By Nebo's lonely mountain,On this side Jordan's wave,In a vale in the land of MoabThere lies a lonely grave.And no man knows that sepulchre,And no man saw it e'er,For the angels of God upturn'd the sod,And laid the dead man there.That was the grandest funeralThat ever passed on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth—Noiselessly as the daylightComes back when night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean's cheekGrows into the great sun;Noiselessly as the spring-timeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hills,Open their thousand leaves;So without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain's crown,The great procession swept.Perchance the bald old eagle,On grey Beth-peor's height,Out of his lonely eyrieLook'd on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion stalking,Still shuns that hallow'd spot,For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.But when the warrior dieth,His comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drum,Follow his funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his masterless steedWhile peals the minute gun.Amid the noblest of the landWe lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honour'd placeWith costly marble drest,In the great minster transeptWhere lights like glories fall(And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings)Along the emblazon'd wall.This was the truest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word.And never earth's philosopherTraced with his golden penOn the deathless page truths half so sageAs he wrote down for men.And had he not high honour,The hill-side for a pall,To lie in state, while angels waitWith stars for tapers tall,And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave,And God's own hand in that lonely landTo lay him in the grave.In that strange grave without a name,Whence his uncoffin'd clayShall break again, O wondrous thought!Before the Judgment Day,And stand with glory wrapt aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife, that won our life,With the Incarnate Son of God.O lonely grave in Moab's land!O dark Beth-peor's hill!Speak to these curious hearts of ours,And teach them to be still.God hath his mysteries of grace,Ways that we cannot tell,He hides them deep, like the hidden sleepOf him he loved so well.Cecil Frances Alexander.
By Nebo's lonely mountain,On this side Jordan's wave,In a vale in the land of MoabThere lies a lonely grave.And no man knows that sepulchre,And no man saw it e'er,For the angels of God upturn'd the sod,And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeralThat ever passed on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth—Noiselessly as the daylightComes back when night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean's cheekGrows into the great sun;
Noiselessly as the spring-timeHer crown of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hills,Open their thousand leaves;So without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain's crown,The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle,On grey Beth-peor's height,Out of his lonely eyrieLook'd on the wondrous sight;Perchance the lion stalking,Still shuns that hallow'd spot,For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.
But when the warrior dieth,His comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drum,Follow his funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his masterless steedWhile peals the minute gun.
Amid the noblest of the landWe lay the sage to rest,And give the bard an honour'd placeWith costly marble drest,In the great minster transeptWhere lights like glories fall(And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings)Along the emblazon'd wall.
This was the truest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word.And never earth's philosopherTraced with his golden penOn the deathless page truths half so sageAs he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honour,The hill-side for a pall,To lie in state, while angels waitWith stars for tapers tall,And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave,And God's own hand in that lonely landTo lay him in the grave.
In that strange grave without a name,Whence his uncoffin'd clayShall break again, O wondrous thought!Before the Judgment Day,And stand with glory wrapt aroundOn the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife, that won our life,With the Incarnate Son of God.
O lonely grave in Moab's land!O dark Beth-peor's hill!Speak to these curious hearts of ours,And teach them to be still.God hath his mysteries of grace,Ways that we cannot tell,He hides them deep, like the hidden sleepOf him he loved so well.
Cecil Frances Alexander.
Here are poems of Valor, Fortitude, Fearlessness, Courage. Give yourself up to the martial swing of the verse, with its clang of armor, its champing of war-steed, its sound of pibroch, its blare of trumpet, fife, and drum, its dancing of plumes and glitter of helmets. Pray Heaven that the fighting be all in a good cause and that the tramp, tramp of soldierly feet be that of the armies of Right, for there is no resisting this spirit of daring and bearing when it is voiced so nobly.
"When cannon are roaring,And hot bullets flying,He that would honor winMust not fear dying."
