Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face;Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace;Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch belowThe foaming wake far widening as we go.On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave,How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!The dripping sailor on the reeling mastExults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.Arthur Hugh Clough.
Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face;Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace;Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch belowThe foaming wake far widening as we go.
On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave,How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!The dripping sailor on the reeling mastExults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.
Where lies the land to which the ship would go?Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.And where the land she travels from? Away,Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
Arthur Hugh Clough.
"Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam?His first, best country ever is at home."
"Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam?His first, best country ever is at home."
This is the proud claim of Goldsmith's "Traveller," and the same passionate loyalty to the soil inspires all these poems of Fatherland. The Scotsman's heart is in the Highlands, the birthplace of valor, the country of worth; the English warrior boasts of his country:
"And o'er one-sixth of all the earth, and over all the main,Like some good Fairy, Freedom marks and blesses her domain;"
"And o'er one-sixth of all the earth, and over all the main,Like some good Fairy, Freedom marks and blesses her domain;"
the Irish Minstrel-boy tears the chords of his faithful harp asunder lest they sound in the service of the foe, while the quick, alarming Yankee drum in Bret Harte's "Reveille" calls upon each freeman to defend the land of the pilgrim's pride, land where his fathers died.
Religion, war, and glory were the three souls of a perfect Christian knight, says Lamartine, and if Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, summon us to the field,
"Our business is like men to fightAnd hero-like to die."
"Our business is like men to fightAnd hero-like to die."
In Kipling's "Recessional" and Lowell's "Fatherland" we hear a note as valiant, but more spiritual. The one makes us remember that
"The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart—Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart."
"The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart—Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart."
The other leads us to still higher levels of thought, reminding us that wherever a single soul doth pine, or one man may help another, that spot of earth is thine and mine—that is the world-wide fatherland.
But where to find the happiest spot below,Who can direct, when all pretend to know?The shuddering tenant of the frigid zoneBoldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,And his long nights of revelry and ease;The naked negro, panting at the line,Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,And thanks his gods for all the goods they gave.Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,His first, best country ever is at home.And yet perhaps, if countries we compare,And estimate the blessings which they share,Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom findAn equal portion dealt to all mankind;As different good, by art or nature given,To different nations makes their blessings even.Oliver Goldsmith.From "The Traveller."
But where to find the happiest spot below,Who can direct, when all pretend to know?The shuddering tenant of the frigid zoneBoldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,And his long nights of revelry and ease;The naked negro, panting at the line,Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,And thanks his gods for all the goods they gave.Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,His first, best country ever is at home.And yet perhaps, if countries we compare,And estimate the blessings which they share,Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom findAn equal portion dealt to all mankind;As different good, by art or nature given,To different nations makes their blessings even.
Oliver Goldsmith.
From "The Traveller."
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!For him no minstrel's 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 downTo the vile dust from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.Sir Walter Scott.From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel."
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!For him no minstrel's 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 downTo the vile dust from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
Sir Walter Scott.
From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel."
Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,O 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;Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa',The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!The great now are gane, wha attempted to save;The new grass is springing 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."Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!Allan Cunningham.
Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,O 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;Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa',The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The great now are gane, wha attempted to save;The new grass is springing 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."Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
Allan Cunningham.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;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 birthplace of valor, the country of worth;Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,The hills of the Highlands forever I love.Farewell to the mountains high covered 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;Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.Robert Burns.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;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 birthplace of valor, the country of worth;Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,The hills of the Highlands forever I love.
Farewell to the mountains high covered 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;Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Robert Burns.
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,"Though 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 chainCould not bring his proud soul under;The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,For he tore its chords asunder;And said, "No chains 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.
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,"Though 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 chainCould not bring his proud soul under;The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,For he tore its chords asunder;And said, "No chains 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.
The harp that once through Tara's hallsThe soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara's wallsAs 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 brightThe 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 givesIs when some heart indignant breaks,To show that still she lives.Thomas Moore.
