles of new cut fir - That greet the forest-worshipper - Who follows where the wood-road leads. - - But unto thee are all unknown - These things by which the worth is shown - Of our deep love; and, near thy throne, - The glory thou hast made thine own - Hath made men blind - To all that lies not to their hand,-- - But what thy strength and theirs hath done: - As though they had beheld the sun - When the noon-hour and March are one - Wide glare across our white, white land. - - For what reck they of _Empire_,--they, - Whose will two hemispheres obey? - Why shouldst thou not count us but clay - For them to fashion as they may - In London-town? - The dwellers in the wilderness - Rich tribute yield to thee their friend; - From the flood unto the world’s end - Thy London ships ascend, descend, - Gleaning--and to thy feet regress. - - Yea, surely they think not at all - Of us, nor note the outer wall - Around thy realm imperial - Our slow hands rear as the years fall; - Which shall withstand - The stress of time and night of doom; - For we, who build, build of our love,-- - Not as they built, whose empires throve - And died,--for what knew they thereof - In old Assyria, Egypt, Rome? - - Therefore, in my dumb country’s stead, - I come to thee, unheralded, - Praying that Time’s peace may be shed - Upon thine high, anointed head, - --One with the wheat, - The mountain pine, the prairie trail, - The lakes, the thronging ships thereon, - The valley of the blue Saint John, - New France--her lilies,--not alone - Empress, I bid thee, Hail! - - _Francis Sherman._ - - - - -STRINGER - - -CCII - -CANADA TO ENGLAND - - Sang one of England in his island home: - ‘Her veins are million, but her heart is one;’ - And looked from out his wave-bound homeland isle - To us who dwell beyond its western sun. - - And we among the northland plains and lakes, - We youthful dwellers on a younger land, - Turn eastward to the wide Atlantic waste, - And feel the clasp of England’s outstretched hand. - - For we are they who wandered far from home - To swell the glory of an ancient name; - Who journeyed seaward on an exile long, - When fortune’s twilight to our island came. - - But every keel that cleaves the midway waste - Binds with a silent thread our sea-cleft strands, - Till ocean dwindles and the sea-waste shrinks, - And England mingles with a hundred lands. - - And weaving silently all far-off shores - A thousand singing wires stretch round the earth, - Or sleep still vocal in their ocean depths, - Till all lands die to make one glorious birth. - - So we remote compatriots reply, - And feel the world-task only half begun: - ‘We are the girders of the ageing earth, - Whose veins are million, but whose heart is one.’ - - _Arthur Stringer._ - - - - -LIVINGSTON - - -CCIII - -THE CANADIAN VOLUNTEERS - - Wide are the plains to the north and the westward; - Drear are the skies to the west and the north-- - Little they cared, as they snatched up their rifles, - And shoulder to shoulder marched gallantly forth. - Cold are the plains to the north and the westward, - Stretching out far to the grey of the sky-- - Little they cared as they marched from the barrack-room, - Willing and ready, if need be, to die. - - Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets; - Firm and erect was each man in his place; - Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans; - Smiling and fearless was every face; - Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them; - Never a fear of war’s terrible scenes; - ‘Brave as the bravest,’ was stamped on each face of them; - Half of them boys not yet out of their teens. - - Many a woman gazed down at them longingly, - Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed; - Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of him, - Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last. - Many a maiden’s cheek paled as she looked at them, - Seeing the lover from whom she must part; - Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him, - Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart. - - Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them, - Beat as it never had beaten before; - Every voice of us, choked though it may have been, - Broke from huzza to a deafening roar. - Proud! were we proud of them? God! they were part of us, - Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight; - Swift at their country’s call, ready each man and all, - Eager to battle for her and the right. - - Wide are the plains to the north and the westward, - Stretching out far to the grey of the sky-- - Little they cared as they filed from the barrack-room, - Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die. - Was there one flinched? Not a boy, not a boy of them; - Straight on they marched to the dread battle’s brunt-- - Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them, - Canada’s call found them all at the front. - - _Stuart Livingston._ - - - - -VI - -INDIA - - - - -DUTT - - -CCIV - -THE HINDU’S ADDRESS TO THE GANGES - - The waves are dashing proudly down - Along thy sounding shore; - Lashing, with all the storm of power, - The craggy base of mountain tower, - Of mosque, and pagod hoar, - That darkly o’er thy waters frown, - As if their moody spirit’s sway - Could hush their wild and boist’rous play! - - Unconscious roll the surges down, - But not unconscious thou, - Dread Spirit of the rolling flood, - For ages worshipped as a God, - And worshipped even now, - Worshipped, and not by serf or clown, - For sages of the mightiest fame - Have paid their homage to thy name. - - Canst thou forget the glorious past, - When mighty as a God, - With hands and heart unfettered yet, - And eyes with slavish tears unwet, - Each sable warrior trod - Thy sacred shore, before the blast - Of Moslem conquest hurried by, - Ere yet the Mogul spear was nigh? - - O’er crumbled thrones thy waters glide, - Through scenes of blood and woe; - And crown and kingdom, might and sway, - The victor’s and the poet’s bay, - Ignobly sleep below; - Sole remnant of our ancient pride, - Thy waves survive the wreck of time, - And wanton free as in their prime. - - Alas, alas, all round how drear, - How mangled and how torn! - Where are the damsels proud and gay, - Where warriors in their dread array, - ‘In Freedom’s temple born?’ - Can heroes sleep? Can patriots fear? - Or is the spark for ever gone, - That lights the soul from sire to son? - - I gaze upon thy current strong - Beneath the blaze of day; - What conjured visions throng my sight, - Of war and carnage, death and flight! - Thy waters to the Bay - In purple eddies sweep along, - And Freedom shrieking leaves the shrine, - Alas! no longer now divine. - - Roll, Gunga, roll in all thy pride - Thy hallowed groves among! - Still glorious thou in every mood, - Thou boast of India’s widowhood, - Thou theme of every song! - Blent with the murmurs of thy tide - The records of far ages lie, - And live, for thou canst never die! - - _Shoshee Chunder Dutt._ - - - - -LYALL - - -CCV - -THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS - - Oft in the pleasant summer years, - Reading the tales of days bygone, - I have mused on the story of human tears, - All that man unto man has done, - Massacre, torture, and black despair; - Reading it all in my easy-chair. - - Passionate prayer for a minute’s life; - Tortured crying for death as rest; - Husband pleading for child or wife, - Pitiless stroke upon tender breast. - Was it all real as that I lay there - Lazily stretched on my easy-chair? - - Could I believe in those hard old times, - Here in this safe luxurious age? - Were the horrors invented to season rhymes, - Or truly is man so fierce in his rage? - What could I suffer, and what could I dare? - I who was bred to that easy-chair. - - They were my fathers, the men of yore, - Little they recked of a cruel death; - They would dip their hands in a heretic’s gore, - They stood and burnt for a rule of faith. - What would I burn for, and whom not spare? - I, who had faith in an easy-chair. - - Now do I see old tales are true, - Here in the clutch of a savage foe; - Now shall I know what my fathers knew, - Bodily anguish and bitter woe, - Naked and bound in the strong sun’s glare, - Far from my civilised easy-chair. - - Now have I tasted and understood - The old-world feeling of mortal hate; - For the eyes all round us are hot with blood; - They will kill us coolly--they do but wait; - While I, I would sell ten lives, at least, - For one fair stroke at that devilish priest, - - Just in return for the kick he gave, - Bidding me call on the prophet’s name; - Even a dog by this may save - Skin from the knife and soul from the flame; - My soul! if he can let the prophet burn it, - But life is sweet if a word may earn it. - - A bullock’s death, and at thirty years! - Just one phrase, and a man gets off it; - Look at that mongrel clerk in his tears - Whining aloud the name of the prophet; - Only a formula easy to patter, - And, God Almighty, what _can_ it matter? - - ‘Matter enough,’ will my comrade say - Praying aloud here close at my side, - ‘Whether you mourn in despair alway, - Cursed for ever by Christ denied; - Or whether you suffer a minute’s pain - All the reward of Heaven to gain.’ - - Not for a moment faltereth he, - Sure of the promise and pardon of sin; - Thus did the martyrs die, I see, - Little to lose and muckle to win; - Death means Heaven, he longs to receive it, - But what shall I do if I don’t believe it? - - Life is pleasant, and friends may be nigh, - Fain would I speak one word and be spared; - Yet I could be silent and cheerfully die, - If I were only sure God cared; - If I had faith, and were only certain - That light is behind that terrible curtain. - - But what if He listeth nothing at all, - Of words a poor wretch in his terror may say? - That mighty God who created all - To labour and live their appointed day; - Who stoops not either to bless or ban, - Weaving the woof of an endless plan. - - He is the Reaper, and binds the sheaf, - Shall not the season its order keep? - Can it be changed by a man’s belief? - Millions of harvests still to reap; - Will God reward, if I die for a creed, - Or will He but pity, and sow more seed? - - Surely He pities who made the brain, - When breaks that mirror of memories sweet, - When the hard blow falleth, and never again - Nerve shall quiver nor pulse shall beat; - Bitter the vision of vanishing joys; - Surely He pities when man destroys. - - Here stand I on the ocean’s brink, - Who hath brought news of the further shore? - How shall I cross it? Sail or sink, - One thing is sure, I return no more; - Shall I find haven, or aye shall I be - Tossed in the depths of a shoreless sea? - - They tell fair tales of a far-off land, - Of love rekindled, of forms renewed; - There may I only touch one hand - Here life’s ruin will little be rued; - But the hand I have pressed and the voice I have heard, - To lose them for ever, and all for a word! - - Now do I feel that my heart must break - All for one glimpse of a woman’s face; - Swiftly the slumbering memories wake - Odour and shadow of hour and place; - One bright ray through the darkening past - Leaps from the lamp as it brightens last, - - Showing me summer in western land - Now, as the cool breeze murmureth - In leaf and flower--And here I stand - In this plain all bare save the shadow of death; - Leaving my life in its full noonday, - And no one to know why I flung it away. - - Why? Am I bidding for glory’s roll? - I shall be murdered and clean forgot; - Is it a bargain to save my soul? - God, whom I trust in, bargains not; - Yet for the honour of English race, - May I not live or endure disgrace. - - Ay, but the word, if I could have said it, - I by no terrors of hell perplext; - Hard to be silent and have no credit - From man in this world, or reward in the next; - None to bear witness and reckon the cost - Of the name that is saved by the life that is lost. - - I must be gone to the crowd untold - Of men by the cause which they served unknown, - Who moulder in myriad graves of old; - Never a story and never a stone - Tells of the martyrs who die like me, - Just for the pride of the old countree. - - _Sir Alfred Lyall._ - - - - -WEBB - - -CCVI - -THE RESIDENCY CHURCHYARD - - From domes and palaces I bent my way - Where, like some Titan by Jove’s thunder marred, - From the old battered portal-towers that guard - The storied ruins of a glorious fray. - In patient stillness house and bastion lay, - As they had fallen; for the fight was hard - That saw their walls by myriad bullets scarred, - When those few steadfast warriors stood at bay. - There, by the English tombs of those that fell - In that fierce struggle ’twixt the East and West, - A few green mounds are seen, where peaceful rest - India’s brave sons who perished fighting well - For England too. What heart its feud can keep - Beside these graves where our dark comrades sleep? - - _William Trego Webb._ - - -CCVII - -THE MEMORIAL WELL - - Speak gently, gently tread, - And breathe one sigh profound; - In memory of the dead - Each spot is holy ground. - - Theirs was no common doom, - And some were young to die; - Within this narrow tomb - Women and infants lie. - - They drank the bitter cup - Of fear and anguish deep, - Ere they were rendered up - To death’s unruffled sleep. - - Meek be our sorrow here, - For them we could not save; - And soft be Pity’s tear - Above the children’s grave. - - Quenched here be passion’s heat, - Let strife and vengeance cease; - Within their garden sweet - Leave them to rest in peace. - - For Nature hath made clean - This place of human guilt; - And now the turf is green - Where English blood was spilt. - - Earth’s healing hand hath spread - Her flowers about their tomb; - Around the quiet dead - Trees wave and roses bloom. - - Then lift not wrathful hands, - But pass in silence by; - Their carven Angel stands - And watches where they lie. - - _William Trego Webb._ - - -CCVIII - -SPRING IN CALCUTTA - - The cool and pleasant days are past, - The sun above the horizon towers; - And Eastern Spring, arriving fast, - Leads on too soon the sultry hours. - - From greener height the palm looks down; - A livelier hue the peepuls share; - And sunlit poinsianas crown - With golden wreaths their branches bare. - - The ships that, by the river’s brim, - At anchor, lift their shining sides - Against the red sun’s westering rim, - Swing to the wash of stronger tides. - - No insects hum in sylvan bower; - In spectral Stillness stand the trees;-- - Come, blessing of our evening hour, - Come forth and blow, sweet southern breeze! - - To us the ocean freshness lend - Which from the wave thy breath receives; - Ripple these glassy tanks and send - A murmur through the silent leaves! - - See, blurred with amber haze, the sun - ’Neath yon dim flats doth sink to rest; - And tender thoughts, that homeward run, - Move fondly with him to the west. - - They leave these hot and weary hours, - The iron fate that