"When cannon are roaring,And hot bullets flying,He that would honor winMust not fear dying."
Here are hymns in praise of famous battles that have changed the fate of nations; here, records of gallant deeds that make the blood leap in the veins. Into the Valley of Death rode the immortal Six Hundred, and into that same Valley plunged "furious Frank and fiery Hun," Scot, Turk, Greek, and the brave Huguenot charging at Ivry for the Golden Lilies of France. Here are the songs of triumph, the loud hurrahs when the red field is won; here tales of glorious defeats and no less splendid failures; here, too, the dirge for the storied Brave, who lie at rest by all their Country's wishes blest.
The banners that once beckoned on the arméd hosts are hanging to-day in dim cathedrals, tattered, faded, and torn; high-hung banners that with every "opened door seem the old wave of battle to remember." And as for the heroes who carried them, can we not say, as of Marco Bozzaris,
"For ye are Freedom's now, and Fame's,Among the few, th' immortal namesThat were not born to die."
"For ye are Freedom's now, and Fame's,Among the few, th' immortal namesThat were not born to die."
When banners are waving,And lances a-pushing;When captains are shouting,And war-horses rushing;When cannon are roaring,And hot bullets flying,He that would honour win,Must not fear dying.Though shafts fly so thickThat it seems to be snowing;Though streamlets with bloodMore than water are flowing;Though with sabre and bulletOur bravest are dying,We speak of revenge, butWe ne'er speak of flying.Come, stand to it, heroes!The heathen are coming;Horsemen are round the walls,Riding and running;Maidens and matrons allArm! arm! are crying,From petards the wildfire'sFlashing and flying.The trumpets from turrets highLoudly are braying;The steeds for the onsetAre snorting and neighing;As waves in the ocean,The dark plumes are dancing;As stars in the blue sky,The helmets are glancing.Their ladders are planting,Their sabres are sweeping;Now swords from our sheathsBy the thousand are leaping;Like the flash of the levinEre men hearken thunder,Swords gleam, and the steel capsAre cloven asunder.The shouting has ceased,And the flashing of cannon!I looked from the turretFor crescent and pennon:As flax touched by fire,As hail in the river,They were smote, they were fallen,And had melted for ever.Unknown.
When banners are waving,And lances a-pushing;When captains are shouting,And war-horses rushing;When cannon are roaring,And hot bullets flying,He that would honour win,Must not fear dying.
Though shafts fly so thickThat it seems to be snowing;Though streamlets with bloodMore than water are flowing;Though with sabre and bulletOur bravest are dying,We speak of revenge, butWe ne'er speak of flying.
Come, stand to it, heroes!The heathen are coming;Horsemen are round the walls,Riding and running;Maidens and matrons allArm! arm! are crying,From petards the wildfire'sFlashing and flying.
The trumpets from turrets highLoudly are braying;The steeds for the onsetAre snorting and neighing;As waves in the ocean,The dark plumes are dancing;As stars in the blue sky,The helmets are glancing.
Their ladders are planting,Their sabres are sweeping;Now swords from our sheathsBy the thousand are leaping;Like the flash of the levinEre men hearken thunder,Swords gleam, and the steel capsAre cloven asunder.
The shouting has ceased,And the flashing of cannon!I looked from the turretFor crescent and pennon:As flax touched by fire,As hail in the river,They were smote, they were fallen,And had melted for ever.
Unknown.
Of Nelson and the northSing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold, determined hand,And the prince of all the landLed them on.Like leviathans afloatLay their bulwarks on the brine;While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line—It was ten of April morn by the chime.As they drifted on their pathThere was silence deep as death;And the boldest held his breathFor a time.But the might of England flushedTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rushedO'er the deadly space between."Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo 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 gloom.Out spoke the victor then,As he hailed them o'er the wave:"Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save;So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our king."Then Denmark blessed our chief,That he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day.While the sun looked smiling brightO'er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.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 sleepFull many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!Brave hearts! to Britain's prideOnce so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant, good Riou—Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!While the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid's song condoles,Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave!Thomas Campbell.
