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!