girds us round, - And wander ’mid the meadow flowers - And breezy heights of English ground. - - The sun is set; we’ll dream no more; - Vainly for us the vision smiles;-- - Why did we quit thy pleasant shore, - Our happiest of the Happy Isles! - - _William Trego Webb._ - - - - -DENNING - - -CCIX - -THE LUCKNOW GARRISON - - Still stand thy ruins ’neath the Indian sky, - Memorials eloquent of blood and tears! - O! for the spirit of those days gone by - To wake a strain amid these later years - Worthy of thee and thine! I seem to see, - When thinking on thy consecrated dead, - From thy scarred chambers start - The heroes whom thy fiery travail bred - And made thee--for us English--what thou art! - - Green grows the grass around thy crumbling walls - Where glorious Lawrence groaned his life away! - And childhood’s footsteps echo through those halls - Wherein thy wounded and thy dying lay! - While blent with infant laughter seems to rise - The far-off murmur of thy battle roll, - The prayer--the shout--the groan-- - Outram’s unselfish chivalry of soul, - And white-haired Havelock’s strong, commanding tone! - - Yet, what are names? The genius of the spot, - Born of our womanhood and manhood brave, - Shall fire our children’s children! Ne’er forgot - Shall be the dust of thy historic grave - While Reverence fills the sense with musing calm, - While Glory stirs the pulse of prince or clown, - While blooms on British sod - The glorious flower of our fair renown, - Our English valour and our trust in God! - - The memory of the Living! Lo, they stand - Engirt with honour while the day draws in, - An ever lessening and fraternal band - Linked in chivalric glory and akin - To earth’s immortals! Time may bow the frame - And plough deep wrinkles ’mid their honoured scars, - But Death-like Night which brings - To earth the blaze majestic of the stars, - Shall but enhance their glory with his wings! - - The memory of the Dead! A pilgrim, I - Have bowed my face before thy honoured shrine, - With pride deep-welling while the moments by - Sped to a human ecstasy divine - Tingling my very blood, to think that they, - Martyrs and victors in our English need, - Were children of the earth-- - Yet better--heroes of our island breed - And men and women of our British birth! - - _John Renton Denning._ - - -CCX - -SOLDIERS OF IND - - _Men of the Hills and men of the Plains, men of the Isles and Sea, - Brothers in bond of battle and blood wherever the battle may be; - A song and a thought for your fighting line, a song for the - march and camp, - A song to the beat of the rolling drums, a song to the measured tramp, - When the feet lift up on the dusty road ’neath sun and moon and star, - And the prayer is prayed by mother and maid for their best - beloved afar!_ - - What say the Plains--the Plains that stretch along - From hamlet and from field, from fold and byre? - ‘Here once toiled one who sang his peasant song - And now reaps harvest ’mid the tribesmen’s fire! - The Spirit of a mightier world than springs - From his poor village led him on - To glory! Yea--to glory!’--Ever sings - The Spirit of the Plains when he is gone! - - What say the Hills whence come the Gurkha breed-- - The bull-dogs of the East? From crest and vale - Reverberate the echoes, swift they speed - On falling waters or the mountain gale! - ‘Our Hillmen brave as lions have gone forth; - They were our sons; we bred them--even we-- - To face thy foemen, Islands of the North, - We know their worth and sing it thus to thee!’ - - What say the Passes? There the requiem - Of battle lingers o’er the undying dead-- - ‘Our Soldiers of the Sun, whose diadem - Of honour glitters in the nullah bed, - Or by the hillside drear, or dark ravine, - Or on the _sangared_ steep--a solemn ray - That touches thus the thing that once hath been, - With glory--glory!’--So the Passes say! - - And so the great world hears and men’s eyes blaze - As each one to his neighbour cries ‘Well done!’ - A little thing this speech--this flower of praise, - Yet let it crown our Soldiers of the Sun! - Not here alone--for here we know them well; - But tell our English, waiting on the shore - To welcome back _their_ heroes: ‘Lo! these fell - Even as ours--as brave--for evermore!’ - - I hear the roar amid the London street:-- - The earth hath not its equal, whether it be - For ignorance or knowledge, and the feet - That press therein and eyes that turn to see - Know nothing of our sepoys--let them know - That here be men beneath whose dark skin runs - A battle-virtue kindred with the glow - That fires the leaping pulses of their sons! - - ’Tis worth proclaiming. Yea, it seems to me - This loyalty--to death--lies close akin - To all the noblest human traits that be, - Engendered whence we know not--yet within - Choice spirits nobly gathered. Lo! we stand, - Needs must, against the world, Yet war’s alarms - Are nothing to our mightiest Motherland, - While Nation circles Nation in her arms! - - _John Renton Denning._ - - -CCXI - -SARANSAR - - What are the bugles saying - With a strain so long and so loud? - They say that a soldier’s blanket - Is meet for a soldier’s shroud! - They say that their hill-tossed music, - Blown forth of the living breath, - Is full of the victor’s triumph - And sad with the wail of death! - _Bugles of Talavera!_ - - What are the bugles saying? - They tell of the falling night, - When a section of dog-tired English - Drew close for a rear-guard fight; - With an officer-boy to lead them, - A lost and an outflanked squad, - By the grace of a half-learned drill book, - And a prayer to the unseen God! - _Bugles of Talavera!_ - - What are the bugles saying - Of the stand that was heel to heel? - The click of the quick-pressed lever, - The glint of the naked steel, - The flame of the steady volley, - The hope that was almost gone, - As the leaping horde of the tribesmen - Swept as a tide sweeps on! - _Bugles of Talavera!_ - - What are the bugles saying? - They say that the teeth are set, - They say that the breath comes thicker, - And the blood-red Night is wet; - While the rough blunt speech of the English, - The burr of the shires afar, - Falls with a lone brave pathos - ’Mid the hills of the Saransar! - _Bugles of Talavera!_ - - What are the bugles saying? - They say that the English there - Feel a breath from their island meadows - Like incense fill the air! - They say that they stood for a moment - With their dear ones by their side, - For their spirits swept to the Homeland - Before the English died! - _Bugles of Talavera!_ - - And aye are the bugles saying, - While the dust lies low i’ the dust, - The strength of a strong man’s fighting, - The crown of the soldier’s trust-- - The wine of a full-brimmed battle, - The peace of the quiet grave, - And a wreath from the hands of glory - Are the guerdon of the brave! - _Bugles of Talavera!_ - - _John Renton Denning._ - - - - -KIPLING - - -CCXII - -THE GALLEY-SLAVE - - O gallant was our galley from her carven steering-wheel - To her figurehead of silver and her beak of hammered steel; - The leg-bar chafed the ankle and we gasped for cooler air, - But no galley on the water with our galley could compare! - - Our bulkheads bulged with cotton and our masts were stepped in gold-- - We ran a mighty merchandise of niggers in the hold; - The white foam spun behind us, and the black shark swam below, - As we gripped the kicking sweep-head and we made that galley go. - - It was merry in the galley, for we revelled now and then-- - If they wore us down like cattle, faith, we fought and loved like men! - As we snatched her through the water, so we snatched a minute’s bliss, - And the mutter of the dying never spoiled the lovers’ kiss. - - Our women and our children toiled beside us in the dark-- - They died, we filed their fetters, and we heaved them to the shark-- - We heaved them to the fishes, but so fast the galley sped - We had only time to envy, for we could not mourn our dead. - - Bear witness, once my comrades, what a hard-bit gang were we-- - The servants of the sweep-head but the masters of the sea! - By the hands that drove her forward as she plunged and yawed - and sheered, - Woman, Man, or God or Devil, was there anything we feared? - - Was it storm? Our fathers faced it and a wilder never blew; - Earth that waited for the wreckage watched the galley struggle - through. - Burning noon or choking midnight, Sickness, Sorrow, Parting, Death? - Nay, our very babes would mock you had they time for idle breath. - - But to-day I leave the galley and another takes my place; - There’s my name upon the deck-beam--let it stand a little space. - I am free--to watch my messmates beating out to open main - Free of all that Life can offer--save to handle sweep again. - - By the brand upon my shoulder, by the gall of clinging steel, - By the welt the whips have left me, by the scars that never heal; - By eyes grown old with staring through the sunwash on the brine, - I am paid in full for service--would that service still were mine! - - Yet they talk of times and seasons and of woe the years bring forth, - Of our galley swamped and shattered in the rollers of the North. - When the niggers break the hatches and the decks are gay with gore, - And a craven-hearted pilot crams her crashing on the shore. - - She will need no half-mast signal, minute-gun, or rocket-flare, - When the cry for help goes seaward, she will find her servants there. - Battered chain-gangs of the orlop, grizzled drafts of years gone by, - To the bench that broke their manhood, they shall lash themselves and - die. - - Hale and crippled, young and aged, paid, deserted, shipped away-- - Palace, cot, and lazaretto shall make up the tale that day, - When the skies are black above them, and the decks ablaze beneath, - And the topmen clear the raffle with their clasp-knives in - their teeth. - - It may be that Fate will give me life and leave to row once more-- - Set some strong man free for fighting as I take awhile his oar. - But to-day I leave the galley. Shall I curse her service then? - God be thanked--whate’er comes after, I have lived and toiled with - Men! - - _Rudyard Kipling._ - - - - -VII - -SOUTH AFRICA - - - - -PRINGLE - - -CCXIII - -THE DESOLATE VALLEY - - Far up among the forest-belted mountains, - Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey, - Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountains - To wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay, - A valley opens to the noontide ray, - With green savannahs shelving to the brim - Of the swift river, sweeping on its way - To where Umtóka tries to meet with him, - Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim. - - There, couched at night in hunter’s wattled shieling, - How wildly-beautiful it was to hear - The elephant his shrill _reveillé_ pealing, - Like some far signal-trumpet on the ear! - While the broad midnight moon was shining clear, - How fearful to look forth upon the woods, - And see those stately forest-kings appear, - Emerging from their shadowy solitudes-- - As if that trump had woke Earth’s old gigantic broods! - - Look round that vale! behold the unburied bones - Of Ghona’s children withering in the blast! - The sobbing wind, that through the forest moans, - Whispers--‘The spirit hath for ever passed!’ - Thus, in the vale of desolation vast, - In moral death dark Afric’s myriads lie; - But the appointed day shall dawn at last, - When, breathed on by a spirit from on high, - The dry bones shall awake, and shout-- - ‘Our God is nigh!’ - - _Thomas Pringle._ - - - - -COURTHOPE - - -CCXIV - -ENGLAND IN SOUTH AFRICA - -(1899) - - Across the streaming flood, the deep ravine, - Through hurricanes of shot, through hells of fire, - To rocks where myriad marksmen lurk unseen, - The steadfast legions mount, mount always higher. - - Earth and her elements protect the foe: - His are the covered trench, the ambushed hill, - The treacherous pit, the sudden secret blow, - The swift retreat--but ours the conquering will. - - Against that will in vain the fatal lead, - Vain is the stubborn heart, brute cunning vain: - Strong in the triumphs of thy dauntless dead, - Advance, Imperial Race, advance and reign! - - _William John Courthope._ - - - - -HENLEY - - -CCXV - -FOR A GRAVE IN SOUTH AFRICA - - We cheered you forth--brilliant and kind and brave, - Under your country’s triumphing flag you fell; - It floats, true heart, over no dearer grave. - Brave and brilliant and kind, hail and farewell! - - _William Ernest Henley._ - - - - -HALL - - -CCXVI - -ON LEAVING TABLE BAY - - Sun-showered land! largess of golden light - Is thine; and well-befitting since the night - Of England voiced again - Canute’s command; ah, not in vain! - Backward the tides of savagery drew; - And still the bright sands gain - On the retreating main: - A lost world leaping to the light and blue. - - In state the mountains greet an eve so fair, - And sunset-crowns and robes of purple wear: - A sea of glass the ocean, gold-inwrought-- - Pathway apocalyptic. From the prow - A long bright ripple to the land is roll’d.... - Haste thee and tell, tell of our love, with lips of gold, - In soft sea-music tell! - And thou, sweet bird, whose snowy wings have caught - The universal glory, carry thou - To that dear shore farewell--our hearts’ farewell! - - _Arthur Vine Hall._ - - - - -COOK - - -CCXVII - -THE RELIEF OF MAFEKING - - ‘Well done!’ The cry goes ringing round the world, - O’er land and sea, wherever pulse throbs fast - At tales of courage, for relief at last - Is theirs and ours: so dawn’s bright flag unfurled - Hath challenge to the powers of darkness hurled, - And made one glory of the empyrean vast; - And when this day to history’s tome is passed - Its name shall stand on golden page impearled. - - O God! our Help, our Hope, our Refuge strong - In days of trouble, still be Thou our Guide; - So shall we pass the coming days along - In certain trust whatever may betide, - And on Thine Empire shine the glorious sun - Till at last Thou say to her ‘Well done!’ - - _Hilda Mary Agnes Cook._ - - - - -RUSSELL - - -CCXVIII - -THE VANGUARD - -(1842) - - By the Boer lines at Congella, - Where the west wind sheds its rain, - All the yellow sands grew crimson - With the wounded and the slain. - - Etched upon the deadly sky-line, - Mark for guns behind each dune, - Flashed the silver of the bayonets - In the lethal night’s high noon. - - Far across the bay the booming - Of the cannon rose and fell; - Echoing to bluff and island, - Rang the soldier’s passing-bell. - - Blood of England shed for Empire - At our southern Trasimene-- - Such it is that fosters heroes, - Keeps the graves of valour green. - - All life’s nobler thoughts are strengthened - By the valiance of our sires, - As it glows undimmed, undying, - Like Rome’s cherished vestal-fires. - - Ever burning--happy omen - For the progress of the State! - Patriots give their lives as incense - On the altars reared by Fate. - - Such pure light streamed o’er the cities - Of the pulsing Punic world; - Lit their galleys through the Pillars - Of the West, with sails unfurled. - - In wild camps it thrilled Rome’s legions, - Stemmed the East at Marathon; - Bore sea-heroes through the Syrtes, - Through strange seas and tropic dawn. - - Diaz and Da Gama snatched it - From their Lusitanian pyre; - Bore it over hungry surges - To the Cape of Storms and Fire; - - And it gleamed upon our verdure - From their storm-vexed caravel-- - Band of afternoon undying-- - O’er tired visions cast its spell. - - Clear the deathless flame was glowing - By the wide bay’s tender blue, - When their blood was shed for England - By the men of ’Forty-two. - - _Robert Russell._ - - - - -VIII - -AUSTRALIA - - - - -SUPPLE - - -CCXIX - -DAMPIER’S DREAM - - The seaman slept--all nature sleeps; a sacred stillness there - Is on the wood--is on the waves--is in the silver air. - The sky above--the silent sea--with stars were all aglow; - There shone Orion and his belt--Arcturus and his bow! - The seaman slept--or does he sleep?--what chorus greets him now?-- - Wild music breaking from the deep around the vessel’s bow? - He starts, he looks, he sees rise shadowy--can he only dream? - A sovereign form, wrathful, yet beauteous--in the moon’s cold beam! - - ‘Mortal, hath fallen my star in the hour - Of the dread eclipse, that thou scornest my power? - Herald thus soon of that mystic race - Fated to reign in my people’s place, - Bringing arts of might--working wondrous spells - Where now but the simple savage dwells; - Before whom my children shall pass away, - As the morntide passes before the day. - The time is not yet, why dost thou come, - The bale of thy presence to cast o’er my home? - Its shadow of doom is on air and waves-- - E’en the still soft gloom of my deep sea caves - A shudder has reached; over shore and bay - Bodeful the shivering moonbeams play! - The Spirit of this zone am I-- - Mine are the isles and yon mainlands nigh; - And roused from my rest by the wood-wraith’s sigh, - And the sea-maid’s moan on the coral reef-- - Voices never till now foreboding grief-- - Hither I fly-- - Here at the gate of my South Sea realm - To bid thee put back thy fateful helm! - Not yet is the hour, why art thou here - Presaging dole, and scaith, and fear?’ - - Not yet is the time-- - Woe-bringer, go back to thy cloud-wrapped clime! - Meeter for thee the drear Northern sky, - And where wintry breakers ceaseless roar, - And strew with wrecks a dusky shore; - Where the iceberg rears its awful form, - Where along the billows the petrels cry-- - For, like thee, that dark bird loves the storm! - Thou child of the clime of the Vikings wild-- - Who wert nursed upon the tempest’s wing, - A boy on the wind-beaten mast to cling-- - Whose quest is prey, who hailest the day - When gleam the red swords and the death-bolts ring! - Thy joy is with restless men and seas, - What dost thou in scenes as soft as these? - - The hour is not yet, but the doom appears - As I gaze thro’ the haze of long distant years. - A mighty people speaking thy tongue, - Sea-borne from their far, dark strands - Shall spread abroad over all these lands - Where man now lives as when Time was young. - I see their stately cities rise - Thro’ the clouds where the future’s horizon lies; - Thro’ the purple mists shrouding river and plain, - Where the white-foaming bay marks the hidden main; - And clearer now--I behold more clear - Great ships--sails swelling to the breeze, - Their keels break all the virgin seas; - Vast white-winged squadrons, they come and go - Where only has skimmed the light canoe! - Yes, the seats and the paths of empire veer, - A highway of nations will yet be here! - As Tyre was in an ancient age; - As Venice of palaces, strong and sage; - As the haughty ports of your native shore - Whose fleets override the waters’ rage, - So shall the pride of yon cities soar. - From the frigid Pole to the torrid Line, - Their sway shall stretch--their standards shine!’ - - _Gerald Henry Supple._ - - - - -GORDON - - -CCXX - -BY FLOOD AND FIELD - - I remember the lowering wintry morn, - And the mist on the Cotswold hills, - Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman’s horn, - Not far from the seven rills. - Jack Esdale was there, and Hugh St. Clair, - Bob Chapman, and Andrew Kerr, - And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care, - And--black Tom Oliver. - And one who rode on a dark brown steed, - Clean-jointed, sinewy, spare, - With the lean game head of the Blacklock breed, - And the resolute eye that loves the lead, - And the quarters massive and square-- - A tower of strength, with a promise of speed - (There was Celtic blood in the pair). - - I remember how merry a start we got, - When the red fox broke from the gorse, - In a country so deep, with a scent so hot, - That the hound could outpace the horse; - I remember how few in the front rank show’d, - How endless appeared the tail, - On the brown hillside, where we cross’d the road - And headed towards the vale. - The dark brown steed on the left was there, - On the right was a dappled grey, - And between the pair on a chestnut mare - The duffer who writes this lay. - What business had ‘this child’ there to ride? - But little or none at all; - Yet I hold my own for awhile in the pride - That goeth before a fall. - Though rashness can hope but for one result, - We are heedless when fate draws nigh us, - And the maxim holds good, ‘_Quem perdere vult - Deus dementat prius_.’ - - The right-hand man to the left-hand said, - As down in the vale we went, - ‘Harden your heart like a millstone, Ned, - And set your face as flint; - Solid and tall is the rasping wall - That stretches before us yonder; - You must have it at speed or not at all, - ’Twere better to halt than to ponder; - For the stream runs wide on the take off side, - And washes the clay bank under; - Here goes for a pull, ’tis a madman’s ride, - And a broken neck if you blunder!’ - - No word in reply his comrade spoke, - Nor waver’d, nor once look’d round, - But I saw him shorten his horse’s stroke - As we splash’d through the marshy ground; - I remember the laugh that all the while - On his quiet features played:-- - So he rode to his death, with that careless smile, - In the van of the Light Brigade; - So stricken by Russian grape, the cheer - Rang out while he toppled back, - From the shattered lungs as merry and clear - As it did when it roused the pack. - Let never a tear his memory stain, - Give his ashes never a sigh, - One of the many who fell--not in vain-- - A TYPE OF OUR CHIVALRY! - - I remember one thrust he gave to his hat, - And two to the flanks of the brown, - And still as a statue of old he sat, - And he shot to the front, hands down; - I remember the snort and the stag-like bound - Of the steed six lengths to the fore, - And the laugh of the rider while, landing sound, - He turned in his saddle and glanced around; - I remember--but little more, - Save a bird’s-eye gleam of the dashing stream, - A jarring thud on the wall, - A shock, and the blank of a nightmare’s dream,-- - I was down with a stunning fall! - - _Adam Lindsay Gordon._ - - - - -STEPHENS - - -CCXXI - -FULFILMENT - -(_January 1, 1901_) - - Ah, now we know the long delay - But served to assure a prouder day, - For while we waited, came the call - To prove and make our title good-- - To face the fiery ordeal - That tries the claim to Nationhood-- - And now, in pride of challenge, we unroll, - For all the world to read, the record-scroll - Whose bloody script attests a Nation’s soul. - - O ye, our Dead, who at the call - Fared forth to fall as heroes fall, - Whose consecrated souls we failed - To note beneath the common guise - Till all-revealing Death unveiled - The splendour of your sacrifice, - Now, crowned with more than perishable bays, - Immortal in your country’s love and praise, - Ye too have portion in this day of days! - - And ye who sowed where now we reap, - Whose waiting eyes, now sealed in sleep, - Beheld far off with prescient sight - This triumph of rejoicing lands-- - Yours too the day! for though its light - Can pierce not to your folded hands, - These shining hours of advent but fulfil - The cherished purpose of your constant will - Whose onward impulse liveth in us still. - - Still lead thou vanward of our line - Who, shaggy, massive, leonine, - Couldst yet most finely phrase the event-- - For if a Pisgah view was all - Vouchsafed to thine uncrowned intent, - The echoes of thy herald-call - Not faintlier strive with our saluting guns, - And at thy words through all Australia’s sons - The ‘crimson thread of kinship’ redder runs. - - But not the memory of the dead, - How loved soe’er each sacred head, - To-day can change from glad to grave - The chords that quire a Nation born-- - Twin-offspring of the birth that gave, - When yester-midnight chimed to morn, - Another age to the Redeemer’s reign, - Another cycle to the widening gain - Of Good o’er Ill and Remedy o’er Pain. - - Our sundering lines with love o’ergrown, - Our bounds the girdling seas alone-- - Be this the burden of the psalm - That every resonant hour repeats, - Till day-fall dusk the fern and palm - That forest our transfigured streets, - And night still vibrant with the note of praise - Thrill brotherhearts to song in woodland ways, - When gum-leaves whisper o’er the camp-fire’s blaze. - - * * * * * - - The Charter’s read; the rites are o’er; - The trumpet’s blare and cannon’s roar - Are silent, and the flags are furled; - But not so ends the task to build - Into the fabric of the world - The substance of our hope fulfilled-- - To work as those who greatly have divined - The lordship of a continent assigned - As God’s own gift for service of mankind. - - O People of the onward will, - Unit of Union greater still - Than that to-day hath made you great, - Your true Fulfilment waiteth there, - Embraced within the larger fate - Of Empire ye are born to share-- - No vassal progeny of subject brood, - No satellite shed from Britain’s plenitude, - But orbed with _her_ in one wide sphere of good! - - _James Brunton Stephens._ - - - - -RUSSELL - - -CCXXII - -THE BIRTH OF AUSTRALIA - - Not ’mid the thunder of the battle guns, - Not on the red field of an Empire’s wrath, - Rose to a nation Australasia’s sons, - Who trod to greatness Industry’s pure path. - Behold a people through whose annals runs - No damning stain of falsehood, force or wrong,-- - A record clear as light, and sweet as song, - Without one page the patriot’s finger shuns! - Where ’mid the legends of old Rome, or Greece, - Glows such a tale? Thou canst not answer, Time! - With shield unsullied by a single crime, - With wealth of gold and still more golden fleece, - Forth stands Australia, in her birth sublime,-- - The only nation from the womb of Peace! - - _Percy Russell._ - - - - -LAWSON - - -CCXXIII - -THE WAR OF THE FUTURE - -There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth and pride -Who’ll have one home when the storm is come, and fight for it side by -side, Who’ll hold the cliffs ’gainst the armoured hells that batter a -coasted town, Or grimly die in a hail of shells when the walls come -crashing down; And many a pink-white baby girl, the queen of her home -to-day, Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn -away-- Shall live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud of the -distant gun, And know the sorrow that has no tears when a battle is -lost or won,-- As a mother or wife, in the years to come, will kneel, -mild-eyed and white, And pray to God in her darkened home for the ‘men -in the fort to-night.’ - -But, O! if the cavalry charge again as they did when the world was -wide, ’Twill be grand in the ranks of a thousand men in that glorious -race to ride, And strike for all that is true and strong, for all that -is grand and brave, And all that ever shall be, so long as man has a -soul to save. - -He must lift the saddle, and close his ‘wings,’ and shut his angels -out, And steel his heart for the end of things, who’d ride with the -stockman scout, When the race is rode on the battle track, and the -waning distance hums, And the shelled sky shrieks or the rifles crack -like stockwhips amongst the gums-- And the ‘straight’ is reached, and -the field is ‘gapped,’ and the hoof-torn sward grows red With the blood -of those who are handicapped with iron and steel and lead; And the -gaps are filled, though unseen by eyes, with the spirit and with the -shades Of the world-wide rebel dead who’ll rise and rush with the Bush -Brigades. - -All creeds and trades will have soldiers there--give every class its -due-- And there’ll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the -jackeroo. They’ll fight for honour, and fight for love, and a few will -fight for gold, For the devil below, and for God above, as our fathers -fought of old; And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some -stiff-lipped, stern-eyed, For the pride of a thousand after-years and -the old eternal pride. The soul of the world they will feel and see in -the chase and the grim retreat-- They’ll know the glory of victory--and -the grandeur of defeat. - -They’ll tell the tales of the ‘nights before’ and the tales of the -ship and fort, Till the sons of Australia take to war as their fathers -took to sport, Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright at -the tales of chivalry, And every boy will want to fight, no matter -what cause it be-- When the children run to the doors and cry, ‘O, -mother, the troops are come!’ And every heart in the town leaps high at -the first loud thud of the drum. They’ll know, apart from its mystic -charm, what music is at last, When, proud as a boy with a broken arm, -the regiment marches past; And the veriest wreck in the drink-fiend’s -clutch, no matter how low or mean, Will feel, when he hears the march, -a touch of the man he might have been. And fools, when the fiends of -war are out and the city skies aflame, Will have something better to -talk about than a sister’s or brother’s shame, Will have something -nobler to do by far than to jest at a friend’s expense, Or to blacken a -name in a public bar or over a backyard fence. And this you learn from -the libelled past (though its methods were somewhat rude), _A nation’s -born when the shells fall fast, or its lease of life renewed;-- We -in part atone for the ghoulish strife--for the crimes of the peace -we boast-- And the better part of a people’s life in the storm comes -uppermost_. - -_Henry Lawson._ - - - - -MAQUARIE - - -CCXXIV - -A FAMILY MATTER - - Come, my hearties--work will stand-- - Here’s your Mother calling!