THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS

IN GEORGIAN BAYIN GEORGIAN BAY

From toil he wins his spirits light,From busy day the peaceful night,Rich, from the very want of wealth,In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.

Gray

King Francis was a hearty king, and loveda royal sport,And one day, as his lions strove, satlooking on the court;The nobles filled the benches round, theladies by their side,And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with onehe hoped to make his bride;And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see thatcrowning show,Valour and love, and a king above, and theroyal beasts below.Ramped and roared the lions, with horridlaughing jaws;They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams,a wind went with their paws.With wallowing might and stifled roar, theyrolled one on another,Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was ina thunderous smother;The bloody foam above the bars came whizzingthrough the air;Said Francis, then, "Good gentlemen, we'rebetter here than there!"De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, abeauteous, lively dame,With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes,which always seemed the same:She thought, "The Count, my lover, is asbrave as brave can be;He surely would do desperate things to showhis love of me!King, ladies, lover, all look on; the chanceis wond'rous fine;I'll drop my glove to prove his love; greatglory will be mine!"She dropped her glove to prove his love: thenlooked on him and smiled;He bowed and in a moment leaped among thelions wild:The leap was quick; return was quick; he soonregained his place;Then threw the glove, but not with love, rightin the lady's face!"In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" andhe rose from where he sat:"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love atask like that!"

Ramped and roared the lions, with horridlaughing jaws;They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams,a wind went with their paws.With wallowing might and stifled roar, theyrolled one on another,Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was ina thunderous smother;The bloody foam above the bars came whizzingthrough the air;Said Francis, then, "Good gentlemen, we'rebetter here than there!"

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, abeauteous, lively dame,With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes,which always seemed the same:She thought, "The Count, my lover, is asbrave as brave can be;He surely would do desperate things to showhis love of me!King, ladies, lover, all look on; the chanceis wond'rous fine;I'll drop my glove to prove his love; greatglory will be mine!"

She dropped her glove to prove his love: thenlooked on him and smiled;He bowed and in a moment leaped among thelions wild:The leap was quick; return was quick; he soonregained his place;Then threw the glove, but not with love, rightin the lady's face!"In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" andhe rose from where he sat:"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love atask like that!"

Leigh Hunt

You are standing on a narrow, thread-like road, which has barely room to draw itself along between the rocky bank of the River Inn, and the base of a frowning buttress of the Solstein, which towers many hundred feet perpendicularly above you. You throw your head far back and look up; and there you have a vision of a plumed hunter, lofty and chivalrous in his bearing, who is bounding heedlessly on after a chamois to the very verge of a precipice. Mark!—he loses his footing—he rolls helplessly from rock to rock! There is a pause in his headlong course. What is it that arrests him? Ah! he puts forth his mighty strength, and clings, hand and foot, with the grip of despair, to a narrow ledge of rock, and there he hangs over the abyss! It is the Emperor Maximilian! The Abbot of Wiltau comes forth from his cell, sees an imperial destiny suspended between heaven and earth, and, crossing himself with awe, bids prayers be put up for the welfare of a passing soul.

Hark! there is a wild cry ringing through the upper air! Ha! Zyps of Zirl, thou hunted and hunting outlaw, art thou out upon theheights at this fearful moment? Watch the hardy mountaineer! He binds hiscramponson his feet,—he is making his perilous way towards his failing Emperor;—now bounding like a hunted chamois; now creeping like an insect; now clinging like a root of ivy; now dropping like a squirrel:—he reaches the fainting monarch just as he relaxes his grasp on the jutting rock. Courage, Kaiser!—there is a hunter's hand for thee, a hunter's iron-shod foot to guide thee to safety. Look! They clamber up the face of the rock, on points and ledges where scarce the small hoof of the chamois might find a hold; and the peasant-folk still maintain that an angel came down to their master's rescue. We will, however, refer the marvellous escape to the interposing hand of a pitying Providence.

