shipwreck tossed on the wavesJ. M. W. TURNER.THE SHIPWRECK.
J. M. W. TURNER.
THE SHIPWRECK.
'Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brimThe Prince's sister screamed to him.He gazed aloft, still rowing apace,And through the whirled surf he knew her face.To the toppling decks clave one and allAs a fly cleaves to a chamber wall.I, Berold, was clinging anear;I prayed for myself and quaked with fear,But I saw his eyes as he looked at her.He knew her face and he heard her cry,And he said, "Put back! she must not die!"And back with the current's force they reelLike a leaf that's drawn to a water wheel.'Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float,But; he rose and stood in the rocking boat.Low the poor ship leaned on the tide:O'er the naked keel as she best might slide,The sister toiled to the brother's side.He reached an oar to her from below,And stiffened his arms to clutch her so.But now from the ship some spied the boat,And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat.And down to the boat they leaped and fell:It turned as a bucket turns in a well,And nothing was there but the surge and swell.The Prince that was and the King to come,There in an instant gone to his doom,Despite of all England's bended kneeAnd maugre the Norman fealty!He was a Prince of lust and pride;He showed no grace till the hour he died.When he should be King, he oft would vow,He'd yoke the peasant to his own plow.O'er him the ships score their furrows now.God only knows where his soul did wake,But I saw him die for his sister's sake.By none but me can the tale be told,The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.(Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,Yet the tale can be told by none but me.(The sea hath no King but God alone.)And now the end came o'er the water's wombLike the last great day that's yet to come.With prayers in vain and curses in vain,The White Ship sundered on the midmain:And what were men and what was a ship,Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip.I, Berold, was down in the sea;And passing strange though the thing may be,Of dreams then known I remember me.Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strandWhen morning lights the sails to land:And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloamWhen mothers call the children home:And high do the bells of Rouen beatWhen the Body of Christ goes down the street.These things and the like were heard and shownIn a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone;And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem,And not these things, to be all in a dream.The ship was gone and the crowd was gone,And the deep shuddered and the moon shone:And in a straight grasp my arms did spanThe mainyard rent from the mast where it ran;And on it with me was another man.Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea sky,We told our names, that man and I."O I am Godefroy de l'Aigle hight,And son I am to a belted knight.""And I am Berold the butcher's sonWho slays the beasts in Rouen town."Then cried we upon God's name, as weDid drift on the bitter winter sea.But lo! a third man o'er the wave,And we said, "Thank God! us three may He save!"He clutched to the yard with panting stare,And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there.He clung, and "What of the Prince?" quoth he."Lost, lost!" we cried. He cried, "Woe on me!"And loosed his hold and sank through the sea.And soul with soul again in that spaceWe two were together face to face:And each knew each, as the moments sped,Less for one living than for one dead:And every still star overheadSeemed an eye that knew we were but dead.And the hours passed; till the noble's sonSighed, "God be thy help! my strength's foredone!"O farewell, friend, for I can no more!""Christ take thee!" I moaned; and his life was o'er.Three hundred souls were all lost but one,And I drifted over the sea alone.At last the morning rose on the seaLike an angel's wing that beat towards me.Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat;Half dead I hung, and might nothing note,Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher boat.The sun was high o'er the eastern brimAs I praised God and gave thanks to Him.That day I told my tale to a priest,Who charged me, till the shrift was released,That I should keep it in mine own breast.And with the priest I thence did fareTo King Henry's court at Winchester.We spoke with the King's high chamberlain,And he wept and mourned again and again,As if his own son had been slain:And round us ever there crowded fastGreat men with faces all aghast:And who so bold that might tell the thingWhich now they knew to their lord the King?Much woe I learnt in their communing.The King had watched with a heart sore stirredFor two whole days, and this was the third:And still to all his court would he say,"What keeps my son so long away?"And they said: "The ports lie far and wideThat skirt the swell of the English tide;"And England's cliffs are not more whiteThan her women are, and scarce so lightHer skies as their eyes are blue and bright;"And in some port that he reached from FranceThe Prince has lingered for his pleasance."But once the King asked: "What distant cryWas that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?"And one said: "With suchlike shouts, pardie!Do the fishers fling their nets at sea."And one: "Who knows not the shrieking questWhen the seamew misses its young from the nest?"'