-- - Wants us all to lend a hand, - And go out Uncle-Pauling. - Catch your nags, and saddle slick, - Quick to join the banners! - Folks that treat the fam’ly thick - Must be taught their manners. - - Who would potter round a farm - Fearful of clubbed gunstroke, - And, keeping cosy out of harm, - Die of loafer’s sunstroke? - Gusts of distant battle-noise - Tell that men are falling; - Get your guns, my bonny boys, - Here’s your Mother calling! - - Buckle on your cartridge belts, - Waste no time about it! - Force is massing on the veldts, - We must off and rout it. - What if fate should work its worst! - Men can grin in falling; - Come on, chaps, and be the first,-- - Here’s your Mother calling! - - _Arthur Maquarie._ - - - - -ADAMS - - -CCXXV - -THE DWELLINGS OF OUR DEAD - - They lie unwatched, in waste and vacant places, - In sombre bush or wind-swept tussock spaces, - Where seldom human tread - And never human trace is-- - The dwellings of our dead! - - No insolence of stone is o’er them builded; - By mockery of monuments unshielded, - Far on the unfenced plain - Forgotten graves have yielded - Earth to free earth again. - - Above their crypts no air with incense reeling, - No chant of choir or sob of organ pealing; - But ever over them - The evening breezes kneeling - Whisper a requiem. - - For some the margeless plain where no one passes, - Save when at morning far in misty masses - The drifting flock appears. - Lo, here the greener grasses - Glint like a stain of tears! - - For some the common trench where, not all fameless, - They fighting fell who thought to tame the tameless, - And won their barren crown; - Where one grave holds them nameless-- - Brave white and braver brown. - - But, in their sleep, like troubled children turning, - A dream of mother-country in them burning, - They whisper their despair, - And one vague, voiceless yearning - Burdens the pausing air.... - - ‘_Unchanging here the drab year onward presses, - No Spring comes trysting here with new-loosed tresses, - And never may the years - Win Autumn’s sweet caresses-- - Her leaves that fall like tears._ - - _And we would lie ’neath old-remembered beeches, - Where we could hear the voice of him who preaches - And the deep organ’s call, - While close about us reaches - The cool, grey, lichened wall._’ - - But they are ours, and jealously we hold them; - Within our children’s ranks we have enrolled them, - And till all Time shall cease - Our brooding bush shall fold them - In her broad-bosomed peace. - - They came as lovers come, all else forsaking, - The bonds of home and kindred proudly breaking; - They lie in splendour lone-- - The nation of their making - Their everlasting throne! - - _Arthur Adams._ - - - - -OGILVIE - - -CCXXVI - -THE BUSH, MY LOVER - - The camp-fire gleams resistance - To every twinkling star; - The horse-bells in the distance - Are jangling faint and far; - Through gum-boughs lorn and lonely - The passing breezes sigh; - In all the world are only - My star-crowned Love and I. - - The still night wraps Macquarie; - The white moon, drifting slow, - Takes back her silver glory - From watching waves below; - To dalliance I give over, - Though half the world may chide, - And clasp my one true Lover - Here on Macquarie side. - - The loves of earth grow olden - Or kneel at some new shrine; - Her locks are always golden-- - This brave Bush-Love of mine; - And for her star-lit beauty, - And for her dawns dew-pearled, - Her name in love and duty - I guard against the world. - - They curse her desert places! - How can they understand, - Who know not what her face is - And never held her hand?-- - Who may have heard the meeting - Of boughs the wind has stirred, - Yet missed the whispered greeting - Our listening hearts have heard. - - For some have travelled over - The long miles at her side, - Yet claimed her not as Lover - Nor thought of her as Bride: - And some have followed after - Through sun and mist for years, - Nor held the sunshine laughter, - Nor guessed the raindrops tears. - - If we some white arms’ folding, - Some warm, red mouth should miss-- - Her hand is ours for holding, - Her lips are ours to kiss; - And closer than a lover - She shares our lightest breath, - And droops her great wings over - To shield us to the death. - - The winds of Dawn are roving, - The river-oaks astir ... - What heart were lorn of loving - That had no Love but her? - Till last red stars are lighted - And last winds wander West, - Her troth and mine are plighted-- - The Lover I love best! - - _William Ogilvie._ - - - - -EVANS - - -CCXXVII - -A FEDERAL SONG - - In the greyness of the dawning we have seen the pilot-star, - In the whisper of the morning we have heard the years afar. - Shall we sleep and let them be - When they call to you and me? - Can we break the land asunder God has girdled with the sea? - For the Flag is floating o’er us, - And the track is clear before us;-- - From the desert to the ocean let us lift the mighty chorus - For the days that are to be. - - We have flung the challenge forward:--‘Brothers stand or fall as one!’ - She is coming out to meet us in the splendour of the sun;-- - From the graves beneath the sky - Where her nameless heroes lie, - From the forelands of the Future they are waiting our reply! - We can face the roughest weather - If we only hold together, - Marching forward to the Future, marching shoulder-firm together; - For the Nation yet to be. - - All the greyness of the dawning, all the mists are overpast; - In the glory of the morning we shall see her face at last. - He who sang, ‘She yet will be,’ - He shall hail her, crowned and free! - Could we break the land asunder God had girdled with the sea? - For the Flag is floating o’er us, - And the star of Hope before us, - From the desert to the ocean, brothers, lift the mighty chorus - For Australian Unity! - - _George Essex Evans._ - - - - -O’HARA - - -CCXXVIII - -FLINDERS - - He left his island home - For leagues of sleepless foam, - For stress of alien seas, - Where wild winds ever blow; - For England’s sake he sought - Fresh fields of fame, and fought - A stormy world for these, - A hundred years ago. - - And where the Austral shore - Heard southward far the roar - Of rising tides that came - From lands of ice and snow, - Beneath a gracious sky - To fadeless memory - He left a deathless name - A hundred years ago. - - Yea, left a name sublime - From that wild dawn of Time, - Whose light he haply saw - In supreme sunrise flow, - And from the shadows vast, - That filled the dim dead past, - A brighter glory draw, - A hundred years ago. - - Perchance, he saw in dreams - Beside our sunlit streams - In some majestic hour - Old England’s banners blow; - Mayhap, the radiant morn - Of this great nation born, - August with perfect power, - A hundred years ago. - - We know not,--yet for thee - Far may the season be, - Whose harp in shameful sleep - Is soundless lying low! - Far be the noteless hour - That holds of fame no flower - For those who dared our deep - A hundred years ago! - - _John Bernard O’Hara._ - - -CCXXIX - -THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH - - Lo, ’tis the light of the morn - Over the mountains breaking, - And our Empire’s day is born, - The life of a Nation waking - To the triumph of regal splendour, - To the voice of conquering fate - That cries ‘No longer wait!’ - To the rising hopes that send her - Fearless upon her way - With no thoughts of her yesterday, - But dreams of a mighty State - Great ’mid the old grave nations, - Divine in her aspirations; - Blest be the men who brought her, - Freedom’s starriest daughter, - Out of the night - Into the light, - A power and a glory for evermore!-- - Let the old world live in the pages - Time wrote in the dark of the ages, - For us ’tis the light of the morning breaking on sea and shore! - - They found her a maiden with dower - Only of seasons sunny, - Blue skies and the frail white flower - Of Peace with its song’s sweet honey, - And the joy of her wild seas flinging - Their voices on fairy strands - Where only the winds’ soft singing - Broke on the sleep of day, - Or a whistling spear by the dim green way - Of the water and the lands. - Green were the woodlands round her, - Blue were the seas that bound her, - Soft was the sky above her, - A dreamily lonely lover; - Streams and dells - And the mountain wells, - And the voice of the forest were hers alone, - And the life of the grim grave ranges, - The night and the noon and the changes - Of light on the topmost peaks when the rose of the dawn was blown. - - Lift up thine honoured head! - The skies are all aflame; - The east to morn is wed; - Lift up thine honoured head, - And fearless keep thy fame! - There is work for thee to do, - A nation’s work is thine; - O land, beloved, mine! - Gird thee for life anew! - With strength, that fails not, keep - Thy pathway bright with Good; - Let Honour, Justice, sweep - Aside the weeds that creep-- - Grim Error, Unbelief, - And their Titanic brood, - Be thine the task to rear - The spacious halls of Art, - To hearken to sweet Song, - Be thine the pride to fear - No foe while in thy heart - The love of Truth is strong, - To help the weak, and be - Beloved and great and free, - Even as thy Mighty Mother--the Grey Queen of the Sea! - - _John Bernard O’Hara._ - - - - -IX - -NEW ZEALAND - - - - -BRACKEN - - -CCXXX - -NEW ZEALAND HYMN - - God of Nations! at Thy feet - In the bonds of love we meet, - Hear our voices, we entreat, - God defend our free land! - Guard Pacific’s triple star - From the shafts of strife and war. - Make her praises heard afar, - God defend New Zealand! - - Men of every creed and race - Gather here before Thy face, - Asking Thee to bless this place, - God defend our free land! - From dissension, envy, hate, - And corruption guard our State, - Make our country good and great, - God defend New Zealand! - - Peace, not war, shall be our boast, - But, should foes assail our coast, - Make us then a mighty host, - God defend our free land! - Lord of Battles, in Thy might, - Put our enemies to flight, - Let our cause be just and right, - God defend New Zealand! - - Let our love for Thee increase, - May Thy blessings never cease, - Give us plenty, give us peace, - God defend our free land! - From dishonour and from shame - Guard our country’s spotless name, - Crown her with immortal fame, - God defend New Zealand! - - May our mountains ever be - Freedom’s ramparts on the sea, - Make us faithful unto Thee, - God defend our free land! - Guide her in the nations’ van, - Preaching love and truth to man, - Working out Thy glorious plan, - God defend New Zealand! - - _Thomas Bracken._ - - - - -BATHGATE - - -CCXXXI - -OUR HERITAGE - - A perfect peaceful stillness reigns, - Not e’en a passing playful breeze - The sword-shaped flax-blades gently stirs: - The vale and slopes of rising hills - Are thickly clothed with yellow grass, - Whereon the sun, late risen, throws - His rays, to linger listlessly. - Naught the expanse of yellow breaks, - Save where a darker spot denotes - Some straggling bush of thorny scrub; - While from a gully down the glen, - The foliage of the dull-leaved trees - Rises to view; and the calm air - From stillness for a moment waked - By parakeets’ harsh chattering, - Swift followed by a tui’s trill - Of bell-like notes, is hushed again. - The tiny orbs of glistening dew - Still sparkle, gem-like, ’mid the grass; - While morning mist, their Mother moist, - Reluctant loiters on the hill, - Whence presently she’ll pass to merge - In the soft depths of the blue heav’ns. - This fertile Isle to us is given - Fresh from its Maker’s hand; for here - No records of the vanished past - Tell of the time when might was right, - And self-denial weakness was; - But all is peaceful, pure, and fair. - Our heritage is hope. We’ll rear - A Nation worthy of the land; - And when in age we linger late, - Upon the heights above life’s vale, - Before we, like the mist, shall merge - In depths of God’s eternity, - We’ll see, perchance, our influence - Left dew-like, working for the good - Of those whose day but dawns below. - - _Alexander Bathgate._ - - - - -MONTGOMERY - - -CCXXXII - -TO ONE IN ENGLAND - - I send to you - Songs of a Southern Isle, - Isle like a flower - In warm seas low lying: - Songs to beguile - Some wearisome hour, - When Time’s tired of flying. - - Songs which were sung - To a rapt listener lying, - In sweet lazy hours, - Where wild-birds’ nests swing, - And winds come a-sighing - In Nature’s own bowers. - - Songs which trees sing, - By summer winds swayed - Into rhythmical sound; - Sweet soul-bells sung - Through the Ngaio’s green shade, - Unto one on the ground. - - Songs from an Island - Just waking from sleeping - In history’s morning; - Songs from a land - Where night shadows creep - When your day is dawning. - - * * * * * - - O songs, go your way, - Over seas, over lands, - Though friendless sometimes, - Fear not, comes a day - When the world will clasp hands - With my wandering rhymes. - - _Eleanor Elizabeth Montgomery._ - - -CCXXXIII - -A VOICE FROM NEW ZEALAND - - _Cooee!_ I send my voice - Far North to you, - Rose of the water’s choice, - Dear England true! - Guardian angels three-- - Faith, Hope, and Charity-- - Welcome the strong sons free - Born unto you. - - _Cooee!_ Through flamegirt foam - Speeds now my soul - Straight to thy hero home. - Blue waters roll - Round where Immortals trod-- - Shakespeare--half man, half God-- - Laughed, with divining rod, - Sounding the soul. - - Thou shining gem of sea! - Angels on wing, - Resting where men are free, - Teach them to sing - Such songs blind Milton heard, - Coleridge and Wordsworth stirred, - Keats’, and our own lost bird’s - Haunting, sweet ring. - - _Cooee!_ North, hear the song - On the South’s breath, - Laurels to life belong; - Cypress to death! - Wreathe in song’s garland fair, - Culled with a Nation’s care, - My cypress leaf--a prayer, - Warm with South’s breath! - - _Eleanor Elizabeth Montgomery._ - - - - -NOTES - - -I.--ENGLAND - - -I - -_Agincourt, or the English Bowmans Glory. To a pleasant new Tune._ -Quoted in Heywood’s _King Edward IV._, and, therefore, popular before -1600. This ballad has been severely edited, and I omit several stanzas. -It is printed in full in Hazlitt’s edition of Collier’s ‘Shakespeare’s -Library,’ vol. i. (Reeves & Turner, 1825). - - -II - -Published in 1589. - - -III-IV - -Both were published in _Poemes Lyrick and Pastorall_ (1605?) and -_Poemes_ (1619). As to the first:--l. 6. _Caux_ (‘commonlie called -Kidcaux,’ says Holinshed) was the district north-east of the mouth of -the Seine. - - l. 83. _bilbos._ Swords, from Bilbao. - - 92. _ding._ To belabour with blows. - - -V-VI - -The first is from John of Gaunt’s dying speech (_King Richard II._, -Act ii. sc. 1). _King Richard II._ was probably written early in -1593. It was published anonymously in 1597. The second is from _King -John_, Act v. sc. 7. 