Zyps, the outlaw, becomes Count Hallooer von Hohenfeldsen—"Lord of the wild cry of the lofty rock;" and in the old pension-list of the proud house of Hapsburg may still be seen an entry to this effect: that sixteen florins were paid annually to one "Zyps of Zirl." As you look up from the base of the Martinswand, you may, with pains, distinguish a cross, which has been planted on the narrow ledge where the Emperor was rescued by the outlaw.

There is another vision, an imperial one also. The night is dark and wild. Gusty winds come howling down from the mountain passes, driving sheets of blinding rain before them, and whirling them round in hissing eddies. At intervals the clouds are rent asunder, and the moon takes a hurried look at the world below. What doesshesee? and what dowehear? for there are other sounds stirring besides the ravings of the tempest, in that wild cleft of the mountains, which guard Innsbruck, on the Carinthian side.

There is a hurried tramp of feet, a crowding and crushing up through the steep and narrow gorge, a mutter of suppressed voices, a fitful glancing of torches, which now flare up bravely enough, now wither in a moment before the derisive laugh of the storm. At the head of the melée there is a litter borne on the shoulders of a set of sure-footed hunters of the hills; and around this litter is clustered a moving constellation of lamps, which are anxiously shielded from the rude wrath of the tempest. A group of stately figures, wrapped in rich military cloaks, with helms glistening in the torch-light, and plumes streaming on the wind, struggle onward beside the litter.

And who is this reclining there, his teeth firmly set to imprison the stifled groan of physical anguish? He is but fifty-three years of age, but the lines of premature decay are ploughed deep along brow and cheek, while his yellow locks are silvered and crisped with care. Who can mistake that full, expansive forehead, that aquiline nose, that cold, stern blue eye, and that heavy, obstinate, Austrian underlip, for other than those of the mighty Emperor Charles V? And can this suffering invalid, flying from foes who are almost on the heels of his attendants, jolted over craggy passes in midnight darkness, buffeted by the tempest, and withered by the sneer of adverse fortune—canthis be the Emperor of Germany, King of Spain, Lord of the Netherlands, of Naples, of Lombardy, and the proud chief of the golden Western World? Yes, Charles, thou art reading a stern lesson by that fitful torch-light; but thy strong will is yet unbent, and thy stern nature yet unsoftened.

And who is the swift "avenger of blood" who is following close as a sleuth-hound on thy track? It is Maurice of Saxony—a match for thee in boldness of daring, and in strength of will. But Charles wins the midnight race;and yet, instead of bowing before Him whose "long-suffering would lead to repentance," he ascribes his escape to the "star of Austria," ever in the ascendant, and mutters his favourite saying, "Myself, and the lucky moment."

One more scene: it is the year 1809. Bonaparte has decreed in the secret council chamber, where his own will is his sole adviser, that the Tyrol shall be cleared of its troublesome nest of warrior-hunters. Ten thousand French and Bavarian soldiers have penetrated as far as the Upper Innthal, and are boldly pushing on towards Prutz.

But the mountain-walls of this profound valley are closing gloomily together, as if they would forbid even the indignant river to force its wild way betwixt them.Isthere a path through the frowning gorge other than that rocky way which is fiercely held by the current? Yes, there is a narrow road, painfully grooved by the hand of man out of the mountain side, now running along like a gallery, now dropping down to the brink of the stream. But the glittering array winds on. There is the heavy tread of the foot-soldiers, the trampling of horse, the dull rumble of the guns, the waving and flapping of the colours,and the angry remonstrance of the Inn. But all else is still as a midnight sleep, except, indeed, when the eagles of the crag, startled from their eyries, raise their shrill cry as they spread their living wings above the gilded eagles of France.

Suddenly a voice is heard far up amid the mists of the heights—not the eagle's crythistime—not the freak of a wayward echo—but human words, which say "Shall we begin?" Silence! It is a host that holds its breath and listens. Was it a spirit of the upper air parleying with its kind? If so, it has its answer countersigned across the dark gulf. "Noch nicht!"—"Not yet!" The whole invading army pause: there is a wavering and writhing in the glittering serpent-length of that mighty force which is helplessly uncoiled along the base of the mountain. But hark! the voice of the hills is heard again, and it says "Now!"