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread,Albeit they knew not what they said:But who should speak to-day of the thingThat all knew there except the King?Then pondering much they found a way,And met round the King's high seat that day:And the King sat with a heart sore stirred,And seldom he spoke and seldom heard.'Twas then through the hall the King was 'wareOf a little boy with golden hair,As bright as the golden poppy isThat the beach breeds for the surf to kiss:Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in spring,And his garb black like the raven's wing.Nothing was heard but his foot through the hall,For now the lords were silent all.And the King wondered, and said, "Alack!Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black?"Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hallAs though my court were a funeral?"Then lowly knelt the child at the dais,And looked up weeping in the King's face."O wherefore black, O King, ye may say,For white is the hue of death to-day."Your son and all his fellowshipLie low in the sea with the White Ship."King Henry fell as a man struck dead;And speechless still he stared from his bedWhen to him next day my rede I read.There's many an hour must needs beguileA King's high heart that he should smile,—Full many a lordly hour, full fainOf his realm's rule and pride of his reign:—But this King never smiled again.By none but me can the tale be told,The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.(Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,Yet the tale can be told by none but me.(The sea hath no King but God alone.)
'Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brimThe Prince's sister screamed to him.
He gazed aloft, still rowing apace,And through the whirled surf he knew her face.
To the toppling decks clave one and allAs a fly cleaves to a chamber wall.
I, Berold, was clinging anear;I prayed for myself and quaked with fear,But I saw his eyes as he looked at her.
He knew her face and he heard her cry,And he said, "Put back! she must not die!"
And back with the current's force they reelLike a leaf that's drawn to a water wheel.
'Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float,But; he rose and stood in the rocking boat.
Low the poor ship leaned on the tide:O'er the naked keel as she best might slide,The sister toiled to the brother's side.
He reached an oar to her from below,And stiffened his arms to clutch her so.
But now from the ship some spied the boat,And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat.
And down to the boat they leaped and fell:It turned as a bucket turns in a well,And nothing was there but the surge and swell.
The Prince that was and the King to come,There in an instant gone to his doom,Despite of all England's bended kneeAnd maugre the Norman fealty!
He was a Prince of lust and pride;He showed no grace till the hour he died.
When he should be King, he oft would vow,He'd yoke the peasant to his own plow.O'er him the ships score their furrows now.
God only knows where his soul did wake,But I saw him die for his sister's sake.
By none but me can the tale be told,The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.(Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)
'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,Yet the tale can be told by none but me.(The sea hath no King but God alone.)
And now the end came o'er the water's wombLike the last great day that's yet to come.
With prayers in vain and curses in vain,The White Ship sundered on the midmain:
And what were men and what was a ship,Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip.
I, Berold, was down in the sea;And passing strange though the thing may be,Of dreams then known I remember me.
Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strandWhen morning lights the sails to land:
And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloamWhen mothers call the children home:
And high do the bells of Rouen beatWhen the Body of Christ goes down the street.
These things and the like were heard and shownIn a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone;
And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem,And not these things, to be all in a dream.
The ship was gone and the crowd was gone,And the deep shuddered and the moon shone:
And in a straight grasp my arms did spanThe mainyard rent from the mast where it ran;And on it with me was another man.
Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea sky,We told our names, that man and I.
"O I am Godefroy de l'Aigle hight,And son I am to a belted knight."
"And I am Berold the butcher's sonWho slays the beasts in Rouen town."
Then cried we upon God's name, as weDid drift on the bitter winter sea.
But lo! a third man o'er the wave,And we said, "Thank God! us three may He save!"
He clutched to the yard with panting stare,And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there.
He clung, and "What of the Prince?" quoth he."Lost, lost!" we cried. He cried, "Woe on me!"And loosed his hold and sank through the sea.
And soul with soul again in that spaceWe two were together face to face:
And each knew each, as the moments sped,Less for one living than for one dead:
And every still star overheadSeemed an eye that knew we were but dead.
And the hours passed; till the noble's sonSighed, "God be thy help! my strength's foredone!