1594 is the date assigned to Shakespeare’s _King -John_, which was first printed in the First Folio (1623). These and -the two succeeding numbers follow the text of ‘The Globe Edition’ of -Shakespeare’s Works. I am indebted to the publishers of that edition, -Messrs. Macmillan & Co., and to the Delegates of the Clarendon Press, -Oxford, for kindly extending to readers of this volume the benefits of -the scientific labours of Dr. W. G. Clark and Mr. W. A. Wright. - - -VII - -From various parts of _King Henry V._ The play was written in 1598, and -performed for the first time early in 1599. The first complete version -was published in the First Folio (1623). - - l. 23. _rivage._ The shore. - - 27. _sternage._ (To sternage of=astern of, so as to follow.) - - 40. _puissance._ Strength. - - 87. _battle._ An army, or division of an army. - - 90. _accomplishing._ Equipping. - - 144. _Crispian._ ‘The daie following,’ says Holinshed, ‘was the - five and twentieth of October in the year 1415, being then fridaie, - and the feast of Crispine and Crispinian, a daie faire and fortunate - to the English, but most sorrowfull and unluckie to the French.’ - - 174. _Whiffler._ Herald or usher. - - 183. _ostent._ Clear, visible. - - -VIII - -_King Henry VIII._, Act ii. sc. 3. - - -IX - -Printed by Percy (_Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, 1765). ‘From an -old black-letter copy.’ - -_Cailìver_ (l. 21)=Caliver, a kind of light musket. - - -X - -There are broadsides of this ballad in the Roxburghe and Bagford -Collections. The version here given is taken from Mr. Henley’s -volume, _Lyra Heroica_ (David Nutt, 1891), by permission of editor -and publisher. The full title of the Roxburghe broadside is as -follows:--‘The Honour of Bristol, shewing how the Angel Gabriel of -Bristol fought with three ships, who boarded as many times, wherein we -cleared our Decks, and killed five hundred of their Men, and wounded -many more, and make them fly into Cales, where we lost but three men, -to the Honour of the Angel Gabriel of Bristol. To the tune of _Our -Noble King in his Progress_.’ - -Calés (l. 13), pronounced as a dissyllable, is, of course, Cadiz. - - -XI--XII - -The first is entitled: _To the Lord General Cromwell, May 1652: On the -Proposals of certain Ministers at the Committee for Propagation of the -Gospel_, and was written against the intolerant Fifteen Proposals of -John Owen and the majority of the Committee. This sonnet first appeared -at the end of Philip’s _Life of Milton_ (1694). - -_Hireling wolves_ (l. 14)=the paid clergy. - -The second is from the chorus of _Samson Agonistes_ (ll. 1268-1286). -_Samson Agonistes_ was first published in 1671, in the small octavo -volume which contained _Paradise Regained_. - - -XIII--XIV - -The _Horatian Ode_ was first printed in 1776, in Captain Edward -Thompson’s edition of Marvell’s _Works_. - - l. 15. _side._ Party. - - 32. _Bergamot._ A kind of pear. - - 67, &c. The finding of the human head at Rome, regarded as a - happy omen, is mentioned by Pliny (_Nat. Hist._, - xxviii. 4). - -The second appeared in _Poems_ (1681). - - -XV - -Produced in 1643. The author was a famous ballad-monger of Charles -I.’s time. The original refrain was ‘When the King comes home in peace -again’ (_Roxburghe Collection of Ballads_, iii. 256; _Loyal Garland_, -1671 and 1686; Ritson, _Ancient Songs_). The song was written to -support the declining cause of the Royal Martyr. It helped to keep up -the spirits of the Cavaliers in the days before the Restoration (1660), -which event it was used to celebrate. When the Revolution (1688) drove -the Stuarts into exile, this song became a weapon in the hands of the -Jacobites. - - -XVI - -This was a very popular loyal song in the reign of Charles II. Both -words and music are given in Playford’s _Musical Companion_ (1667). - - -XVII--XVIII - -The first is from Dryden’s opera, _King Arthur, or the British Worthy_ -(1691). As to the first: ‘A battle is supposed to be given behind the -scenes, with drums, trumpets, and military shouts and excursions; after -which, the Britons, expressing their joy for the victory, sing this -song of triumph.’--Author’s Note. - -The second is an extract from _Annus Mirabilis_ (1667). - - -XIX - -This famous song, which Heine once declared expressed the whole -character of the English people, made its first appearance in _The -Masque of Alfred_ (1740). - - -XX - -This song is at least as old as the reign of Queen Anne. In the British -Museum there are many half-sheet copies, with music. The earliest -begins, ‘Here’s a health to the Queen,’ &c. - - -XXI - -The first print of our National Anthem is to be found in _Harmonica -Anglicana_, a collation of part songs (_circa_ 1742). This copy -consists of two stanzas only. The third made its appearance when -_Harmonica Anglicana_ was extended to two volumes, with the new title -_Thesaurus Musicus_. The copy printed in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ -(October 1745) contains the three stanzas given here, and is called, ‘A -Song for Two Voices sung at both play-houses.’ - - -XXII - -Sung in Garrick’s pantomime, _The Harlequin’s Invasion_, produced -December 31, 1759. - - -XXIII - -_Odes_ (‘Printed for A. Millar in the Strand,’ 1746), and Dodsley’s -_Museum_ (iv., 1749). - - -XXIV-XXV - -The first was written ‘after reading Hume’s _History_ in 1780’ -(Benham). The second was written in September 1782. The _Royal George_ -(108 guns) was being repaired at Spithead (August 29, 1782), when she -capsized and sank instantly. Rear-Admiral Richard Kempenfelt was then -under orders to proceed to the relief of Gibraltar. - - -XXVI-XXVIII - -The first is from _The Oddities, a Table Entertainment_ (1789-1790), -and its original title was _Poor Tom, or the Sailor’s Epitaph_. The -second was first sung in _The Wags, or the Camp of Pleasure_ (October -18, 1790). The third was first sung in _A Tour to Land’s End_ (1798), -and its original title was _Yo heave ho!_ The first collected edition -of Charles Dibdin’s songs was issued in five volumes from 1790 to 1799. - - -XXIX - -The air of _The British Grenadiers_ is at least as old as the reign -of Elizabeth, and is one of the most characteristic of the English -National airs. The words here given are from a copy (with music) about -a hundred and fifty years old. - - -XXX - -Chappell dates this song 1758. The matter is not free from doubt, but -the reference in the second stanza to ‘Brighton Camp’ is a clue. There -were encampments along the south coast (1758-9) when Hawke and Rodney -were watching the French fleet in Brest Harbour. The song appears to -be English, although it has appeared in several collections of Irish -music. I have omitted several stanzas which appear in Chappell’s -version (_Popular Music of the Olden Time_, vol. ii. p. 710). - - -XXXI - -From _Lock and Key_, ‘a musical entertainment,’ first performed at the -Theatre Royal, Covent Garden (_circa_ 1790). - - -XXXII - -From two of the _Prophetic Books_ entitled _Jerusalem_ and _Milton_ -respectively, and both published in 1804. - - -XXXIII - -_Poems_ (1807). Composed August 1802. ‘On August 29th left Calais at -12 in the morning for Dover.... Bathed and sat on the Dover Cliffs, -looked upon France. We could see the shores about as plain as if it -were an English lake. Mounted the coach at half-past four, arrived in -London at six.’--(Dorothy Wordsworth’s Journal.) - - -XXXIV-XL - -_Poems_ (1807). The first and second were composed in September 1802, -the third in 1803, and the fourth in 1806. The fifth is from the third -stanza of the _Thanksgiving Ode_ (1816). The sixth and seventh were -‘composed or suggested during a Tour in the Summer of 1833,’ and were -published in _Yarrow Revisited and Other Poems_ (1835). - - -XLI - -From the Introduction to the first canto of _Marmion_ (1808). - - -XLII-XLIII - -_The Snug Little Island, or The March of Invasion_ was first sung by -‘Jew’ Davis in _The British Raft_ at Sadler’s Wells on Easter Monday, -1797. Tune--‘The Rogue’s March.’ The author’s title for the next number -(_Last Lays_, 1833) is _A Soldier’s Life_. - - -XLIV - -_Poetical Works_, vol. iii. (Longmans, 1838). This is number xxxiii. of -the ‘Inscriptions.’ - - -XLV-XLVII - -The first two were published with _Gertrude of Wyoming_ (1809). The -first (written at Altona during the winter of 1800-1) is based on a -seventeenth-century song which Campbell used to sing. As to the second -(written in 1805), I omit stanzas 5, 6, and 8, an improvement suggested -by Mr. Henley. The third appeared in _Theodoric and Other Poems_ -(Longmans, 1824). - - -XLVIII - -_Songs and Poems_ (edited by Peter Cunningham, 1847). - - -XLIX-LI - -The first is from _Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage_ (canto iii. stanza 2, -and canto iv. stanzas 8, 9, 10). The third canto was published in 1816, -and the fourth in 1818. Byron left England--never to return--on April -24, 1816. - -l. 22. The poet’s body was sent home to England, and was buried in the -family vault at Hucknall Torkard, near Newstead Abbey, Nottinghamshire. - -32. The answer of the mother of Brasidas, the Spartan General, to the -strangers who praised the memory of her son. - -The second is from the third canto of _Don Juan_ (1821). - -The third is from _Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage_ (canto iii. stanzas -21-28). The Duchess of Richmond’s famous ball took place on June 15, -1815, the eve of Quatre Bras, at the Duke’s house in the Rue de la -Blanchisserie, Brussels. - -20. _Brunswick’s fated chieftain._ The Duke of Brunswick (1771-1815) -was killed at Quatre Bras. His father, author of the famous manifesto -against the French Republic (July 15, 1792), had fallen at Jena (1806). - -54. _Evan’s--Donald’s._ Sir Evan Cameron (1629-1719) and his -grandson Donald Cameron of Lochiel (1695-1748). The former fought -at Killiecrankie (1689), and the latter, celebrated by Campbell in -_Lochiel’s Warning_, was wounded at Culloden (1746). - -55. _Ardennes._ The general term is applied to the forest of Soignies, -which at this time occupied the whole country between Brussels and -Waterloo. - - -LII - -First published (without the author’s permission) in the _Newry -Telegraph_ (April 19, 1817), and reprinted in many other journals. -Highly praised by Byron (1822)--‘Such an ode as only Campbell could -have written’--this poem was attributed to Byron himself, and claimed -by many impostors. The question of authorship was settled in 1841 by -the discovery of an autograph copy in a letter from Wolfe to a college -friend. - - -LIII-LIV - -_Works, with a Memoir_ (7 vols., William Blackwood & Sons, 1839). Most -of Mrs. Hemans’ poems were first published in periodicals, such as _The -Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_ and _The New Monthly Magazine_. The latter -was, for a time, edited by Thomas Campbell, not very successfully. The -‘Author’s Note’ on the first number is as follows:--‘It is supposed -that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by sending messengers in -different directions through the land, each bearing a _bended bow_; -and that peace was in like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and, -therefore, straight.’ - - -LV-LVI - -The first (reprinted from _Knight’s Quarterly Magazine_) was included -in the 1848 edition of the _Lays of Ancient Rome_. It is dated 1832. - - -LVII-LVIII - -_Alma and other Poems_ (1855), and _Poems_ (New Edition, 2 vols., -Macmillan & Co., 1885). By permission of Mr. A. Chenevix Trench. - - -LIX - -_Last Poems_ (Smith, Elder & Co., 1862). This volume was published -after the author’s death. By permission of the publishers. - - -LX-LXVI - -The first two appeared in _Poems_ (2 vols., Edward Moxon, 1842). The -third is from _The Princess: a Medley_ (Edward Moxon, 1847). The fourth -is from the lines entitled, _To the Queen_, forming the Dedication of -the Seventh Edition of _Poems_ (London: 1851). The fifth and sixth -first appeared in _The Examiner_, in 1852; the former on January 31, -and the latter on February 7. The seventh is from the _Ode on the Death -of the Duke of Wellington_, published separately in November 1852 -(Edward Moxon), and reprinted with _Maud_ (1855). - - -LXVII-LXVIII - -The first appeared in _The Examiner_, December 9, 1854, and was -reprinted with _Maud_ (1855). Written on December 2nd, in a few -minutes, after reading the description in _The Times_, in which -occurred the phrase ‘someone had blundered.’ (_Memoir_, i. p. 381.) The -second is from _Maud_. - - -LXIX - -_The Return of the Guards and Other Poems_ (Macmillan & Co., 1866). By -permission of the publishers. The poem deals with an incident of the -war with China (1860):--‘Some Seiks (Sikhs) and a private of the Buffs -(or East Kent Regiment) having remained behind with the grog-carts, -fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were -brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the _Ko tou_. -The Seiks obeyed; but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he -would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately -knocked upon the head, and his body thrown upon a dunghill.’ Quoted by -the author from _The Times_. - - -LXX-LXXI - -_Bells and Pomegranates_ (vii. 1845). The first was written in Italy. -The second was written in pencil on the cover of an Italian book during -Browning’s first journey to Italy. He sailed in a merchant vessel from -London to Trieste, and was the only passenger (1838). A letter from -the poet to Miss Haworth gives an account of the voyage. (_Life and -Letters_, edited by Mrs. Sutherland Orr, 2nd edition, p. 97.) - - -LXXII - -_Songs for Music_ (Routledge, 1856), a reprint of a series of songs -from _The Illustrated London News_ (1852-1855). - - -LXXIII-LXXIV - -The first is from _Songs in Absence_ (1852), and was probably composed -during the author’s voyage across the Atlantic. The second appears -in _Poems with Memoir by F. T. Palgrave_ (Macmillan & Co., 1862). By -permission of Messrs. Macmillan & Co. - - -LXXV - -_Andromeda and Other Poems_ (1858). Written in 1854. - - -LXXVI - -_Edinburgh Courant_, 1852. - -l. 3. _The Vengeur’s crew._ The _Vengeur_ was sunk in Lord Howe’s -action against the French fleet on ‘the glorious first of June’ -(1794), off the coast of Brittany. For the final account of her sinking -see Carlyle (_Miscellanies_--‘Sinking of the _Vengeur_’). - - -LXXVII - -_Ionica_ (George Allen, 1891). By permission of Mrs. Cory. The poem -was written in 1861, and was privately printed in 1877. The ‘School -Fencibles’ are the members of the Volunteer Corps of Eton College, -whose grey uniform, with light-blue facings, is the ‘meek attire of -blue and grey’ referred to in l. 10. - - -LXXVIII - -Verses 1, 2, 4, and 9 of Hymn No. 143 in _Hymns Ancient and Modern_. By -permission of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. - - -LXXIX - -_Sonnets and Other Poems_ (A. & C. Black, 1900). By permission of -author and publishers. - - -LXXX - -_Points of War_ (Bell & Daldy, 1855), and _Wagers of Battle_ (Macmillan -& Co., 1900). By permission of the author and Messrs. Macmillan. - - -LXXXI-LXXXII - -Both from _Visions of England_ (Macmillan & Co., 1881). By permission -of the publishers. - - l. 1. _Isle of Roses._ Within the temple of Athena at Lindus, in - the island of Rhodes, Pindar’s seventh Olympian Ode was - engraved in golden letters. - - 40. _Changing at the font._ Alfred was god-father to Guthrun, - the Danish leader, when baptized after his defeat at - Ethandún (872). - - -LXXXIII - -_Balder_ (Smith & Elder, 1854). - - -LXXXIV - -This poem first appeared in _The Times_ (October 31, 1899), was -reprinted separately by Messrs. Skeffington & Sons, and is included in -the author’s last volume, _The Finding of the Book and Other Poems_ -(Hodder & Stoughton, 1900). By permission of the author, the editor of -_The Times_, and the publishers above mentioned. - - -LXXXV - -_Legends and Lyrics_ (1858). Written in 1855. - - -LXXXVI - -_Havelock’s March and Other Poems_ (Trübner & Co., 1859). By permission -of the author. - - -LXXXVII - -_Collected Poems_ (Macmillan & Co., 1900). By permission of the -publishers. - - -LXXXVIII - -_Songs and Rhymes_ (Elliot Stock, 1896). By permission of the author. - - -LXXXIX - -_Poems Narrative and Lyrical_ (Pickering, 1853). By permission of the -author. - - -XC - -_Poems_ (Elkin Mathews, 1893). By permission of the author. - - -XCI - -_The Bab Ballads, with which are included Songs of a Savoyard_ (George -Routledge & Sons, 1897). By permission of the author. This is one of -the songs in the comic opera _Utopia, Limited_. - - -XCII-XCIII - -Both from _A Jubilee Greeting at Spithead_ (John Lane, 1897). By -permission of the author. - - -XCIV-XCVII - -The first three numbers are from _Poems and Ballads_, 3rd series -(Chatto & Windus, 1889). The first is part viii. section ii. of _The -Armada_. - -As to the second, Drumossie Muir (l. 16), in Inverness-shire, was the -scene of the battle of Culloden (1746). - - l. 17. _ayont._ Beyond. - - 25. _mool._ Mould. - _laps._ Wraps. - - 40. _wotsna._ Knows not. - - 45. _weird for dreeing._ To ‘dree a weird’ is to abide a fate. - - 47. _thole._ To endure. - - 65. _Wansbeck._ A Northumberland stream. - - 69. _thae._ Those. - -The fourth number is from the dedicatory lines in _Astrophel and Other -Poems_ (Chatto & Windus, 1894). By permission of author and publishers. - - -XCVIII - -_The Graphic_ (November 11, 1899). By permission of the author and the -editor of _The Graphic_. - - -XCIX-C - -The first appeared in _The St. James’s Magazine_ (now defunct), -October, 1877, and was included in the second edition of _Proverbs in -Porcelain_ (1878), and in _At the Sign of the Lyre_ (Kegan Paul, 1889). -By permission of author and publisher. - -_Gloriana_ (l. 25)=Queen Elizabeth. - -The second appeared in _The Sphere_ (February 3, 1900). By permission -of the author and the editor of _The Sphere_. - - -CI - -_Poetical Works_ (vol. ii., Smith, Elder & Co., 1899). By permission of -author and publishers. - - -CII-CIII - -_Songs of the Maid_ (A. Constable & Co., 1896). By permission of author -and publishers. - - -CIV - -_London Voluntaries and Other Poems_ (David Nutt, 1894), and _Poems_ -(David Nutt, 1898). By permission of author and publisher. - - -CV - -_A Song of the Sea and Other Poems_ (Methuen & Co., 1895). By -permission of Miss Marie Corelli and the publishers. - - -CVI - -_Literature_ (July 1, 1899). By permission of the author and the editor -of _Literature_. - - -CVII - -_The Violet Crown and Songs of England_ (Edward Arnold, 1891). By -permission of author and publishers. This poem is dated ‘Athens, 1890.’ - - -CVIII - -_Collected Poems_ (John Lane, 1895). By permission of the publisher. - - -CIX-CX - -_Songs of Action_ (Smith, Elder & Co., 1898). By permission of author -and publishers. _The Song of the Bow_ first appeared in _The White -Company_ (Smith, Elder & Co., 1891). - - -CXI - -_The Daily Chronicle_, October 28, 1899. By permission of the author -and the editor of _The Daily Chronicle_. - - -CXII-CXIV - -_Admirals All_ (Elkin Matthews, 1897). By permission of author and -publisher. As to the first:-- - -l. 1. _Effingham._ Charles, Lord Howard of Effingham (1536-1624), -commanded the English fleet sent against the Spanish Armada (1588). - -_Grenville._ Sir Richard Grenville, naval commander (1541?-1591). See -Mr. Gerald Massey’s poem, _supra_, p. 113. - -_Raleigh._ Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1616), soldier, sailor, courtier, -adventurer, and writer. - -_Drake._ Sir Francis Drake (1540?-1596). - -3. _Benbow._ Vice-admiral John Benbow (1653-1702). - -_Collingwood._ Vice-admiral Cuthbert, Lord Collingwood (1750-1810), -second in command at Trafalgar. - -_Byron._ Vice-admiral John Byron (1723-1786), grandfather of the poet. - -_Blake._ Robert Blake (1599-1657), next to Nelson, the greatest English -admiral. - -8. _Nelson._ Horatio, Viscount Nelson (1758-1805). - -13. _Essex._ Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex (1567-1601), -commanded the land attack on Cadiz (1596) when the city was taken by -the English. - -30. _Duncan._ Admiral Adam, Viscount Duncan (1731-1804), who defeated -the Dutch in the fight off Camperdown (October 11, 1797). - -31. _Texel._ One of the mouths of the Zuyder Zee. - -38. _The Sound._ The strait between Sweden and Denmark leading into the -Baltic Sea. The English fleet entered the Sound on April 1, 1801, and -next morning Nelson, acting under orders from Sir Hyde Parker, attacked -the Danish batteries. - -52. _Rodneys._ Admiral George Brydges, first Baron Rodney (1719-1792). - -The third is an extract from the poem entitled _Laudabunt Alii_. - - -CXV - -_The Seven Seas._ (Methuen & Co., 1896.) By permission of author and -publishers. - - l. 9. _Bergen._ A town on the west coast of Norway. - - 10. _Disko._ An island off the west coast of Greenland. - _floe._ The surface ice of polar seas. - - 12. _Dogger._ A sandbank in the middle of the North Sea. - - 18. _Musk-ox._ A long-haired animal of the ox tribe, found in - Arctic America. - - 21. _Virgins._ A group of small islands in the West Indies. - - 23. _sea-egg._ Sea-urchin. - - 25. _Keys._ Islands near the coast (Spanish _cayo_, - a sandbank). - - 37. _Kuriles._ A group of islands in the North Pacific. - - 39. _Praya._ Capital of the Cape Verde Islands. - _Kowloon._ A town in China, near Hong-Kong. - - 43. _Hoogli._ The Ganges. - - 50. _Winds._ Scents, smells. - - -CXVI - -_The Times_ (July 17, 1897). Suggested by the celebration of Queen -Victoria’s ‘Diamond Jubilee’ (June 22). By permission of the author and -the editor of _The Times_. - - -CXVII - -_The Spectator_ (December 16, 1899). By permission of the author and -the editor of _The Spectator_. The poem is written to an old Gaelic air. - - -CXVIII - -_A Gun-Room Ditty Box_ (Cassell & Co., 1898). By permission of author -and publishers. ‘Snotties’ is the naval equivalent of ‘midshipmen.’ - - -II.--WALES - - -CXIX - -Published (with _The Progress of Poetry_) in 1757. - - l. 5. _hauberk._ Coat of mail. - - 8. _Cambria._ Wales; a Latinised form of ‘Cymru.’ - - 13-14. _Gloster._ _Mortimer._ English nobles and Lords - of the Welsh Marches. - - 28. _Hoel._ King of Brittany and nephew of King Arthur. - _Llewellyn._ A famous Welsh prince of the eleventh - century. - - 29. _Cadwallo._ King of North Wales in the seventh century. - - 31. _Urien._ A Welsh hero of the fifth century. - - 33. _Mordred._ Nephew of Arthur. - - 34. _Plinlimmon._ A mountain in Cardiganshire. - - 35. _Arvon._ ‘The shores of Carnarvonshire opposite the Isle - of Anglesea.’--Gray. - - 56. Edward II. was murdered in Berkeley Castle (September 21, - 1327). - - 57. Isabella, wife of Edward II. - - 67. Edward, the Black Prince. - - 71, &c. The reign of Richard II. - - 83-96. The Wars of the Roses. - - 87. The Tower of London was said to have been begun by Julius - Cæsar. - - 89. _Consort._ Margaret of Anjou. - _father._ Henry V. - - 90. _meek usurper._ Henry VI. - - 93. The silver boar was the badge of Richard III. - - 115. Queen Elizabeth. - - 121. _Taliessin._ A Welsh bard of the sixth century. - - 126. Spenser’s _Faerie Queene_. - - 128. Shakespeare’s plays. - - 131. Milton. - - 133. ‘The succession of poets after Milton’s time.’--Gray. - - -CXX - -_Poetical Works_ (1832). Bodryddan is near Rhuddlan, in Flintshire. - - -CXXI-CXXII - -_Works, with a Memoir_ (Wm. Blackwood & Sons, 1839). As to the first,-- - - l. 2. _Hirlas._ From ‘hir,’ long, and ‘glas,’ blue or azure. - - 14. Eryri is the Welsh name for the Snowdon Mountains. - -As to the second,-- - -Prince Madog, a natural son of Llywelyn, was the leader of the Welsh -Rebellion (1294-1295), occasioned by the levying of taxes by Edward I. -to pay for his projected expedition to Gascony. - - -CXXIII - -_Poems_ (Roberts, 1869). Translated from the Welsh. - -l. 1. _Glyndwr._ Owain ap Gruffydd, commonly called Owen Glendower -(1359?-1416?), joined the Percies and Mortimers in their rebellion -against Henry IV. - - -CXXIV - -From the Ode written at the request of the Llywelyn Memorial Committee -(Bangor: Jarvis & Foster, 1895). By permission of the author. Llywelyn -ap Gruffydd (died 1282) was the last champion of Welsh liberty. - - l. 29. _Lloegrian._ Lloegria was one of the ancient names of - Britain. - - 40. _Cwmhir._ Cwmhir Abbey in Radnorshire. - - 67. _Iorwerth’s happier son._ Llywelyn ap Iorwerth (died 1240), - commonly called Llywelyn the Great. - - -CXXV - -This translation of the famous Welsh poem, _Morfa Rhuddlan_ (_i.e._, -‘Red Marsh’) is in the metre of the original. Published (September, -1894) in _Wales_, a monthly magazine. By permission of the editor of -_Wales_ and the author’s representatives. Three stanzas (2, 5, and 6) -are omitted. Morfa Rhuddlan, on the banks of the Clwyd in Flintshire, -was the scene of many battles between Britons and Saxons. In the -battle described in the poem (A.D. 795), the Britons under Caradoc -were defeated and their leader slain. Those who escaped the sword were -driven into the river. The original poem is said to have been composed -by Caradoc’s bard immediately after the battle. - - -CXXVI-CXXVII - -_Welsh Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century_, First Series (Bangor: Jarvis -& Foster, 1896). By permission of author and publishers. - -As to the first,--Idris (=Cader Idris), Berwin, and Plynlimmon (l. 8, -&c.) are mountains in Wales. - -As to the second,--Cymru (l. 1)=Wales. - - -III.--SCOTLAND - - -CXXVIII - -_The Tea-Table Miscellany: a Collection of Choice Songs_ (Edinburgh, 4 -vols., 1724-7). - - -CXXIX - -This ‘matchless wail’ (as Scott called it) was written in 1756. For -some time it was thought to be a genuine relic of the past. Burns -was one of the first to insist that it was a modern composition. -The ‘Forest’ is, of course, Ettrick Forest, that romantic district -comprising most of Selkirkshire and the neighbouring parts of Peebles -and Edinburgh shires. A few straggling thorns and solitary birches are -the sole remaining traces of this ‘fein foreste,’ once the favourite -hunting-ground of the Scottish kings. - - _bandsters._ Binders of sheaves. - _bogle._ ‘Hide and seek.’ - _buchts._ Pen in which ewes are enclosed at milking-time. - _daffin’._ Making merry. - _dool._ Sorrow. - _dowie._ Doleful. - _fleechin’._ Coaxing. - _gabbin’._ Talking pertly. - _har’st._ Harvest. - _ilk, ilka._ Every. - _liltin’._ Singing. - _loanin’._ Lane. - _laighlin._ Milking pail. - _lyart._ Hoary-headed. - _mair._ More. - _runkled._ Wrinkled. - _swankies._ Lively young fellows. - _wae._ Sad. - _wede._ Weeded. - - -CXXX - -Written on the Marquess of Huntley’s departure for Holland, with the -English forces, under the command of Sir Ralph Abercromby, in 1799. - - -CXXXI-CXXXIV - -The first is number 259 in vol. iii. of Johnson’s _Musical Museum_ -(1790), signed ‘Z.’ ‘The first half stanza of this song is old--the -rest is mine.’--Author’s note in interleaved copy. - -The second was written in 1793, and first published in the _Morning -Chronicle_ (May, 1794). The old air, _Hey, tuttie, taitie_, to which -Burns ‘fitted’ this poem, is said to have been Bruce’s marching tune at -Bannockburn. - -The third appeared in the _Edinburgh Courant_ (May 4, 1795), and in -the _Dumfries Journal_ (May 5, 1795), and is number 546 in vol. ii. of -Johnson’s _Musical Museum_ (1803). - -The fourth was written in 1795 for the Irish air _Humours of Glen_, and -published in the _Edinburgh Magazine_ (May, 1797), and in vol. ii. of -Thomson’s _Scottish Airs_ (1799). - - -CXXXV-CXXXVII - -The first is the opening stanza of the sixth canto of _The Lay of the -Last Minstrel_ (1805). - -The second consists of part of stanza 33, and the whole of stanza 34 of -the sixth canto of _Marmion_ (1808). - - l. 5. _vaward._ Vanguard. - - 7. The horn of Roland, nephew of Charlemagne, the sound of which - carried a fabulous distance. - -The third was written for _Albyn’s Anthology_ (1816). ‘Donuil Dhu’ -means ‘Donald the Black.’ - - -CXXXVIII-CXL - -The first is from _The Monastery_ (1820). - - l. 8. _the Queen._ Mary, Queen of Scots. - - 9. _hirsels._ Flocks. - -The second, written in 1825, first appeared in _The Doom of Devergoil_ -(1830), Act ii. scene 2. - -‘The air of Bonnie Dundee running in my head to-day,’ Scott writes -(22nd December), ‘I wrote a few verses to it before dinner, taking the -keynote from the story of Clavers leaving the Scottish Convention of -Estates in 1688-9. _I wonder if they are good!_’ (_Journal_, i. 60). - - _barkened._ Tanned. - _carline._ Old woman. - _couthie._ Kind. - _douce._ Quiet. - _duniewassals._ Yeomen. - _flyting._ Scolding. - _gang._ Go. - _ilk._ Every. - _pow._ Pate. - _target._ A round shield. - -The full title of the third number is ‘War Song of the Royal Edinburgh -Light Dragoons.’ It was written under the apprehension of a French -invasion. The corps of volunteers to which the song is addressed was -raised in 1797, and consisted of Edinburgh gentlemen mounted and armed -at their own expense. - - -CXLI - -From Scott’s _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, 3 vols. (1802-1803). -The first four lines of the fourth stanza appear on the title-page of -_Marmion_. - - -CXLII - -First published in Cromek’s _Remains of Nithisdale and Galloway Song_ -(1810), when the author was a working mason. - - -CXLIII - -Johnson’s _Musical Museum_, vol. iii. (1790). A similar song, _The -Clans are Coming_, is included in Ritson’s _Scottish Songs_ (1794). - - -CXLIV - -_Collected Works_, edited by William Anderson (1851). I have found many -versions of this old song, but none to equal Gilfillan’s. - - -CXLV-CXLVI - -Both from _Songs of Travel_ (Chatto & Windus, 1896). By permission of -Charles Baxter, Esq., executor of the author. - -The second was written at Vailima, Samoa, and is addressed ‘To S. R. -Crockett, Esq.’ The author writes from Vailima to Mr. Crockett (May 17, -1893):--‘I shall never set my foot again upon the heather. Here I am -until I die, and here will I be buried. The word is out, and the doom -written.’