Now, then, descends the wild avalanche of destruction, and all is tumult, dismay, and death. The very crags of the mountain side, loosened in preparation, come bounding, thundering down. Trunks and roots of pine trees, gathering speed on their headlong way, are launched down upon the powerless foe, mingledwith the deadly hail of the Tyrolese rifles. And this fearful storm descends along the whole line at once. No marvel that two-thirds of all that brilliant invading army are crushed to death along the grooved pathway, or are tumbled, horse and man, into the choked and swollen river.

Enough of horrors! Who would willingly linger on the hideous details of such a scene? Sorrowful that man should come, with his evil ambitions and his fierce revenges, to stain and to spoil such wonders of beauty as the hand of the Creator has here moulded. Sorrowful that man, in league with the serpent, should writhe into such scenes as these, and poison them with the virus of sin.

Richter

Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall railAgainst her beauty? May she mixWith men and prosper! Who shall fixHer pillars? Let her work prevail.... Let her know her place;She is the second, not the first,A higher hand must make her mild,If all be not in vain; and guideHer footsteps, moving side by sideWith wisdom, like the younger child.

Tennyson

(A Cavalier Song)

To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the clarion'snote is high!To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the big drummakes reply!Ere this hath Lucas marched, with his gallantcavaliers,And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainterin our ears.To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas! White Guy isat the door,And the raven whets his beak o'er the field ofMarston Moor.Up rose the Lady Alice, from her brief andbroken prayer,And she brought a silken banner down the narrowturret-stair,Oh! many were the tears that those radiant eyeshad shed,As she traced the bright word "Glory" in thegay and glancing thread;And mournful was the smile which o'er thoselovely features ranAs she said, "It is your lady's gift, unfurlit in the van!""It shall flutter, noble wench, where the bestand boldest ride,Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, theblack dragoons of Pride;The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel asicklier qualm,And the rebel lips of Oliver give out alouder psalm,When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudlyon their wing,And hear her loyal soldier's shout, 'For Godand for the King.'"'Tis noon. The ranks are broken, along theroyal lineThey fly, the braggarts of the court! thebullies of the Rhine!Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, andAstley's helm is down,And Rupert sheathes his rapier, with a curseand with a frown,And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows intheir flight,"The German boor had better far have supped inYork to-night."The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleftin twain,His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with manya gory stain;Yet still he waves his banner, and cries amidthe rout,"For Church and King, fair gentlemen! spur on,and fight it out!"And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now hehums a stave,And now he quotes a stage-play, and now hefells a knave.God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! thou hast nothought of fear;God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! for fearful oddsare here!The rebels hem thee in, and at every cut and thrust,"Down, down," they cry, "with Belial! down withhim to the dust.""I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that Belial'strusty swordThis day were doing battle for the Saints andfor the Lord!"The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower,The gray-haired warder watches from the castle'stopmost tower;"What news? what news, old Hubert?"—"The battle'slost and won;The royal troops are melting, like mists beforethe sun!And a wounded man approaches;—I'm blind, andcannot see,Yet sure I am that sturdy step my master's stepmust be!""I've brought thee back thy banner, wench, fromas rude and red a fray,As e'er was proof of soldier's thew or theme forminstrel's lay!Here, Hubert, bring the silver bowl, and liquorquantum suff.,I'll make a shift to drain it yet, ere I part withboots and buff;—Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathingforth his life,And I come to thee a landless man, my fond andfaithful wife!"Sweet! we will fill our money-bags, and freighta ship for France,And mourn in merry Paris for this poor land'smischance:For if the worst befall me, why, better axeand rope,Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Petersfor a pope!Alas! alas! my gallant Guy!—curse on thecrop-eared boor,Who sent me with my standard, on foot fromMarston Moor!"

Up rose the Lady Alice, from her brief andbroken prayer,And she brought a silken banner down the narrowturret-stair,Oh! many were the tears that those radiant eyeshad shed,As she traced the bright word "Glory" in thegay and glancing thread;And mournful was the smile which o'er thoselovely features ranAs she said, "It is your lady's gift, unfurlit in the van!"