"O farewell, friend, for I can no more!""Christ take thee!" I moaned; and his life was o'er.
Three hundred souls were all lost but one,And I drifted over the sea alone.
At last the morning rose on the seaLike an angel's wing that beat towards me.
Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat;Half dead I hung, and might nothing note,Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher boat.
The sun was high o'er the eastern brimAs I praised God and gave thanks to Him.
That day I told my tale to a priest,Who charged me, till the shrift was released,That I should keep it in mine own breast.
And with the priest I thence did fareTo King Henry's court at Winchester.
We spoke with the King's high chamberlain,And he wept and mourned again and again,As if his own son had been slain:
And round us ever there crowded fastGreat men with faces all aghast:
And who so bold that might tell the thingWhich now they knew to their lord the King?Much woe I learnt in their communing.
The King had watched with a heart sore stirredFor two whole days, and this was the third:
And still to all his court would he say,"What keeps my son so long away?"
And they said: "The ports lie far and wideThat skirt the swell of the English tide;
"And England's cliffs are not more whiteThan her women are, and scarce so lightHer skies as their eyes are blue and bright;
"And in some port that he reached from FranceThe Prince has lingered for his pleasance."
But once the King asked: "What distant cryWas that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?"
And one said: "With suchlike shouts, pardie!Do the fishers fling their nets at sea."
And one: "Who knows not the shrieking questWhen the seamew misses its young from the nest?"
'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread,Albeit they knew not what they said:
But who should speak to-day of the thingThat all knew there except the King?
Then pondering much they found a way,And met round the King's high seat that day:
And the King sat with a heart sore stirred,And seldom he spoke and seldom heard.
'Twas then through the hall the King was 'wareOf a little boy with golden hair,
As bright as the golden poppy isThat the beach breeds for the surf to kiss:
Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in spring,And his garb black like the raven's wing.
Nothing was heard but his foot through the hall,For now the lords were silent all.
And the King wondered, and said, "Alack!Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black?
"Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hallAs though my court were a funeral?"
Then lowly knelt the child at the dais,And looked up weeping in the King's face.
"O wherefore black, O King, ye may say,For white is the hue of death to-day.
"Your son and all his fellowshipLie low in the sea with the White Ship."
King Henry fell as a man struck dead;And speechless still he stared from his bedWhen to him next day my rede I read.
There's many an hour must needs beguileA King's high heart that he should smile,—
Full many a lordly hour, full fainOf his realm's rule and pride of his reign:—But this King never smiled again.
By none but me can the tale be told,The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.(Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.)
'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,Yet the tale can be told by none but me.(The sea hath no King but God alone.)
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Safe home, safe home in port!Rent cordage, shattered deck,Tom sails, provisions short,And only not a wreck:But, oh, the joy upon the shore,To tell our voyage,—perils o'er!The prize, the prize secure!The athlete nearly fell;Bare all hecouldendure,And bare not always well:But he may smile at troubles gone,Who sets the victor-garland on!No more the foe can harm;No more of leaguered camp,And cry of night alarm,And need of ready lamp:And yet how nearly he had failed,—How nearly had that foe prevailed!The exile is at home!O nights and days of tears,O longings not to roam,O sins, and doubts, and fears:What matter now this bitter fray?The King has wiped those tears away.
Safe home, safe home in port!Rent cordage, shattered deck,Tom sails, provisions short,And only not a wreck:But, oh, the joy upon the shore,To tell our voyage,—perils o'er!
The prize, the prize secure!The athlete nearly fell;Bare all hecouldendure,And bare not always well:But he may smile at troubles gone,Who sets the victor-garland on!
No more the foe can harm;No more of leaguered camp,And cry of night alarm,And need of ready lamp:And yet how nearly he had failed,—How nearly had that foe prevailed!
The exile is at home!O nights and days of tears,O longings not to roam,O sins, and doubts, and fears:What matter now this bitter fray?The King has wiped those tears away.
St. Joseph of the Studium, A.D.870 (translated by J. M. Neale).