The harp that once through Tara's hallsThe soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara's wallsAs 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 brightThe 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 givesIs when some heart indignant breaks,To show that still she lives.
Thomas Moore.
The trumpet's loud clangorExcites us to arms,With shrill notes of angerAnd mortal alarms.The double, double, double beatOf the thundering drum,Cries, "Hark! the foes come;Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat."John Dryden.From "The Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."
The trumpet's loud clangorExcites us to arms,With shrill notes of angerAnd mortal alarms.
The double, double, double beatOf the thundering drum,Cries, "Hark! the foes come;Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat."
John Dryden.
From "The Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."
A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed,A sword of metal keene!All else to noble heartes is drosse,All else on earth is meane.The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,The rowlinge of the drum,The clangor of the trumpet lowde,Be soundes from heaven that come;And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,Whenas their war cryes swell,May tole from heaven an angel bright.And rouse a fiend from hell.Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,And don your helmes amaine:Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, callUs to the field againe.No shrewish teares shall fill our eyeWhen the sword-hilt's in our hand—Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sigheFor the fayrest of the land;Let piping swaine, and craven wight,Thus weepe and puling crye;Our business is like men to fight,And hero-like to die!William Motherwell.
A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed,A sword of metal keene!All else to noble heartes is drosse,All else on earth is meane.The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,The rowlinge of the drum,The clangor of the trumpet lowde,Be soundes from heaven that come;And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,Whenas their war cryes swell,May tole from heaven an angel bright.And rouse a fiend from hell.Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,And don your helmes amaine:Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, callUs to the field againe.No shrewish teares shall fill our eyeWhen the sword-hilt's in our hand—Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sigheFor the fayrest of the land;Let piping swaine, and craven wight,Thus weepe and puling crye;Our business is like men to fight,And hero-like to die!
William Motherwell.
Come listen to another song,Should make your heart beat high,Bring crimson to your forehead,And the luster to your eye;—It is a song of olden time,Of days long since gone by,And of a baron stout and boldAs e'er wore sword on thigh!Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!He kept his castle in the north.Hard by the thundering Spey;And a thousand vassals dwelt around,All of his kindred they.And not a man of all that clanHad ever ceased to prayFor the Royal race they laved so well,Though exiled far awayFrom the steadfast Scottish cavaliersAll of the olden time!His father drew the righteous swordFor Scotland and her claims,Among the loyal gentlemenAnd chiefs of ancient names,Who swore to fight or fall beneathThe standard of King James,And died at Killiecrankie PassWith the glory of the Græmes;Like a true old Scottish cavalierAll of the olden time!He never owned the foreign rule,No master he obeyed,But kept his clan in peace at home,From foray and from raid;And when they asked him for his oath,He touched his glittering blade,And pointed to his bonnet blue,That bore the white cockade:Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!At length the news ran through the land—The Princehad come again!That night the fiery cross was spedO'er mountain and through glen;And our old baron rose in might,Like a lion from his den,And rode away across the hillsTo Charlie and his men,With the valiant Scottish cavaliers.All of the olden time!He was the first that bent the kneeWhen theStandardwaved abroad,He was the first that charged the foeOn Preston's bloody sod;And ever, in the van of fight,The foremost still he trod,Until on bleak Culloden's heath,He gave his soul to God,Like a good old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!Oh never shall we know againA heart so stout and true—The olden times have passed away,And weary are the new:The fair white rose has fadedFrom the garden where it grew,And no fond tears save those of heaven,The glorious bed bedewOf the last old Scottish cavalierAll of the olden time!William Edmondstoune Aytoun.
Come listen to another song,Should make your heart beat high,Bring crimson to your forehead,And the luster to your eye;—It is a song of olden time,Of days long since gone by,And of a baron stout and boldAs e'er wore sword on thigh!Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!
He kept his castle in the north.Hard by the thundering Spey;And a thousand vassals dwelt around,All of his kindred they.And not a man of all that clanHad ever ceased to prayFor the Royal race they laved so well,Though exiled far awayFrom the steadfast Scottish cavaliersAll of the olden time!