"It shall flutter, noble wench, where the bestand boldest ride,Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, theblack dragoons of Pride;The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel asicklier qualm,And the rebel lips of Oliver give out alouder psalm,When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudlyon their wing,And hear her loyal soldier's shout, 'For Godand for the King.'"

'Tis noon. The ranks are broken, along theroyal lineThey fly, the braggarts of the court! thebullies of the Rhine!Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, andAstley's helm is down,And Rupert sheathes his rapier, with a curseand with a frown,And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows intheir flight,"The German boor had better far have supped inYork to-night."

The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleftin twain,His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with manya gory stain;Yet still he waves his banner, and cries amidthe rout,"For Church and King, fair gentlemen! spur on,and fight it out!"And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now hehums a stave,And now he quotes a stage-play, and now hefells a knave.

God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! thou hast nothought of fear;God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! for fearful oddsare here!The rebels hem thee in, and at every cut and thrust,"Down, down," they cry, "with Belial! down withhim to the dust.""I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that Belial'strusty swordThis day were doing battle for the Saints andfor the Lord!"

The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower,The gray-haired warder watches from the castle'stopmost tower;"What news? what news, old Hubert?"—"The battle'slost and won;The royal troops are melting, like mists beforethe sun!And a wounded man approaches;—I'm blind, andcannot see,Yet sure I am that sturdy step my master's stepmust be!"

"I've brought thee back thy banner, wench, fromas rude and red a fray,As e'er was proof of soldier's thew or theme forminstrel's lay!Here, Hubert, bring the silver bowl, and liquorquantum suff.,I'll make a shift to drain it yet, ere I part withboots and buff;—Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathingforth his life,And I come to thee a landless man, my fond andfaithful wife!

"Sweet! we will fill our money-bags, and freighta ship for France,And mourn in merry Paris for this poor land'smischance:For if the worst befall me, why, better axeand rope,Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Petersfor a pope!Alas! alas! my gallant Guy!—curse on thecrop-eared boor,Who sent me with my standard, on foot fromMarston Moor!"

W. M. Praed

The huge city perhaps never impressed the imagination more than when approaching it by night on the top of a coach you saw its numberless lights flaring, as Tennyson says "like a dreary dawn." The most impressive approach is now by the river through the infinitude of docks, quays, and shipping. London is not a city, but a province of brick and stone. Hardly even from the top of St. Paul's or of the Monument can anything like a view of the city as a whole be obtained. It is indispensable, however, to make one or the other of those ascents when a clear day can be found, not so much because the view is fine, as because you will get a sensation of vastness and multitude not easily to be forgotten. There is or was, not long ago, a point on the ridge that connectsHampstead with Highgate from which, as you looked over London to the Surrey Hills beyond, the modern Babylon presented something like the aspect of a city. The ancient Babylon may have vied with London in circumference, but the greater part of its area was occupied by open spaces; the modern Babylon is a dense mass of humanity. London with its suburbs has five millions of inhabitants, and still it grows. It grows through the passion which seems to be seizing mankind everywhere, on this continent as well as in Europe, for emigration from the country into the town, not only as the centre of wealth and employment, but as the centre of excitement, and, as the people fondly fancy, of enjoyment. The Empire and the commercial relations of England draw representatives of trading communities or subject races from all parts of the globe, and the faces and costumes of the Hindoo, the Parsi, the Lascar, and the ubiquitous Chinaman, mingle in the motley crowd with the merchants of Europe and America. The streets of London are, in this respect, to the modern, what the great Place of Tyre must have been to the ancient world. But pile Carthage on Tyre, Venice on Carthage, Amsterdam on Venice, andyou will not make the equal, or anything near the equal, of London. Here is the great mart of the world, to which the best and richest products are brought from every land and clime, so that if you have put money in your purse you may command every object of utility or fancy which grows or is made anywhere, without going beyond the circuit of the great cosmopolitan city. Parisian, German, Russian, Hindoo, Japanese, Chinese industry is as much at your service here, if you have the all-compelling talisman in your pocket, as in Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Benares, Yokohama or Pekin. That London is the great distributing centre of the world is shown by the fleets of the carrying trade of which the countless masts rise along her wharves and in her docks. She is also the bank of the world. But we are reminded of the vicissitudes of commerce and the precarious tenure by which its empire is held when we consider that the bank of the world in the middle of the last century was Amsterdam.