Gpd moves in a mysterious way,His wonders to perform;He plants His footsteps in the sea,And rides upon the storm.Deep in unfathomable minesOf never-failing skill,He treasures up His bright designs,And works His sovereign will.Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,The clouds ye so much dreadAre big with mercy, and shall breakIn blessings on your head.Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,But trust Him for His grace;Behind a frowning ProvidenceHe hides a smiling face.His purposes will ripen fast,Unfolding every hour;The bud may have a bitter taste,But sweet will be the flower.Blind unbelief is sure to errAnd scan His work in vain;God is His own interpreter,And He will make it plain.
Gpd moves in a mysterious way,His wonders to perform;He plants His footsteps in the sea,And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable minesOf never-failing skill,He treasures up His bright designs,And works His sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,The clouds ye so much dreadAre big with mercy, and shall breakIn blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,But trust Him for His grace;Behind a frowning ProvidenceHe hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,Unfolding every hour;The bud may have a bitter taste,But sweet will be the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to errAnd scan His work in vain;God is His own interpreter,And He will make it plain.
William Cowper.
Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,Lead Thou me on!The night is dark, and I am far from home—Lead Thou me on!Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to seeThe distant scene,—one step enough for me.I was not ever thus, nor prayed that ThouShouldst lead me on.I loved to choose and see my path; but nowLead Thou me on!I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it stillWill lead me on,O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone;And with the morn those angel faces smileWhich I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,Lead Thou me on!The night is dark, and I am far from home—Lead Thou me on!Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to seeThe distant scene,—one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor prayed that ThouShouldst lead me on.I loved to choose and see my path; but nowLead Thou me on!I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it stillWill lead me on,O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone;And with the morn those angel faces smileWhich I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
John Henry Newman.
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 cornfields 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 day,We 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 rose 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 has 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 spear-men'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.
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 cornfields 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 day,We 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 rose 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 has 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 spear-men'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 Macaulay.
O God, our help in ages past,Our hope for years to come,Our shelter from the stormy blast,And our eternal home:Under the shadow of Thy throneThy saints have dwelt secure;Sufficient is Thine arm alone,And our defense is sure.Before the hills in order stood,Or earth received her frame,From everlasting Thou art God,To endless years the same.A thousand ages in Thy sightAre like an evening gone;Short as the watch that ends the nightBefore the rising sun.Time, like an ever-rolling stream,Bears all its sons away;They fly forgotten, as a dreamDies at the opening day.O God, our help in ages past;Our hope for years to come;Be Thou our guard while troubles last,And our eternal home!
O God, our help in ages past,Our hope for years to come,Our shelter from the stormy blast,And our eternal home:
Under the shadow of Thy throneThy saints have dwelt secure;Sufficient is Thine arm alone,And our defense is sure.
Before the hills in order stood,Or earth received her frame,From everlasting Thou art God,To endless years the same.
A thousand ages in Thy sightAre like an evening gone;Short as the watch that ends the nightBefore the rising sun.
Time, like an ever-rolling stream,Bears all its sons away;They fly forgotten, as a dreamDies at the opening day.
O God, our help in ages past;Our hope for years to come;Be Thou our guard while troubles last,And our eternal home!
Isaac Watts.
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,Did the English fight the French,—woe to France!And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue,Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,With the English fleet in view.'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;Close on him fled, great and small,Twenty-two good ships in all;And they signaled to the place,"Help the winners of a race!Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick—or, quicker still,Here's the English can and will!"Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they:"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,Shall theFormidablehere with her twelve and eighty gunsThink to make the river mouth by the single narrow way,Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,And with flow at full beside?Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.Reach the mooring? Rather say,While rock stands or water runs,Not a ship will leave the bay!"Then was called a council straight.Brief and bitter the debate:"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in towAll that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,For a prize to Plymouth Sound?Better run the ships aground!"(Ended Damfreville his speech.)Not a minute more to wait!"Let the Captains all and eachShove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!France must undergo her fate.Give the word!" But no such wordWas ever spoke or heard;For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these—A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third?No such man of mark, and meetWith his betters to compete!But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,A poor coasting pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,Did the English fight the French,—woe to France!And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue,Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,With the English fleet in view.