--_Letters_, vol. ii. p. 287 (Methuen & Co., 1899). - - l. 3. _Whaups._ Curlews. - - 11. _Peewees._ Lapwings. - - -CXLVII - -_Blackwood’s Magazine_ (January 1900). By permission of the author and -the editor of _Blackwood’s Magazine_. - - -JACOBITE SONGS - - -CXLVIII-CLI - -The first number is given in Hogg’s _Jacobite Relics_, Second Series -(Wm. Blackwood, 1821). - -As to the second,--there are many versions of this old song. Hogg has -two versions, both different to that given here. - -The third number is attributed to Hogg by Chambers and other critics. - -The fourth is said to have been written by Lady Keith (_née_ Lady Maria -Drummond), daughter of the Earl of Perth, and mother of James Francis -Edward, commonly called Marshal Keith (1698-1758), who fought under -Frederick the Great in the Seven Years’ War. - - _birken._ Birch. - _laverock._ Lark. - _Moidart._ In Inverness. - _croo house._ Hovel. - _bike._ Family. - _lyart._ Hoary. - _eild._ Old age. - _clishmaclaver._ Idle discourse. - - -CLII-CLV - -The first is number 127 of vol. ii. of Johnson’s _Musical Museum_ -(1788). Unsigned. - -The second is number 302 of vol. iv. of Johnson’s _Musical Museum_ -(1792). Unsigned. - - l. 2. _felly._ Relentless. - - 5. _maun._ Must. - - 9. _mirk._ Gloomy. - -The third is number 359 of vol. iv. of Johnson’s _Musical Museum_ -(1792). Unsigned. This song has not been found in any earlier -collection. - -The fourth is number 497 of vol. v. of Johnson’s _Musical Museum_ -(1796). Unsigned. Based on an old ballad, ‘Unkind Parents’ (_Roxburghe -Ballads_, vol. vii.). - - l. 15. _gae._ Gave. - - 28. _lee-lang._ Live-long. - - -CLVI-CLVII - -_Lays from Stratheam_ (1746). These new versions of old songs were -first published anonymously. - -As to the second, _gar mony ferlie_ (l. 2)=‘cause great excitement.’ - - -CLVIII - -Given in Hogg (Second Series), and reprinted in _Poetical Remains of -William Glen, with Memoir_ (1874). Written to the old tune, ‘Johnnie -Faa.’ - - l. 12. _lilt o’ dool._ Song of grief. - - 22. _maist._ Almost. - - 38. _fairly._ Completely. - - -CLIX - -_Songs of the North_, vol. i. (Cramer & Co., 1885). By permission of -the author, who wrote the words to fit an old and stirring air with -which he became acquainted when on a visit to the Hebrides. - - -CLX - -By permission of the author and the editor of _The Celtic Monthly_, in -which publication (May, 1894) these verses first appeared. - - -IV.--IRELAND - - -CLXI - -Lines 83-97 of _The Deserted Village_ (1769). - - -CLXII - -This, the best and most widely known of the Irish street ballads, dates -from the year 1798. _Caubeen_ (l. 15)=hat. - - -CLXIII-CLXIX - -All from the famous series of _Irish Melodies_, the publication of -which began in 1807, and continued at irregular intervals till 1834. - -As to the second,-- - - l. 3. _Mononia._ Munster. - - 4. _Kincora._ Brien’s Palace. - - 22. _Ossory’s plain._ The ancient kingdom of Ossory comprised - parts of Queen’s County and Kilkenny. - -As to the third,-- - -l. 1. _Tara’s halls._ The hill of Tara, in Meath, was the meeting-place -for the election of the kings of Ireland; but most writers on Irish -antiquities are of opinion that there was no royal dwelling there. It -would seem, therefore, that ‘Tara’s halls’ never existed but in the -imagination of poets. - -As to the fifth, Robert Emmet (1778-1803), United Irishman, the leader -of ‘Emmet’s Rising’ (1803), was arrested by Major Sirr (the capturer -of Lord Edward Fitzgerald), tried September 19, and hanged next day -(1803). He was engaged to be married to Sarah Curran, daughter of the -great lawyer, and it was to this lady Moore addressed his famous poem. -The lady subsequently (November 24, 1805) married Major Sturgeon of the -Royal Staff Corps. - - -CLXX - -_Minor Poems of Charlotte Elizabeth_ (1848). Published in the author’s -lifetime over the signature ‘Charlotte Elizabeth.’ - - -CLXXI-CLXXII - -Mangan’s poems appeared in Dublin magazines and journals--_The Dublin -University Magazine_, _The Nation_, and _The Dublin Penny Journal_. -There is no complete edition of his works. - -As to the second, ‘Dark Rosaleen,’ is, of course, a mystical name for -Ireland. - - -CLXXIII-CLXXIV - -_Songs, Poems, and Verses_ (John Murray, 1884). By permission of the -Marquess of Dufferin and Ava. The second is dated 1845. - - -CLXXV-CLXXVI - -_Dublin University Magazine_ (1834). As to the first, Fiagh MacHugh -O’Byrne, one of the most powerful Irish chieftains in the sixteenth -century, was killed in a skirmish with the forces of the Lord Deputy -(1597). _Gall_ (l. 17)=‘foreigners.’ - -The second is the first two stanzas of a very close translation, in the -original metre, of an Irish song of unknown authorship, dating from -the seventeenth century. The refrain has never been satisfactorily -translated. - - -CLXXVII-CLXXVIII - -_The Poems of Thomas Davis, now first collected_ (Dublin: James Duffy, -1846). These poems made their first appearance in _The Nation_. - -The second is a ‘Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh O’Neill,’ -commonly called Owen Roe O’Neill (1590?-1649), patriot and general, who -led the Irish against the Scotch and Parliamentary forces in Ireland -(1642-1649). - -The Author’s Note is as follows:--‘_Time._--November 10, 1649. -_Scene._--Ormond’s camp, county Waterford. _Speakers._--A veteran of -Eoghan O’Neill’s clan, and one of the horsemen, just arrived with an -account of his death.’ - - l. 2. _Poison._ There is no truth in the assertion that O’Neill - was poisoned. He died a natural death. - - 7. SACSANACH. Saxon, English. - - 8. _Cloc Uachtar._ Clough Oughter, in county Cavan, where the - O’Reillys had a stronghold. - - 19. _Beinn Burb._ Benburb, on the Blackwater, where O’Neill - defeated the Scotch army under Monro (June 5, 1646). - - -CLXXIX - -_Innisfail and Other Poems_ (Macmillan & Co., 1877), and _Poetical -Works_, six vols. (Macmillan & Co., 1884). By permission of author and -publishers. - -‘The Little Black Rose’ (l. 1) and ‘The Silk of the Kine’ (l. 5) were -mystical names applied to Ireland by the bards. Athenry (l. 12), in -county Galway, was the scene of a battle in which the Irish under Felim -O’Conor were defeated by the English forces under Sir William de Burgh -(1316). - - -CLXXX-CLXXXI - -The first appeared in _The Nation_, 1st April 1843, and both are -included in _Sonnets and Other Poems_ (A. & C. Black, 1900). By -permission of author and publishers. - - -CLXXXII-CLXXXIII - -_Bards of the Gael and Gall_ (T. Fisher Unwin, 1897). By permission of -author and publisher. Both are translations from Irish poems of the -seventeenth century. - -As to the first,--O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone, and O’Donnell, Earl of -Tyrconnell, hearing that the Government had determined to seize them on -a charge of conspiracy, apparently groundless, suddenly left Ireland, -sailing from Rathmullan, on Lough Foyle, to France (1607). Their -estates were confiscated, and ‘The Plantation of Ulster’ began. - - -CLXXXIV - -From _Dublin Verses_ (Elkin Mathews, 1895)--a collection of poems -by members of Trinity College, Dublin. By permission of author and -publisher. - - -CLXXXV - -_Macmillan’s Magazine_ (September, 1900). By permission of the author -and the editor of _Macmillan’s Magazine_. - - -CLXXXVI - -_The Rising of the Moon and Other Poems_ (1869). By permission of -Messrs. Cameron & Ferguson, the present publishers. - - l. 2. _ma bouchal._ My boy. - - 11. _banshee._ The fairy spirit of doom (Irish, _ban-sidhe_). - - -CLXXXVII - -_Poems and Ballads of Young Ireland_ (Dublin: Gill & Son, 1888). -By permission of the author. Clonmacnois, founded by St. Kieran in -the sixth century, was for many generations one of the greatest -ecclesiastical establishments and centres of learning in Ireland. It -was the chosen burial-place of many royal and noble families. - - -CLXXXVIII - -_The Wind in the Trees_ (Grant Richards, 1898). By permission of the -author. - - -CLXXXIX - -_Poems_ (Elkin Mathews, 1895). By permission of author and publisher. - -l. 2. _Inisfail_ (_i.e._ ‘The Isle of Destiny’), an ancient name of -Ireland. - - -V.--CANADA - - -CXC - -_Poems_ (Toronto: Dudley & Burns, 1888). By permission of the author. -The Nile Expeditionary Force for the relief of General Gordon was -conveyed up the river in flat-bottomed boats navigated by Canadian -Indians (_voyageurs_). - - -CXCI - -_Lays of Canada_ (Montreal: John Lovell & Son, 1890). By permission of -the author. - - -CXCII - -_Laura Second and Other Poems_ (Toronto, 1887). By permission of the -author’s representatives. - - -CXCII - -_A Treasury of Canadian Verse_ (J. M. Dent & Co., 1900). By permission -of the author’s representatives. - - -CXCIV - -_Toronto Daily Mail_ (July 23, 1885). By permission of the author. The -call for volunteers was occasioned by the ‘Half-Breed Rebellion’ in -North-West Canada (1884-5). - - -CXCV - -Published separately (McCorquodale & Co., 1900), and sold for the -benefit of the Canadian Patriotic Fund. By permission of the author. - - -CXCVI - -_In Divers Tones_ (Boston: Small, Maynard & Co., 1887). By permission -of the author. - - -CXCVII-CXCVIII - -_Beyond the Hills of Dream_ (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1899). By -permission of author and publishers. The first had previously appeared -in _The Westminster Gazette_ (August, 1897), and the second in _The -Toronto Globe_ (Christmas Number, 1899). - - -CXCIX-CC - -The first is from _Poems Old and New_ (Toronto: William Briggs, 1900), -and the second from _The Soul’s Quest and Other Poems_ (London: Kegan -Paul & Co., 1888). By permission of the author. - - -CCI - -_Canadian Monthly_ (August, 1897). By permission of the author. - - -CCII - -_Watchers of Twilight_ (Montreal: T. H. Warren, 1894). By permission of -the author. Line 2 is a quotation from William Watson’s _Last Words to -the Colonies_. - - -CCIII - -_In Various Moods_ (Toronto: William Briggs, 1894). By permission of -the author. - - -VI.--INDIA - - -CCIV - -_Miscellaneous Verses_ (Calcutta: Sanders, Cones & Co., 1848). - -_Gunga_ (l. 49)=the Ganges. - - -CCV - -_Cornhill Magazine_ (September, 1868), and _Verses Written in India_ -(Kegan Paul & Co., 1889). By permission of author and publishers. - -The massacre which suggested this poem took place near Mohundi, in Oudh -(June, 1857). The lives of all the English prisoners would have been -spared had they consented to profess Mahometanism by repeating the -usual short formula. - - -CCVI-CCVIII - -_Indian Lyrics_ (Calcutta: Thacker, Spink & Co., 1884). By permission -of the author. - -The Author’s Note on the second is as follows:--‘Over the well rises a -pedestal supporting a statue in white marble--the Angel of Pity. Below -is the inscription: _Sacred to the perpetual memory of a great company -of Christian people, chiefly women and children, who near this spot -were cruelly massacred by the followers of the rebel Nana Dhoondoo -Punth of Bithoor; and cast, the dying with the dead, into the well -below, on the 15th day of July 1857._’ - -As to the third,-- - - l. 7. _peepuls._ The peepul (or pepul) tree. - - 8. _poinsianas._ The _poinciana regia_, a flowering shrub - introduced from Madagascar. - - -CCIX-CCXI - -All three appeared first in _The Times of India_, and are included in -_Soldierin’_ (Bombay: Indian Textile Journal Co., 1899). By permission -of author and publishers. - -As to the second,--l. 28. _sangared._ Sangars are temporary stone -shelters for riflemen. - -As to the third,--During the operations in Tirah (1897) the pass of -Saransar (or Saran Sur) was the retreat of the hillmen known as the -Lakka Khels. On November 9, a reconnaissance in force was made up the -pass. The firing from the heights was deadly and continuous, and, in -the evening, when our troops were retreating down the pass, a small -party of the 48th (Northamptonshire Regiment) under Second Lieutenant -Macintyre and Colour-Sergeant Luck, were cut off and surrounded by the -enemy. It was found impossible to save them, and the following morning -their dead bodies were found together. - -l. 9. _Talavera._ The 48th are known as ‘The Talavera Boys,’ having -distinguished themselves at the battle of Talavera, in the Peninsular -War (July 27 and 28, 1809). - - -CCXII - -_Departmental Ditties_ (Calcutta: Thacker, Spink & Co., 1886. London: -George Newnes, Ltd., 1899). By permission of the author and Messrs. -George Newnes, Limited. ‘The Galley-Slave’ is understood to be a -mystical name for the Indian Civil Servant. - - -VII.--SOUTH AFRICA - - -CCXIII - -_Ephemerides_ (London: 1828). - - -CCXIV - -By permission of the author and the editor of _Literature_, in which -publication (December 9, 1899) the poem first appeared. - - -CCXV - -Published in G. W. Steevens’ posthumous volume, _Things Seen: with -Memoir by W. E. Henley_ (Blackwood, 1900). By permission of the author. -The quatrain is inscribed ‘G. W. S., December 10, 1869--January 15, -1900.’ The lines were written of G. W. Steevens, journalist and war -correspondent, who died at Ladysmith during the siege. - - -CCXVI - -_England Revisited_ (Cape Town: J. C. Juta & Co., 1900). By permission -of the author. - - -CCXVII - -_Cape Argus_ (May 6, 1901). By permission of the author and the editor -of the _Cape Argus_. - - -CCXVIII - -_Natal: The Land and its Story_ (Pietermaritzburg: Davis & Sons, Fifth -Edition, 1897). By permission of the author. - -l. 1. _Congella._ Hostilities having begun in Natal (1842), Captain -Smith led the English forces out of Durban for a night attack on -Pretorius’ position at Congella. It was a moonlight night, and the -advance was observed. Our men were shot down as they marched along the -shore without cover. The survivors retreated to Durban, and the Boers -immediately invested the town. A despatch-rider having made his way -through the Boer lines, reinforcements were sent by sea, and the siege -was raised (June 25, 1842). Natal was annexed the following year, and -the Boer was thus headed off from the sea. - - -VIII.--AUSTRALIA - - -CCXIX - -From _Dampier’s Dream: an Australian Foreshadowing_ (Melbourne: George -Robertson & Co., 1892). By permission of the author’s representatives. - -William Dampier (1652-1715), pirate, circumnavigator, and captain in -the navy, made several voyages to the South Seas. - - -CCXX - -_Poems_ (Melbourne: A. H. Massina & Co., 1884). By permission of the -publishers. - - -CCXXI - -From _Australia Federata_ (_The Times_, January 1, 1901). This poem -appeared the same day in the leading journals of all the States of the -Commonwealth of Australia. By permission of Sir Horace Tozer, K.C.M.G., -Agent-General for Queensland. - - -CCXXII - -First published in a Tasmanian newspaper. By permission of the author. - - -CCXXIII - -_In the Days when the World was Wide_ (Sydney: Angus & Robertson. -London: The Australian Book Co., 1895). By permission of Messrs. Angus -& Robertson. - -_Jackeroo_ (l. 24). - - -CCXXIV - -_Literature_ (November 11, 1899). By permission of the author and the -editor of _Literature_. - - -CCXXV - -_Maoriland and other Verses_ (Sydney: The Bulletin Newspaper Co., -1899). By permission of the publishers. - -l. 2. _tussock._ ‘Tussock’ is a coarse grass. - - -CCXXVI - -_Fair Girls and Grey Horses_ (Sydney: The Bulletin Newspaper Co., -1899). By permission of the publishers. This poem first appeared in the -Sydney _Bulletin_. - -l. 9. _Macquarie._ The river Macquarie rises in the Blue Mountains, -eighty miles west of Sydney. After following a north-westerly course of -280 miles its waters are lost in the Macquarie marshes. - - -CCXXVII - -First appeared in _The Brisbane Courier_ (August 8, 1899). - - -CCXXVIII-CCXXIX - -The first appeared in _Songs of the South_ (Ward, Lock & Co., -1891), and the second is an extract from _The Commonwealth: an Ode_ -(_Melbourne Age_, January 1901). By permission of the author. - -As to the first,--Matthew Flinders (1774-1814), discoverer and captain -in the navy, was one of the first surveyors of the east coast of -Australia. He spent many years in exploring the country adjacent to the -coast. - - -IX.