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,[2]
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,[3]
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar'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 flag-staff 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 the 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
deathlike 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 farthest 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 the
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 of Skiddaw roused the burghers
of Carlisle.
Macaulay
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Alderney.
[3] Cressy.
DEPARTURE AND DEATH OF NELSON
Nelson, having despatched his business at Portsmouth, endeavoured to
elude the populace by taking a by-way to the beach, but a crowd
collected in his train, pressing forward to obtain a sight of his face:
many were in tears, and many knelt down before him and blessed him as he
passed. England has had many heroes, but never one who so entirely
possessed the love of his fellow-countrymen as Nelson. All men knew that
his heart was as humane as it was fearless; that there was not in his
nature the slightest alloy of selfishness or cupidity; but that, with
perfect and entire devotion, he served his country with all his heart,
and with all his soul, and with all his strength; and therefore, they
loved him as truly and as fervently as he loved England. They pressed
upon the parapet to gaze after him when his barge pushed off, and he
returned their cheers by waving his hat. The sentinels, who endeavoured
to prevent them from trespassing upon this ground, were wedged among the
crowd; and an officer who, not very prudently upon such an occasion,
ordered them to drive the people down with their bayonets, was compelled
speedily to retreat; for the people would not be debarred from gazing
till the last moment upon the hero--the darling hero of England!
It had been part of Nelson's prayer, that the British fleet might be
distinguished by humanity in the victory which he expected. Setting an
example himself, he twice gave orders to cease firing on the
Redoubtable, supposing that she had struck, because her guns were
silent; for, as she carried no flag, there was no means of instantly
ascertaining the fact. From this ship, which he had thus twice spared,
he received his death. A ball fired from her mizzen-top, which, in the
then situation of the two vessels, was not more than fifteen yards from
that part of the deck where he was standing, struck the epaulet on his
left shoulder, about a quarter after one, just in the heat of action. He
fell upon his face, on the spot which was covered with his poor
secretary's blood. Hardy, who was a few steps from him, turning round,
saw three men raising him up. "They have done for me at last, Hardy,"
said he. "I hope not," cried Hardy. "Yes," he replied, "my backbone is
shot through." Yet even now, not for a moment losing his presence of
mind, he observed, as they were carrying him down the ladder, that the
tiller ropes, which had been shot away, were not yet replaced, and
ordered that new ones should be rove immediately: then, that he might
not be seen by the crew, he took out his handkerchief, and covered his
face and his stars. Had he but concealed these badges of honour from the
enemy, England, perhaps, would not have had cause to receive with sorrow
the news of the battle of Trafalgar.
The cockpit was crowded with wounded and dying men, over whose bodies he
was with some difficulty conveyed, and laid upon a pallet in the
midshipmen's berth. It was soon perceived, upon examination, that the
wound was mortal. This, however, was concealed from all except Captain
Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical attendants. He himself being
certain, from the sensation in his back and the gush of blood he felt
momently within his breast, that no human care could avail him, insisted
that the surgeon should leave him and attend to those to whom he might
be useful; "for," said he, "you can do nothing for me." All that could
be done was to fan him with paper, and frequently to give him lemonade
to alleviate his intense thirst.
He was in great pain, and expressed much anxiety for the event of the
action, which now began to declare itself. As often as a ship struck,
the crew of the Victory hurrahed; and at each hurrah, a visible
expression of joy gleamed in the eyes and marked the countenance of the
dying hero. But he became impatient to see Hardy; and as that officer,
though often sent for, could not leave the deck, Nelson feared that some
fatal cause prevented him, and repeatedly cried, "Will no one bring
Hardy to me? He must be killed! He is surely dead!"
An hour and ten minutes elapsed from the time when Nelson received his
wound, before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in silence,
Hardy in vain struggling to suppress the feelings of that most painful
and yet sublime moment. "Well, Hardy," said Nelson, "how goes the day
with us?" "Very well," replied Hardy: "ten ships have struck, but five
of the van have tacked and show an intention to bear down upon the
Victory. I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have
no doubt of giving them a drubbing." "I hope," said Nelson, "none of our
ships have struck." Hardy answered, "There is no fear of that." Then,
and not till then, Nelson spoke of himself. "I am a dead man, Hardy,"
said he; "I am going fast; it will be all over with me soon." Hardy
observed that he hoped Mr. Beatty could yet hold out some prospect of
life. "Oh, no," he replied; "it is impossible. My back is shot through.