'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;Close on him fled, great and small,Twenty-two good ships in all;And they signaled to the place,"Help the winners of a race!Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick—or, quicker still,Here's the English can and will!"
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they:"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,Shall theFormidablehere with her twelve and eighty gunsThink to make the river mouth by the single narrow way,Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,And with flow at full beside?Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.Reach the mooring? Rather say,While rock stands or water runs,Not a ship will leave the bay!"
Then was called a council straight.Brief and bitter the debate:"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in towAll that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,For a prize to Plymouth Sound?Better run the ships aground!"(Ended Damfreville his speech.)Not a minute more to wait!"Let the Captains all and eachShove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!France must undergo her fate.
Give the word!" But no such wordWas ever spoke or heard;For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these—A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third?No such man of mark, and meetWith his betters to compete!But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,A poor coasting pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.
four men on deck of shipHERVÉ RIEL AND THE ADMIRAL.
And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel:"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tellOn my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?Morn and eve, night and day,Have I piloted your bay,Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor."Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!Only let me lead the line,Have the biggest ship to steer,Get thisFormidableclear,Make the others follow mine,And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,Right to Solidor past Grève,And there lay them safe and sound;And if one ship misbehave,—Keel so much as grate the ground,Why, I've nothing but my life,—here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.Not a minute more to wait."Steer us in, then, small and great!Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief."Captains, give the sailor place!He is Admiral, in brief."Still the north wind, by God's grace!See the noble fellow's face,As the big ship with a bound,Clears the entry like a hound,Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound!See, safe thro' shoal and rock,How they follow in a flock,Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,Not a spar that comes to grief!The peril, see, is past,All are harbored to the last,And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"—sure as fateUp the English come, too late!So, the storm subsides to calm:They see the green trees waveOn the heights o'erlooking Grève.Hearts that bled are stanched with balm."Just our rapture to enhance,Let the English rake the bay,Gnash their teeth and glare askance,As they cannonade away!'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!Out burst all with one accord,"This is Paradise for Hell!Let France, let France's KingThank the man that did the thing!"What a shout, and all one word,"Hervé Riel!"As he stepped in front once more,Not a symptom of surpriseIn the frank blue Breton eyes,Just the same man as before.Then said Damfreville, "My friend,I must speak out at the end,Though I find the speaking hard.Praise is deeper than the lips:You have saved the King his ships,You must name your own reward.'Faith our sun was near eclipse!Demand whate'er you will,France remains your debtor still.Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."Then a beam of fun outbrokeOn the bearded mouth that spoke,As the honest heart laughed throughThose frank eyes of Breton blue:"Since I needs must say my say,Since on board the duty's done,And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?—Since 'tis ask and have, I may—Since the others go ashore—Come! A good whole holiday!Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"That he asked and that he got,—nothing more.Name and deed alike are lost:Not a pillar nor a postIn his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;Not a head in white and blackOn a single fishing smack,In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrackAll that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.Go to Paris: rank on rankSearch the heroes flung pell-mellOn the Louvre, face and flank!You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.So, for better and for worse,Hervé Riel, accept my verse!In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once moreSave the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!
And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel:"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tellOn my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?Morn and eve, night and day,Have I piloted your bay,Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.
"Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!Only let me lead the line,Have the biggest ship to steer,Get thisFormidableclear,Make the others follow mine,And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,Right to Solidor past Grève,And there lay them safe and sound;And if one ship misbehave,—Keel so much as grate the ground,Why, I've nothing but my life,—here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.
Not a minute more to wait."Steer us in, then, small and great!Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief."Captains, give the sailor place!He is Admiral, in brief."Still the north wind, by God's grace!See the noble fellow's face,As the big ship with a bound,Clears the entry like a hound,Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound!See, safe thro' shoal and rock,How they follow in a flock,Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,Not a spar that comes to grief!The peril, see, is past,All are harbored to the last,And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"—sure as fateUp the English come, too late!
So, the storm subsides to calm:They see the green trees waveOn the heights o'erlooking Grève.Hearts that bled are stanched with balm."Just our rapture to enhance,Let the English rake the bay,Gnash their teeth and glare askance,As they cannonade away!'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!Out burst all with one accord,"This is Paradise for Hell!Let France, let France's KingThank the man that did the thing!"What a shout, and all one word,"Hervé Riel!"As he stepped in front once more,Not a symptom of surpriseIn the frank blue Breton eyes,Just the same man as before.