Of Nelson and the northSing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold, determined hand,And the prince of all the landLed them on.
Like leviathans afloatLay their bulwarks on the brine;While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line—It was ten of April morn by the chime.As they drifted on their pathThere was silence deep as death;And the boldest held his breathFor a time.
But the might of England flushedTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rushedO'er the deadly space between."Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.
Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo 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 gloom.
Out spoke the victor then,As he hailed them o'er the wave:"Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save;So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our king."
Then Denmark blessed our chief,That he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day.While the sun looked smiling brightO'er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.
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 sleepFull many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain's prideOnce so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant, good Riou—Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!While the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid's song condoles,Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave!
Thomas Campbell.
Pipes of the misty moorlands,Voice of the glens and hills;The droning of the torrents,The treble of the rills!Not the braes of broom and heather,Nor the mountains dark with rain,Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,Have heard your sweetest strain!Dear to the Lowland reaper,And plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe Scottish pipes are dear;—Sweet sounds the ancient pibrochO'er mountain, loch, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played.Day by day the Indian tigerLouder yelled, and nearer crept;Round and round, the jungle-serpentNear and nearer circles swept."Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—Pray to-day!" the soldier said,"To-morrow, death's between usAnd the wrong and shame we dread."Oh, they listened, looked, and waited,Till their hope became despair;And the sobs of low bewailingFilled the pauses of their prayer.Then up spake a Scottish maiden,With her ear unto the ground:"Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it?The pipes o' Havelock sound!"Hushed the wounded man his groaning;Hushed the wife her little ones;Alone they heard the drum-rollAnd the roar of Sepoy guns.But to sounds of home and childhoodThe Highland ear was true;—As her mother's cradle crooningThe mountain pipes she knew.Like the march of soundless musicThrough the vision of the seer,More of feeling than of hearing,Of the heart than of the ear,She knew the droning pibroch,She knew the Campbell's call:"Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,The grandest o' them all!"O, they listened, dumb and breathless,And they caught the sound at last;Faint and far beyond the GoomteeRose and fell the piper's blast!Then a burst of wild thanksgivingMingled woman's voice and man's;"God be praised!—the march of Havelock!The piping of the clans!"Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,Stinging all the air to life.But when the far-off dust cloudTo plaided legions grew,Full tenderly and blithesomelyThe pipes of rescue blew!Round the silver domes of Lucknow,Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,Breathed the air to Britons dearest,The air of Auld Lang Syne.O'er the cruel roll of war drumsRose that sweet and homelike strain;And the tartan clove the turbanAs the Goomtee cleaves the plain.Dear to the corn-land reaperAnd plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe piper's song is dear.Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibrochO'er mountain, glen, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Pipes of the misty moorlands,Voice of the glens and hills;The droning of the torrents,The treble of the rills!Not the braes of broom and heather,Nor the mountains dark with rain,Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,Have heard your sweetest strain!
Dear to the Lowland reaper,And plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe Scottish pipes are dear;—Sweet sounds the ancient pibrochO'er mountain, loch, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played.
Day by day the Indian tigerLouder yelled, and nearer crept;Round and round, the jungle-serpentNear and nearer circles swept."Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—Pray to-day!" the soldier said,"To-morrow, death's between usAnd the wrong and shame we dread."
Oh, they listened, looked, and waited,Till their hope became despair;And the sobs of low bewailingFilled the pauses of their prayer.Then up spake a Scottish maiden,With her ear unto the ground:"Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it?The pipes o' Havelock sound!"
Hushed the wounded man his groaning;Hushed the wife her little ones;Alone they heard the drum-rollAnd the roar of Sepoy guns.But to sounds of home and childhoodThe Highland ear was true;—As her mother's cradle crooningThe mountain pipes she knew.