The first and perhaps the greatest marvel of London is the commissariat. How can the five millions be regularly supplied with food, and everything needful to life, even with such things as milk and those kinds of fruit whichcan hardly be left beyond a day? Here again we see reason for concluding that though there may be fraud and scamping in the industrial world, genuine production, faithful service, disciplined energy, and skill in organization cannot wholly have departed from the earth. London is not only well fed, but well supplied with water and well drained. Vastly and densely peopled as it is, it is a healthy city. Yet the limit of practicable extension seems to be nearly reached. It becomes a question how the increasing multitude shall be supplied not only with food and water but with air.

There is something very impressive in the roar of the vast city. It is a sound of a Niagara of human life. It ceases not except during the hour or two before dawn, when the last carriages have rolled away from the balls and the market carts have hardly begun to come in. Only in returning from a very late ball is the visitor likely to have a chance of seeing what Wordsworth saw from Westminster Bridge:

"Earth has not anything to show more fair;Dull would he be of soul who could pass byA sight so touching in its majesty;This City now doth, like a garment, wearThe beauty of the morning; silent, bare,Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lieOpen unto the fields, and to the sky;All bright and glittering in the open air.Never did sun more beautifully steepIn his first splendour, valley, rock or hill;Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!The river glideth at his own sweet will:Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;And all that mighty heart is lying still!"

Goldwin Smith: "A Trip to England."

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,And into the midnight we galloped abreast.Not a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye's black intelligence—ever that glanceO'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.So we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!""How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news, which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood!And all I remember is,—friends flocking round,As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye's black intelligence—ever that glanceO'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news, which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood!

And all I remember is,—friends flocking round,As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

Browning

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming-day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.Just as perhaps he mused "My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,"—Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You scarcely could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through)You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two."Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's graceWe've got you Ratisbon!The Marshal's in the market-place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire,Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.The chief's eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle's eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes;"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said:"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,Smiling the boy fell dead.

Just as perhaps he mused "My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,"—Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You scarcely could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through)You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's graceWe've got you Ratisbon!The Marshal's in the market-place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire,Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle's eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes;"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said:"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,Smiling the boy fell dead.

Browning

I made them lay their hands in mine and swearTo reverence the King, as if he wereTheir conscience, and their conscience as their King,To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it.

Tennyson

The sagacity of England is in nothing more clearly shown than in the foresight with which she has provided against the emergency of war. Let it come when it may, it will not find her unprepared. So thickly are her colonies and naval stations scattered over the face of the Earth, that her war-ships can speedily reach every commercial centre on the globe.

There is that great centre of commerce, the Mediterranean Sea. It was a great centre long ago, when the Phœnician traversed it, and, passing through the Pillars of Hercules, sped on his way to the distant, and then savage, Britain. It was a great centre when Rome and Carthage wrestled in a death-grapple for its possession. But at the present day England is as much at home on the Mediterranean as if it were one of her own Canadian lakes.

Nor is it simply the number of the British colonies, or the evenness with which they are distributed, that challenges our admiration. The positions which these colonies occupy, and their natural military strength, are quite asimportant facts. There is not a sea or a gulf in the world, which has any real commercial importance, but England has a stronghold on its shores. And wherever the continents tending southward come to points, around which the commerce of nations must sweep, there is a British settlement; and the cross of St. George salutes you as you are wafted by. There is hardly a little desolate, rocky island or peninsula, formed apparently by Nature for a fortress, and nothing else, but the British flag floats securely over it.