--NEW ZEALAND - - -CCXXX - -_Musings in Maoriland_ (Sydney: Arthur T. Keirle & Co., 1890). By -permission of the publishers. - - -CCXXXI - -First published in the Dunedin _Saturday Advertiser_ (June 22, 1878), -and included in _Far South Fancies_ (Griffith, Farran & Co., 1889). By -permission of the author. - -l. 15. _Parakeets’._ The parakeet resembles a parrot in appearance, and -is one of the native birds of New Zealand. - -16. _Tui’s._ The tui is a mocking-bird, and has two tufts of white -feathers on its neck, the rest of its plumage being jet black. It is -commonly called the ‘Parson Bird,’ from its supposed resemblance to a -clergyman in a white tie. - - -CCXXXII-CCXXXIII - -The first is from _Songs of the Singing Shepherd_ (Wanganui, New -Zealand: A. D. Willis, 1885), and the second from _The Pilgrim of -Eternity_ (Wanganui: Wanganui Herald Co., 1892). By permission of the -author. - -As to the second,--_Cooee_ (l. 1). The signal-call of the aborigines of -New Zealand (‘cooee’ or ‘cooey’) can be heard at a great distance. - - - - -INDEX OF FIRST LINES - - - PAGE - - Across the streaming flood, the deep ravine 286 - - After dead centuries 168 - - Agincourt, Agincourt 3 - - Ah, now we know the long delay 297 - - Amid the loud ebriety of War 96 - - An effigy of brass 133 - - A perfect peaceful stillness reigns 316 - - A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer 225 - - Are you not weary in your distant places 196 - - Arvon’s heights hide the bright sun from our gazing 171 - - A terrible and splendid trust 239 - - Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England’s praise 74 - - Attend you, and give ear awhile 21 - - Away with bayonet and with lance 63 - - A wee bird cam’ to our ha’ door 205 - - A wonderful joy our eyes to bless 122 - - - Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying 196 - - Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa’ 198 - - Breathes there the man, with soul so dead 183 - - Britain fought her sons of yore 85 - - By crag and lonely moor she stands 254 - - By the Boer lines at Congella 288 - - By this, though deep the evening fell 183 - - - Cam’ ye by Athol, lad wi’ the philabeg 199 - - Come, all ye jolly sailors bold 44 - - Come, cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer 35 - - Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound 31 - - Come, my hearties--work will stand 302 - - _Cooee!_ I send my voice 318 - - Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 17 - - Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 24 - - - Daddy Neptune one day to Freedom did say 55 - - Dear Cymru, ’mid thy mountains soaring high 173 - - Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee 216 - - Despond who will--_I_ heard a voice exclaim 51 - - Did they dare, did they dare to slay Owen Roe O’Neill 227 - - Does haughty Gaul invasion threat 181 - - Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand mile away 149 - - Drake’s luck to all that sail with Drake 150 - - - Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake 147 - - England, awake! awake! awake 45 - - England, England, England 252 - - England, queen of the waves, whose green inviolate girdle - enrings thee round 125 - - Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes 215 - - - Fair stood the wind for France 5 - - Fareweel to Lochaber, fareweel to my Jean 177 - - Far up among the forest-belted mountains 285 - - Fierce on this bastion beats the noon-day sun 258 - - First pledge our Queen this solemn night 84 - - Forests that beard the avalanche 121 - - Frae the friends and land I love 202 - - Free as the wind that leaps from out the North 139 - - From domes and palaces I bent my way 272 - - - Glyndwr, see thy comet flaming 167 - - God be with the Irish host 224 - - God of Nations! at Thy feet 315 - - God of our fathers, known of old 154 - - God save our Lord, the King 34 - - Green fields of England! wheresoe’er 93 - - Green Flodden! on thy bloodstained head 190 - - Growing to full manhood now 258 - - - Half a league, half a league 87 - - Harp of the mountain-land! sound forth again 166 - - Have done with care, my hearts! aboard amain 4 - - Heard ye the thunder of battle 104 - - He left his island home 308 - - Her court was pure; her life serene 83 - - Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling 39 - - Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more 46 - - Here’s a health to the King and a lasting peace 34 - - Here’s a health unto His Majesty 31 - - How great the loss is thy loss to me 233 - - ‘How many?’ said our good captain 108 - - How sleep the brave who sink to rest 36 - - - I know ’tis but a loom of land 117 - - I may sit in my wee croo house 200 - - I’m lonesome since I cross’d the hill 43 - - I’m sitting on the stile, Mary 222 - - In all my wanderings round this world of care 211 - - In a quiet-water’d land, a land of roses 236 - - In the greyness of the dawning we have seen the pilot-star 307 - - In the Highlands, in the country places 195 - - In the ranks of the Austrian you found him 80 - - I remember the lowering wintry morn 295 - - I send to you 317 - - It is not to be thought of that the flood 47 - - It’s hame, an’ it’s hame, hame fain wad I be 193 - - It was a’ for our rightfu’ king 203 - - It wasna from a golden throne 207 - - I’ve heard the lark’s cry thrill the sky o’er the meadows of - Lusk 234 - - I’ve heard the liltin’ at our ewe-milkin’ 177 - - - Jack dances and sings, and is always content 40 - - - King Philip had vaunted his claims 132 - - - Last night, among his fellow roughs 90 - - Lest it be said 260 - - Let rogues and cheats prognosticate 30 - - Listen! my brothers of Eton and Harrow 157 - - Lo, how they come to me 155 - - Lo, our land this night is lone 231 - - Lo, ’tis the light of the morn 309 - - Lying here awake, I hear the watchman’s warning 100 - - - March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale 186 - - Men of England! who inherit 62 - - Men of the Hills and men of the Plains, men of the Isles and - Sea 276 - - Methinks already from this chymic flame 32 - - My England, island England, such leagues and leagues away 141 - - My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here 180 - - My name, d’ye see, ’s Tom Tough, I’ve seed a little sarvice 41 - - - New Year, be good to England. Bid her name 129 - - Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-West died away 92 - - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 69 - - Not ’mid the thunder of the battle guns 299 - - Not tasselled palm or bended cypress wooing 233 - - Now all the youth of England are on fire 12 - - - O, Bay of Dublin! how my heart you’re troublin’ 222 - - Oh! Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling 204 - - O Child of Nations, giant-limbed 250 - - O England, thou hast many a precious dower 99 - - Of Nelson and the North 60 - - Of old sat Freedom on the heights 82 - - Oft in the pleasant summer years 268 - - O gallant was our galley from her carven steering-wheel 280 - - O! he was lang o’ comin’ 199 - - O how comely it is, and how reviving 24 - - O, Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie 202 - - O land of Druid and of Bard 165 - - O! my dark Rosaleen 219 - - Once more upon the waters! yet once more 64 - - ‘On with the charge!’ he cries, and waves his sword 244 - - O, Paddy dear! an’ did ye hear the news that’s goin’ round 211 - - O, the East is but West, with the sun a little hotter 243 - - O, then, tell me, Shawn O’Ferrall, tell me why you hurry so 235 - - O, the red rose may be fair 237 - - O, to be in England 91 - - O, ’twas merry down to Looe when the news was carried through 118 - - O undistinguished Dead 133 - - Our second Richard Lion-Heart 113 - - O, where, Kincora! is Brien the Great 218 - - O, where’s the slave so lowly 214 - - O where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone 178 - - O! why left I my hame 194 - - O ye, who with your blood and sweat 246 - - - Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 185 - - - Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchingly 131 - - Remember the glories of Brien the brave 213 - - Ruin seize thee, ruthless King 161 - - - Sang one of England in his island home 262 - - Say not the struggle naught availeth 94 - - Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled 180 - - See, see where Royal Snowdon rears 172 - - She is a rich and rare land 226 - - She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps 215 - - She stands alone: ally nor friend has she 124 - - She stands, a thousand wintered tree 143 - - Shy bird of the silver arrows of song 247 - - Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules 42 - - Son of the Ocean Isle 72 - - Sons in my gates of the West 136 - - Speak gently, gently tread 273 - - Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing 207 - - Steep is the soldier’s path; nor are the heights 58 - - Still stand thy ruins ’neath the Indian sky 275 - - Sun-showered land! largess of golden light 286 - - Sye, do yer ’ear thet bugle callin’ 147 - - - The Campbells are comin’, O-ho, O-ho 193 - - The camp-fire gleams resistance 305 - - The cool and pleasant days are past 274 - - The feast is spread through England 112 - - The fifteenth day of July 18 - - The forward youth that would appear 25 - - The harp that once through Tara’s halls 213 - - Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon 182 - - The Isle of Roses in her Lindian shrine 103 - - The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece 65 - - The Little Black Rose shall be red at last 229 - - The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone 212 - - The news frae Moidart cam’ yestreen 205 - - There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth - and pride 300 - - There’s a land, a dear land, where the rights of the free 92 - - There was a sound of revelry by night 67 - - There was heard the sound of a coming foe 71 - - The seaman slept--all nature sleeps; a sacred stillness - there 293 - - The waves are dashing proudly down 267 - - The weary day rins down and dies 126 - - They called Thee MERRY ENGLAND in old time 50 - - They lie unwatched, in waste and vacant places 303 - - They say that ‘war is hell,’ the ‘great accursed’ 109 - - This England never did, nor never shall 11 - - This royal throne of kings, this sceptr’d isle 11 - - Thy voice is heard through rolling drums 83 - - To-day the people gather from the streets 120 - - To horse! to horse! the standard flies 189 - - Toll for the Brave 38 - - To mute and to material things 51 - - To my true king I offered free from stain 77 - - To Thee, our God, we fly 99 - - To the Lords of Convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke 187 - - Truth, winged and enkindled with rapture 129 - - - Unhappy Erin, what a lot was thine 231 - - - Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent 48 - - - War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil 248 - - We cheered you forth--brilliant and kind and brave 286 - - We come from tower and grange 134 - - We come in arms, we stand ten score 97 - - Welcome, wild North-easter 94 - - ‘Well done!’ The cry goes ringing round the world 287 - - We’ll o’er the water, we’ll o’er the sea 201 - - What are the bugles saying 278 - - Whate’er of woe the Dark may hide in womb 123 - - What have I done for you 137 - - What of the bow 143 - - When Britain first at Heaven’s command 33 - - When I have borne in memory what has tamed 47 - - When the British warrior queen 36 - - Where Foyle her swelling waters 216 - - Where the remote Bermudas ride 28 - - Who ’as ’eard the Ram a callin’ on the green fields o’ the sea 141 - - Who carries the gun 144 - - Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight 229 - - Who is he that cometh, like an honour’d guest 85 - - Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 48 - - ‘Who’ll serve the King?’ cried the sergeant aloud 57 - - Whom for thy race of heroes wilt thou own 78 - - Who to the murmurs of an earthly string 50 - - Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? We have made them - a curse 89 - - Why is it that ye grieve, O weak in faith 249 - - Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day 166 - - Wide are the plains to the north and the westward 262 - - Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro 150 - - - Ye Mariners of England 59 - - Yes, let us own it in confession free 78 - - You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease 81 - - You brave heroic minds 8 - - - Printed by BALLANTINE, HANSON & CO. - Edinburgh & London - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -As this is a collection of poems written by many different people, -variations in punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were not changed, -although simple typographical errors were corrected. - -Index not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page references. - -Page xii: “like an individual” was printed as “like an admiral”, but -has been changed in accordance with the Erratum on page xiii. - -In the Contents, the lifespan dates for several poets were omitted. - -The book printed the names of the Poets at the top of each page; in this -eBook, their names precede their first poem. - -Accent marks have been retained, even though other books do not -necessarily use them in the same poems. One example of this may be -found on page 13, in the ninth line of “King Harry To His Soldiers”: -“aspèct”. - -Page 78: “who saw me tried too sorely” was misprinted as “tired”. - -Page 186: The verse “Knell for the onset!” was printed unindented, but -the pattern of the poem suggests that it should be indented, and other -books do indent it. - -Page 261: “I bid thee, Hail!” was misprinted as “the”. - -The hyphenation in some Index entries was changed to match the -referenced pages. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Patriotic Song, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PATRIOTIC SONG *** - -***** This file should be named 52133-0.txt or 52133-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/1/3/52133/ - -Produced by Brian Coe, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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