Like the march of soundless musicThrough the vision of the seer,More of feeling than of hearing,Of the heart than of the ear,She knew the droning pibroch,She knew the Campbell's call:"Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,The grandest o' them all!"
O, they listened, dumb and breathless,And they caught the sound at last;Faint and far beyond the GoomteeRose and fell the piper's blast!Then a burst of wild thanksgivingMingled woman's voice and man's;"God be praised!—the march of Havelock!The piping of the clans!"
Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,Stinging all the air to life.But when the far-off dust cloudTo plaided legions grew,Full tenderly and blithesomelyThe pipes of rescue blew!
Round the silver domes of Lucknow,Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,Breathed the air to Britons dearest,The air of Auld Lang Syne.O'er the cruel roll of war drumsRose that sweet and homelike strain;And the tartan clove the turbanAs the Goomtee cleaves the plain.
Dear to the corn-land reaperAnd plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe piper's song is dear.Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibrochO'er mountain, glen, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Fair stood the wind for France,When we our sails advance,Nor now to prove our chanceLonger 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 AgincourtIn happy hour—Skirmishing day by dayWith those that stopped his way,Where the French general layWith all his power.Which in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideTo the king sending.Which he neglects the while,As from a nation vile,Yet with an angry smileTheir fall portending.And turning to his men,Quoth our brave Henry then,"Though they be one to ten,Be not amazèd;Yet have we well begun,Battles so bravely wonHave ever to the sunBy 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 sustainLoss to redeem me."Poitiers and Cressy tell,When most their pride did swell,Under our swords they fell;No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopped the French lilies.The Duke of York so dreadThe 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 wereOn the false Frenchmen!They now to fight are gone;Armor on armor shone;Drum now to drum did groan—To hear was wonder;That with the cries they makeThe very earth did shake;Trumpet to trumpet spake,Thunder to thunder.Well it thine age became,O noble Erpingham!Which did the signal aimTo our hid forces;When, from a meadow by,Like a storm suddenly,The English archeryStruck 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 bilboes 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 broad sword 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 dentBruisèd his helmet.Gloucester, 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 fightScarce 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 WilloughbyBare them right doughtily,Ferrers and Fanhope.Upon Saint Crispin's DayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delayTo England to carry;Oh, when shall EnglishmenWith such acts fill a pen,Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?Michael Drayton.
Fair stood the wind for France,When we our sails advance,Nor now to prove our chanceLonger 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 AgincourtIn happy hour—Skirmishing day by dayWith those that stopped his way,Where the French general layWith all his power.
Which in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideTo the king sending.Which he neglects the while,As from a nation vile,Yet with an angry smileTheir fall portending.
And turning to his men,Quoth our brave Henry then,"Though they be one to ten,Be not amazèd;Yet have we well begun,Battles so bravely wonHave ever to the sunBy 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 sustainLoss to redeem me."
Poitiers and Cressy tell,When most their pride did swell,Under our swords they fell;No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopped the French lilies.
The Duke of York so dreadThe 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 wereOn the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone;Armor on armor shone;Drum now to drum did groan—To hear was wonder;That with the cries they makeThe very earth did shake;Trumpet to trumpet spake,Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,O noble Erpingham!Which did the signal aimTo our hid forces;When, from a meadow by,Like a storm suddenly,The English archeryStruck 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 bilboes 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 broad sword 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 dentBruisèd his helmet.
Gloucester, 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 fightScarce 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 WilloughbyBare them right doughtily,Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's DayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delayTo England to carry;Oh, when shall EnglishmenWith such acts fill a pen,Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?
Michael Drayton.