Then said Damfreville, "My friend,I must speak out at the end,Though I find the speaking hard.Praise is deeper than the lips:You have saved the King his ships,You must name your own reward.'Faith our sun was near eclipse!Demand whate'er you will,France remains your debtor still.Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."
Then a beam of fun outbrokeOn the bearded mouth that spoke,As the honest heart laughed throughThose frank eyes of Breton blue:"Since I needs must say my say,Since on board the duty's done,And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?—Since 'tis ask and have, I may—Since the others go ashore—Come! A good whole holiday!Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"That he asked and that he got,—nothing more.
Name and deed alike are lost:Not a pillar nor a postIn his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;Not a head in white and blackOn a single fishing smack,In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrackAll that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.Go to Paris: rank on rankSearch the heroes flung pell-mellOn the Louvre, face and flank!You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.So, for better and for worse,Hervé Riel, accept my verse!In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once moreSave the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!
Robert Browning.
But thou wouldst notaloneBe saved, my father!aloneConquer and come to thy goal,Leaving the rest in the wild.We were weary, and weFearful, and we in our marchFain to drop down and die.Still thou turnedst, and stillBeckonedst the trembler, and stillGavest the weary thy hand.If, in the paths of the world,Stones might have wounded thy feet,Toil or dejection have triedThy spirit, of that we sawNothing—to us thou wast stillCheerful, and helpful, and firm!Therefore to thee it was givenMany to save with thyself;And, at the end of thy day,O faithful shepherd! to come,Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.And through thee I believeIn the noble and great who are gone;Pure souls honored and blestBy former ages....·····Servants of God!—or sonsShall I not call you? becauseNot as servants ye knewYour Father's innermost mind,His, who unwillingly seesOne of His little ones lost—Yours is the praise, if mankindHath not as yet in its marchFainted, and fallen, and died!·····Then, in such hour of needOf your fainting, dispirited race,Ye, like angels, appear,Radiant with ardor divine.Beacons of hope, ye appear!Languor is not in your heart,Weakness is not in your word,Weariness not on your brow.Ye alight in our van! at your voice,Panic, despair, flee away.Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn,Praise, reinspire the brave.Order, courage, return;Eyes rekindling, and prayers,Follow your steps as ye go.Ye fill up the gaps in our files,Strengthen the wavering line,Stablish, continue our march,On, to the bound of the waste,On, to the City of God.
But thou wouldst notaloneBe saved, my father!aloneConquer and come to thy goal,Leaving the rest in the wild.We were weary, and weFearful, and we in our marchFain to drop down and die.Still thou turnedst, and stillBeckonedst the trembler, and stillGavest the weary thy hand.If, in the paths of the world,Stones might have wounded thy feet,Toil or dejection have triedThy spirit, of that we sawNothing—to us thou wast stillCheerful, and helpful, and firm!Therefore to thee it was givenMany to save with thyself;And, at the end of thy day,O faithful shepherd! to come,Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.
And through thee I believeIn the noble and great who are gone;Pure souls honored and blestBy former ages....
·····
Servants of God!—or sonsShall I not call you? becauseNot as servants ye knewYour Father's innermost mind,His, who unwillingly seesOne of His little ones lost—Yours is the praise, if mankindHath not as yet in its marchFainted, and fallen, and died!
·····
Then, in such hour of needOf your fainting, dispirited race,Ye, like angels, appear,Radiant with ardor divine.Beacons of hope, ye appear!Languor is not in your heart,Weakness is not in your word,Weariness not on your brow.Ye alight in our van! at your voice,Panic, despair, flee away.Ye move through the ranks, recallThe stragglers, refresh the outworn,Praise, reinspire the brave.Order, courage, return;Eyes rekindling, and prayers,Follow your steps as ye go.Ye fill up the gaps in our files,Strengthen the wavering line,Stablish, continue our march,On, to the bound of the waste,On, to the City of God.