Beatty will tell you so." Hardy then once more shook hands with him,
and, with a heart almost bursting, hastened upon deck.
By this time all feeling below the breast was gone, and Nelson, having
made the surgeon ascertain this, said to him: "You know I am gone. I
know it. I feel something rising in my breast," putting his hand on his
left side, "which tells me so." And upon Beatty's inquiring whether his
pain was very great, he replied, it was so great that he wished he was
dead. "Yet," he added in a lower voice, "one would like to live a little
longer, too!"
Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he had left the cockpit,
returned, and again taking the hand of his dying friend and commander,
congratulated him on having gained a complete victory. How many of the
enemy were taken he did not know, as it was impossible to perceive them
distinctly, but fourteen or fifteen at least. "That's well," said
Nelson; "but I bargained for twenty." And then, in a stronger voice, he
said, "Anchor, Hardy, anchor." Hardy, thereupon, hinted that Admiral
Collingwood would take upon himself the direction of affairs. "Not while
I live, Hardy," said the dying Nelson, ineffectually endeavouring to
raise himself from the bed: "do you anchor." His previous orders for
preparing to anchor had shown how clearly he foresaw the necessity for
this.
Presently calling Hardy back, he said to him in a low voice, "Don't
throw me overboard:" and he desired that he might be buried beside his
parents, unless it should please the king to order otherwise. Then
reverting to private feelings,--"Kiss me, Hardy," said he. Hardy knelt
down and kissed his cheek; and Nelson said, "Now I am satisfied. Thank
God, I have done my duty!" Hardy stood over him in silence for a moment
or two, then knelt again and kissed his forehead. "Who is that?" said
Nelson; and being informed, he replied, "God bless you, Hardy." And
Hardy then left him for ever.
Nelson now desired to be turned upon his right side, and said, "I wish I
had not left the deck, for I shall soon be gone." Death was, indeed,
rapidly approaching. His articulation now became difficult, but he was
distinctly heard to say, "Thank God, I have done my duty!" These words
he repeatedly pronounced, and they were the last words which he uttered.
He expired at thirty minutes after four, three hours and a quarter after
he had received his wound.
The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more than a public
calamity: men started at the intelligence and turned pale, as if they
had heard of the loss of a near friend. An object of our admiration and
affection, of our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us;
and it seemed as if we had never till then known how deeply we loved and
reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero--the
greatest of our own and of all former times--was scarcely taken into the
account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part, that
the maritime war, after the battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an
end. The fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated--they were
destroyed: new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen reared for
them, before the possibility of their invading our shores could again
be contemplated. It was not, therefore, from any selfish reflection upon
the magnitude of our loss that we mourned for him; the general sorrow
was of a higher character.
The people of England grieved that the funeral ceremonies, and public
monuments, and posthumous rewards, were all that they could now bestow
upon him whom the king, the legislature and the nation would have alike
delighted to honour; whom every tongue would have blessed; whose
presence in every village through which he might have passed would have
awakened the church bells, have given school-boys a holiday, have drawn
children from their sports to gaze upon him, and "old men from the
chimney-corner" to look upon Nelson ere they died.
The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the usual forms of
rejoicing, but they were without joy; for such already was the glory of
the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing genius, that it scarcely
seemed to receive any addition from the most signal victory that ever
was achieved upon the seas. The destruction of this mighty fleet, by
which all the maritime schemes of France were totally frustrated, hardly
appeared to add to our security and strength; for while Nelson was
living to watch the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves
as secure as now, when they were no longer in existence.
There was reason to suppose, from the appearances upon opening his body,
that in the course of nature he might have attained, like his father, to
a good old age. Yet he cannot be said to have fallen prematurely whose
work was done; nor ought he to be lamented who died so full of honours,
and at the height of human fame. The most triumphant death is that of
the martyr; the most awful, that of the martyred patriot; the most
splendid, that of the hero in the hour of victory; and if the chariot
and the horses of fire had been vouchsafed for Nelson's translation, he
could scarcely have departed in a brighter blaze of glory. He has left
us, not indeed a mantle of inspiration, but a name and an example which
are at this moment inspiring thousands of the youth of England--a name
which is our pride, and an example which will continue to be our shield
and strength. Thus it is that spirits of the great and the wise continue
to live and to act after them.