His father drew the righteous swordFor Scotland and her claims,Among the loyal gentlemenAnd chiefs of ancient names,Who swore to fight or fall beneathThe standard of King James,And died at Killiecrankie PassWith the glory of the Græmes;Like a true old Scottish cavalierAll of the olden time!
He never owned the foreign rule,No master he obeyed,But kept his clan in peace at home,From foray and from raid;And when they asked him for his oath,He touched his glittering blade,And pointed to his bonnet blue,That bore the white cockade:Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!
At length the news ran through the land—The Princehad come again!That night the fiery cross was spedO'er mountain and through glen;And our old baron rose in might,Like a lion from his den,And rode away across the hillsTo Charlie and his men,With the valiant Scottish cavaliers.All of the olden time!
He was the first that bent the kneeWhen theStandardwaved abroad,He was the first that charged the foeOn Preston's bloody sod;And ever, in the van of fight,The foremost still he trod,Until on bleak Culloden's heath,He gave his soul to God,Like a good old Scottish cavalier,All of the olden time!
Oh never shall we know againA heart so stout and true—The olden times have passed away,And weary are the new:The fair white rose has fadedFrom the garden where it grew,And no fond tears save those of heaven,The glorious bed bedewOf the last old Scottish cavalierAll of the olden time!
William Edmondstoune Aytoun.
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camps alliedGrew weary of bombarding.The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay, grim and threatening, under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.There was a pause. A guardsman said:"We storm the forts to-morrow;Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow."They lay along the battery's side,Below the smoking cannon,—Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain's glory;Each heart recalled a different name,But all sang "Annie Laurie."Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem rich and strong,—Their battle eve confession.Dear girl! her name he dared not speak;But as the song grew louder,Something upon the soldier's cheekWashed off the stains of powder.Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset's embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot and burst of shell,And bellowing of the mortars!And Irish Nora's eyes are dimFor a singer dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of "Annie Laurie."Sleep, soldiers! still in honored restYour truth and valor wearing;The bravest are the tenderest,—The loving are the daring.Bayard Taylor.
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camps alliedGrew weary of bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay, grim and threatening, under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.
There was a pause. A guardsman said:"We storm the forts to-morrow;Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow."
They lay along the battery's side,Below the smoking cannon,—Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain's glory;Each heart recalled a different name,But all sang "Annie Laurie."
Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem rich and strong,—Their battle eve confession.
Dear girl! her name he dared not speak;But as the song grew louder,Something upon the soldier's cheekWashed off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset's embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot and burst of shell,And bellowing of the mortars!
And Irish Nora's eyes are dimFor a singer dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of "Annie Laurie."
Sleep, soldiers! still in honored restYour truth and valor wearing;The bravest are the tenderest,—The loving are the daring.
Bayard Taylor.
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale;Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order?March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale!All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border!Many a banner spreadFlutters 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 our old Scottish glory.Come from the hills where your 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 and march in good order.England shall many a dayTell of the bloody frayWhen the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.Sir Walter Scott.From "The Monastery."
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale;Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order?March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale!All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border!Many a banner spreadFlutters 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 our old Scottish glory.
Come from the hills where your 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 and march in good order.England shall many a dayTell of the bloody frayWhen the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.
Sir Walter Scott.
From "The Monastery."
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, andFrom mountain so rocky;The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlochy.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one,Come every steel blade, andStrong hand that bears one.Leave untended the herd,The flock without shelter;Leave the corpse uninterr'd,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, whenForests are rended,Come as the waves come, whenNavies 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 plumeBlended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your blades,Forward each man set!Pibroch of Donuil DhuKnell for the onset!Sir Walter Scott.
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, andFrom mountain so rocky;The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlochy.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one,Come every steel blade, andStrong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd,The flock without shelter;Leave the corpse uninterr'd,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, whenForests are rended,Come as the waves come, whenNavies 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 plumeBlended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your blades,Forward each man set!Pibroch of Donuil DhuKnell for the onset!