It was a summer's evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun;And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he, beside the rivulet,In playing there, had found.He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.Old Kaspar took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And, with a natural sigh,"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,"Who fell in the great victory!""I find them in the garden,For there's many here about;And often when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out;For many thousand men," said he,"Were slain in that great victory!""Now tell us what 'twas all about,"Young Peterkin he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks upWith wonder-waiting eyes;"Now tell us all about the war,And what they kill each other for.""It was the English," Kaspar cried,"Who put the French to rout;But what they killed each other forI could not well make out.But everybody said," quoth he,"That 'twas a famous victory!"My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by:They burned his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head."With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide;And many a childing mother thenAnd new-born baby died.But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory."They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun.But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory."Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,And our good Prince Eugene.""Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"Said little Wilhelmine."Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,"It was a famous victory!"And everybody praised the DukeWho this great fight did win.""But what good came of it at last?"Quoth little Peterkin."Why that I cannot tell," said he,"But 'twas a famous victory."Robert Southey.
It was a summer's evening,Old Kaspar's work was done,And he before his cottage doorWas sitting in the sun;And by him sported on the greenHis little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother PeterkinRoll something large and round,Which he, beside the rivulet,In playing there, had found.He came to ask what he had found,That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,Who stood expectant by;And then the old man shook his head,And, with a natural sigh,"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,"Who fell in the great victory!"
"I find them in the garden,For there's many here about;And often when I go to plough,The ploughshare turns them out;For many thousand men," said he,"Were slain in that great victory!"
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"Young Peterkin he cries;And little Wilhelmine looks upWith wonder-waiting eyes;"Now tell us all about the war,And what they kill each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,"Who put the French to rout;But what they killed each other forI could not well make out.But everybody said," quoth he,"That 'twas a famous victory!
"My father lived at Blenheim then,Yon little stream hard by:They burned his dwelling to the ground,And he was forced to fly;So with his wife and child he fled,Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country roundWas wasted far and wide;And many a childing mother thenAnd new-born baby died.But things like that, you know, must beAt every famous victory.
"They say it was a shocking sightAfter the field was won;For many thousand bodies hereLay rotting in the sun.But things like that, you know, must beAfter a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,And our good Prince Eugene.""Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"Said little Wilhelmine."Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,"It was a famous victory!
"And everybody praised the DukeWho this great fight did win.""But what good came of it at last?"Quoth little Peterkin."Why that I cannot tell," said he,"But 'twas a famous victory."
Robert Southey.
Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise;I sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,When that great fleet invincible against her bore, in vainThe richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain.It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day,There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay;The crew had 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:The yeoman round the market cross make clear an ample space;For there behooves him to set up the standard of Her Grace:And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells,As slow upon the laboring 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 gloriousSemper 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 o'er 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, that 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.Thomas Babington, Lord Macauley.
Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise;I sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,When that great fleet invincible against her bore, in vainThe richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain.It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day,There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay;The crew had 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:The yeoman round the market cross make clear an ample space;For there behooves him to set up the standard of Her Grace:And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells,As slow upon the laboring 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 gloriousSemper 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 o'er 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, that 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.
Thomas Babington, Lord Macauley.
Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of dayWe saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest;And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!""And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may—For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray—Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled dinOf fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,Charge for the Golden Lilies—upon them with the lance!A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein;D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish Count is slain;Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.And then, we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,"Remember St. Bartholomew!" was passed from man to man;But out spake gentle Henry—"No Frenchman is my foe:Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white—Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.Up with it high; unfurl it wide—that all the host may knowHow God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe.Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne,Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night;For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay.
Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.
Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of dayWe saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.
The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest;And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!"
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may—For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray—Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled dinOf fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,Charge for the Golden Lilies—upon them with the lance!A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein;D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish Count is slain;Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.And then, we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,"Remember St. Bartholomew!" was passed from man to man;But out spake gentle Henry—"No Frenchman is my foe:Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!
Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white—Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.Up with it high; unfurl it wide—that all the host may knowHow God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe.Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.
Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne,Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night;For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!
Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay.
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 cupThe 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 hundredMust plough the waves no more.William Cowper.
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 cupThe 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 hundredMust plough the waves no more.
William Cowper.