Southey
England expects that every man will do his duty.
Nelson
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 "Cameron's 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!
Byron: "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
Show me the man you honour; I know by that symptom better than by any
other, what kind of a man you are yourself; for you show me what your
ideal of manhood is, what kind of a man you long to be.
Carlyle
[Illustration: WATERING THE HORSES]
ODE WRITTEN IN 1746
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 hallowed 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 gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
William Collins
To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev'ry wile
That's justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train attendant,
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.
Burns
BALAKLAVA
The cavalry who have been pursuing the Turks on the right are coming up
to the ridge beneath us, which conceals our cavalry from view. The heavy
brigade in advance is drawn up in two lines. The light cavalry brigade
is on their left, in two lines also. The silence is oppressive: between
the cannon bursts one can hear the champing of bits and the clink of
sabres in the valley below.
The Russians on their left drew breath for a moment and then in one
grand line dashed at the Highlanders. The ground flies beneath their
horses' feet. Gathering speed at every stride they dash on towards that
thin red streak topped with a line of steel. The Turks fire a volley at
eight hundred yards and run. As the Russians come within six hundred
yards, down goes that line of steel in front, and out rings a rolling
volley of Minié musketry. The distance is too great: the Russians are
not checked, but still sweep onward through the smoke with the whole
force of horse and man, here and there knocked over by the shot of our
batteries above. With breathless suspense everyone awaits the bursting
of the wave upon the line of Gaelic rock, but ere they come within a
hundred and fifty yards another deadly volley flashes from the levelled
rifles and carries death and terror into the Russians. They wheel about,
open files right and left, and fly back faster than they came. "Bravo,
Highlanders! well done!" shout the excited spectators.
But events thicken. The Highlanders and their splendid front are soon
forgotten; men scarcely have a moment to think of this fact, that they
never altered their formation to receive that tide of horsemen. "No,"
said Sir Colin Campbell, "I did not think it worth while to form them
even four deep!" The ordinary British line, two deep, was quite
sufficient to repel the attack of these Muscovite cavaliers.
Our eyes were, however, turned in a moment on our own cavalry. We saw
Brigadier-General Scarlett ride along in front of his massive squadrons.
The Russians, evidently _corps d'élite_, their light blue jackets
embroidered with silver lace, were advancing on their left at an easy
gallop towards the brow of the hill. A forest of lances glistened in
their rear, and several squadrons of gray-coated dragoons moved up
quickly to support them as they reached the summit. The instant they
came in sight the trumpets of our cavalry gave out the warning blast
which told us all that in another moment we should see the shock of
battle beneath our very eyes. Lord Raglan, all his staff and escort and
groups of officers, the Zouaves, French generals and officers, and
bodies of French infantry on the height were spectators of the scene as
though they were looking on the stage from the boxes of a theatre.
Nearly every one dismounted and sat down, and not a word was said.
The Russians advanced down the hill at a slow canter, which they changed
to a trot, and at last nearly halted. Their first line was at least
double the length of ours--it was three times as deep. Behind them was a
similar line equally strong and compact. They evidently despised their
insignificant-looking enemy: but their time was come. The trumpets rang
out again through the valley, and the Greys and the Enniskilleners went
right at the centre of the Russian cavalry. The space between them was
only a few hundred yards; it was scarcely enough to let the horses
"gather way," nor had the men quite space sufficient for the full play
of their sword-arms.
The Russian line brings forward each wing as our cavalry advance, and
threatens to annihilate them as they pass on. Turning a little to their
left so as to meet the Russian right the Greys rush on with a cheer that
thrills to every heart--the wild shout of the Enniskilleners rises
through the air at the same instant. As lightning flashes through a
cloud the Greys and Enniskilleners pierced through the dark masses of
Russians. The shock was but for a moment. There was a clash of steel and
a light play of sword-blades in the air, and then the Greys and the
Red-coats disappear in the midst of the shaken and quivering columns. In
another moment we see them emerging and dashing on with diminished
numbers and in broken order against the second line, which is advancing
against them as fast as it can to retrieve the fortune of the charge. It
was a terrible moment. "God help them! they are lost!" was the
exclamation of more than one man and the thought of many.