Sir Walter Scott.
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,And of armèd men the hum;Lo! a nation's hosts have gatheredRound the quick alarming drum,—Saying, "Come,Freemen, come!Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quickAlarming drum."Let me of my heart take counsel:War is not of life the sum;Who shall stay and reap the harvestWhen the autumn days shall come?"But the drumEchoed, "Come!Death shall reap the braver harvest," said theSolemn-sounding drum."But when won the coming battle,What of profit springs therefrom?What if conquest, subjugation,Even greater ills become?"But the drumAnswered, "Come!You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answering drum."What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,Whistling shot and bursting bomb,When my brothers fall around me,Should my heart grow cold and numb?"But the drumAnswered, "Come!Better there in death united, than in life a recreant,—Come!"Thus they answered,—hoping, fearing,Some in faith, and doubting some,Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,Said, "My chosen people, come!"Then the drum,Lo! was dumb,For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered,"Lord, we come!"Bret Harte.
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,And of armèd men the hum;Lo! a nation's hosts have gatheredRound the quick alarming drum,—Saying, "Come,Freemen, come!Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quickAlarming drum.
"Let me of my heart take counsel:War is not of life the sum;Who shall stay and reap the harvestWhen the autumn days shall come?"But the drumEchoed, "Come!Death shall reap the braver harvest," said theSolemn-sounding drum.
"But when won the coming battle,What of profit springs therefrom?What if conquest, subjugation,Even greater ills become?"But the drumAnswered, "Come!You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answering drum.
"What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,Whistling shot and bursting bomb,When my brothers fall around me,Should my heart grow cold and numb?"But the drumAnswered, "Come!Better there in death united, than in life a recreant,—Come!"
Thus they answered,—hoping, fearing,Some in faith, and doubting some,Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,Said, "My chosen people, come!"Then the drum,Lo! was dumb,For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered,"Lord, we come!"
Bret Harte.
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 deepWhile the stormy winds do blow—While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.The spirit of your fathersShall start from every wave!For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave.Where Blake and mighty Nelson fellYour manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deepWhile 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-wave,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oakShe quells the floods below,As they roar on the shoreWhen the stormy winds do blow—When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.The meteor flag of EnglandShall 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 flowTo 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.
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 deepWhile the stormy winds do blow—While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirit of your fathersShall start from every wave!For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave.Where Blake and mighty Nelson fellYour manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deepWhile 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-wave,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oakShe quells the floods below,As they roar on the shoreWhen the stormy winds do blow—When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of EnglandShall 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 flowTo 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.
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?Where may the grave of that good man be?—By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,Under the twigs of a young birch tree!The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,And whistled and roared in the winter alone,Is gone,—and the birch in its stead is grown.—The knight's bones are dust,And his good sword rust;—His soul is with the saints, I trust.Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?Where may the grave of that good man be?—By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,And whistled and roared in the winter alone,Is gone,—and the birch in its stead is grown.—The knight's bones are dust,And his good sword rust;—His soul is with the saints, I trust.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
How sleep the Brave who sink to restBy all their country's wishes blest!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallowed mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.By fairy hands their knell is rung;By forms unseen their dirge is sung;There Honor 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.
How sleep the Brave who sink to restBy all their country's wishes blest!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallowed mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;By forms unseen their dirge is sung;There Honor 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.
Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover;He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:Where the rain may rain upon it,Where the sun may shine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the bee will dine upon it.Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches:Make his mound with sunshine on it,Where the bee will dine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the rain will rain upon it.Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover;Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:Where the rain may rain upon it,Where the sun may shine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the bee will dine upon it.Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full oftenOut of those tender eyes which evermore did soften:He never could look cold till we saw him in his coffin.Make his mound with sunshine on it.Plant the lordly pine upon it,Where the moon may stream upon it,And memory shall dream upon it."Captain or Colonel,"—whatever invocationSuit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,—On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation!Long as the sun doth shine upon it,Shall glow the goodly pine upon it,Long as the stars do gleam upon it,Shall memory come to dream upon it.Thomas William Parsons.
Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover;He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:Where the rain may rain upon it,Where the sun may shine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the bee will dine upon it.
Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches:Make his mound with sunshine on it,Where the bee will dine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the rain will rain upon it.
Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover;Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:Where the rain may rain upon it,Where the sun may shine upon it,Where the lamb hath lain upon it,And the bee will dine upon it.
Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full oftenOut of those tender eyes which evermore did soften:He never could look cold till we saw him in his coffin.Make his mound with sunshine on it.Plant the lordly pine upon it,Where the moon may stream upon it,And memory shall dream upon it.
"Captain or Colonel,"—whatever invocationSuit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,—On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation!Long as the sun doth shine upon it,Shall glow the goodly pine upon it,Long as the stars do gleam upon it,Shall memory come to dream upon it.
Thomas William Parsons.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'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,Not in sheet or 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 that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,That 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 onIn 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 gunThat 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 in his glory.Charles Wolfe.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'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,Not in sheet or 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 that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,That 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 onIn 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 gunThat 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 in his glory.
Charles Wolfe.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:Dream of battle-fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing;Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more:Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,Morn of toil, nor night of waking.No rude sound shall reach thine ear,Armor's clang, or war-steed's champing;Trump nor pibroch summon here,Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,At the day-break, from the fallow,And the bittern sound his drum,Booming from the sedgy shallow.Ruder sounds shall none be near,Guards nor warders challenge here,Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.Sir Walter Scott.From "The Lady of the Lake."
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:Dream of battle-fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing;Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more:Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,Armor's clang, or war-steed's champing;Trump nor pibroch summon here,Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,At the day-break, from the fallow,And the bittern sound his drum,Booming from the sedgy shallow.Ruder sounds shall none be near,Guards nor warders challenge here,Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.
Sir Walter Scott.
From "The Lady of the Lake."
God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle-line—Beneath Whose awful Hand we holdDominion 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 yesterdayIs 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 looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles useOr 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 trustIn 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! Amen.Rudyard Kipling.
God of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle-line—Beneath Whose awful Hand we holdDominion 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 yesterdayIs 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 looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles useOr 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 trustIn 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! Amen.
Rudyard Kipling.
Where is the true man's fatherland?Is it where he by chance is born?Doth not the yearning spirit scornIn such scant borders to be spanned?Oh yes! his fatherland must beAs the blue heaven wide and free!Is it alone where freedom is,Where God is God and man is man?Doth he not claim a broader spanFor the soul's love of home than this?Oh yes! his fatherland must beAs the blue heaven wide and free!Where'er a human heart doth wearJoy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves,Where'er a human spirit strivesAfter a life more true and fair,There is the true man's birthplace grand,His is a world-wide fatherland!Where'er a single slave doth pine,Where'er one man may help another,—Thank God for such a birthright, brother,—That spot of earth is thine and mine!There is the true man's birthplace grand,His is a world-wide fatherland!James Russell Lowell.
Where is the true man's fatherland?Is it where he by chance is born?Doth not the yearning spirit scornIn such scant borders to be spanned?Oh yes! his fatherland must beAs the blue heaven wide and free!
Is it alone where freedom is,Where God is God and man is man?Doth he not claim a broader spanFor the soul's love of home than this?Oh yes! his fatherland must beAs the blue heaven wide and free!
Where'er a human heart doth wearJoy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves,Where'er a human spirit strivesAfter a life more true and fair,There is the true man's birthplace grand,His is a world-wide fatherland!
Where'er a single slave doth pine,Where'er one man may help another,—Thank God for such a birthright, brother,—That spot of earth is thine and mine!There is the true man's birthplace grand,His is a world-wide fatherland!
James Russell Lowell.
The verse in this division gives a poetic picture of America, dear land of all our love, from the very beginning of her world-life. It sings her story from the time when Columbus,