Matthew Arnold.
Portrait of James Russell LowellJAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wideThe din of battle and of slaughter rose;He saw God stand upon the weaker side,That sank in seeming loss before its foes;Many there were who made great haste and soldUnto the cunning enemy their swords,He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold,And, underneath their soft and flowery words,Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he wentAnd humbly joined him to the weaker part,Fanatic named, and fool, yet well contentSo he could be the nearer to God's heart,And feel its solemn pulses sending bloodThrough all the widespread veins of endless good.
He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wideThe din of battle and of slaughter rose;He saw God stand upon the weaker side,That sank in seeming loss before its foes;Many there were who made great haste and soldUnto the cunning enemy their swords,He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold,And, underneath their soft and flowery words,Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he wentAnd humbly joined him to the weaker part,Fanatic named, and fool, yet well contentSo he could be the nearer to God's heart,And feel its solemn pulses sending bloodThrough all the widespread veins of endless good.
James Russell Lowell.
It was roses, roses, all the way,With myrtle mixed in my path like mad;The house roofs seemed to heave and sway,The church spires flamed, such flags they hadA year ago on this very day.The air broke into a mist with bells,The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels—But give me your sun from yonder skies!"They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"Alack, it was I who leaped at the sunTo give it my loving friends to keep!Naught man could do, have I left undone:And you see my harvest, what I reapThis very day, now a year is run.There's nobody on the house tops now—Just a palsied few at the windows set;For the best of the sight is, all allow,At the Shambles' Gate—or, better yet,By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.I go in the rain, and, more than needs,A rope cuts both my wrists behind;And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,For they fling, whoever has a mind,Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.Thus I entered, and thus I go!In triumphs, people have dropped down dead."Paid by the world, what dost thou oweMe?"—God might question; now instead,'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.
It was roses, roses, all the way,With myrtle mixed in my path like mad;The house roofs seemed to heave and sway,The church spires flamed, such flags they hadA year ago on this very day.
The air broke into a mist with bells,The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels—But give me your sun from yonder skies!"They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"
Alack, it was I who leaped at the sunTo give it my loving friends to keep!Naught man could do, have I left undone:And you see my harvest, what I reapThis very day, now a year is run.
There's nobody on the house tops now—Just a palsied few at the windows set;For the best of the sight is, all allow,At the Shambles' Gate—or, better yet,By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.
I go in the rain, and, more than needs,A rope cuts both my wrists behind;And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,For they fling, whoever has a mind,Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.
Thus I entered, and thus I go!In triumphs, people have dropped down dead."Paid by the world, what dost thou oweMe?"—God might question; now instead,'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.
Robert Browning.
Oh, deem not they are blest aloneWhose lives a peaceful tenor keep:The Power who pities man, has shownA blessing for the eyes that weep.The light of smiles shall fill againThe lids that overflow with tears;And weary hours of woe and painAre promises of happier years.There is a day of sunny restFor every dark and troubled night;And grief may bide an evening guest,But joy shall come with early light.And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bierDost shed the bitter drops like rain,Hope that a brighter, happier sphereWill give him to thy arms again.Nor let the good man's trust depart,Though life its common gifts deny,—Though with a pierced and bleeding heartAnd spurned of men, he goes to die.For God hath marked each sorrowing dayAnd numbered every secret tear,And heaven's long age of bliss shall payFor all his children suffer here.
Oh, deem not they are blest aloneWhose lives a peaceful tenor keep:The Power who pities man, has shownA blessing for the eyes that weep.
The light of smiles shall fill againThe lids that overflow with tears;And weary hours of woe and painAre promises of happier years.
There is a day of sunny restFor every dark and troubled night;And grief may bide an evening guest,But joy shall come with early light.
And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bierDost shed the bitter drops like rain,Hope that a brighter, happier sphereWill give him to thy arms again.
Nor let the good man's trust depart,Though life its common gifts deny,—Though with a pierced and bleeding heartAnd spurned of men, he goes to die.
For God hath marked each sorrowing dayAnd numbered every secret tear,And heaven's long age of bliss shall payFor all his children suffer here.
William Cullen Bryant.