These are literal facts. Take, for example, the great Overland Route from Europe to Asia. Despite its name, its real highway is on the waters of the Mediterranean and Red Seas. It has three gates—three only. England holds the key to every one of these gates. Count them—Gibraltar, Malta, Aden. But she commands the entrance to the Red Sea, not by one, but by several strongholds. Midway in the narrow strait is the black, bare rock of Perim, sterile, precipitous, a perfect counterpart of Gibraltar; and on either side, between it and the mainland, are the ship-channels which connect the Red Sea with the great Indian Ocean. This rock England holds.

A little farther out is the peninsula of Aden, another Gibraltar, as rocky, as sterile, and as precipitous, connected with the mainland by a narrow strait, and having a harbour safe in all winds, and a central coal depôt. This England bought in 1839. And to complete her security, she has purchased from some petty sultan the neighbouring islands of Socotra and Kouri, giving, as it were, a retaining fee, so that, though she does not need them herself, no rival power may ever possess them.

As we sail a little farther on, we come to the China Sea. What a beaten track of commerce is this! What wealth of comfort and luxury is wafted over it by every breeze!—the teas of China; the silks of farther India; the spices of the East. The ships of every clime and nation swarm on its waters—the stately barques of England, France, and Holland; the swift ships of America; and mingled with them, in picturesque confusion, the clumsy junk of the Chinaman, and the slender, darting canoe of the Malaysian islanders.

At the lower end of the China Sea, where it narrows into Malacca Strait, England holds the little island of Singapore—a spot of no use to her whatever, except as a commercial depôt, butof inestimable value for that; a spot which, under her fostering care, is growing up to take its place among the great emporiums of the world. Half-way up the sea she holds the island of Labuan, whose chief worth is this, that beneath its surface and that of the neighbouring mainland there lie inexhaustible treasures of coal, which are likely to yield wealth and power to the hand that controls them. At the upper end of the sea she holds Hong-Kong, a hot, unhealthy island, but an invaluable base from which to threaten and control the neighbouring waters.

Even in the broad, and as yet comparatively untracked Pacific, she is making silent advances towards dominion. The vast continent of Australia, which she has secured, forms its south-western boundary. And pushed out six hundred miles eastward from this lies New Zealand, like a strong outpost, its shores so scooped and torn by the waves that it must be a very paradise of commodious bays and safe havens for the mariner. The soil, too, is of extraordinary fertility; and the climate, though humid, deals kindly with the Englishman's constitution. Nor is this all; for, advanced from it, north and south, like picket stations,are Norfolk Island, and the Auckland group, both of which have good harbours. And it requires no prophet's eye to see that, when England needs posts farther eastward, she will find them among the green coral islets that stud the Pacific.

Turn now your steps homeward, and pause a moment at the Bermudas, those beautiful isles, with their fresh verdure—green gems in the ocean, with air soft and balmy as Eden's was! They have their home uses too. They furnish arrow-root for the sick, and ample supplies of vegetables earlier than sterner climates will yield them. Is this all that can be said? Reflect a little more deeply. These islands possess a great military and naval depôt; and a splendid harbour, landlocked, strongly fortified, and difficult of access to strangers;—and all within a few days' sail of the chief ports of the Atlantic shores of the New World. England therefore retains them as a station on the road to her West Indian possessions; and should America go to war with her, she would use it as a base for offensive operations, where she might gather and whence she might hurl upon any unprotected port all her gigantic naval and military power.

"Atlantic Monthly."

What have I done for you,England, my England?What is there I would not do,England, my own?With your glorious eyes austere,As the Lord were walking near,Whispering terrible things and dearAs the Song on your bugles blown, England—Round the world on your bugles blown!Where shall the watchful sun,England, my England,Match the master-work you've done,England, my own?When shall he rejoice agenSuch a breed of mighty menAs come forward, one to ten,To the Song on your bugles blown, England—Down the years on your bugles blown?Ever the faith endures,England, my England:—"Take and break us: we are yours,England, my own!Life is good, and joy runs highBetween English earth and sky:Death is death; but we shall dieTo the Song on your bugles blown, England—To the stars on your bugles blown!"They call you proud and hard,England, my England:You with worlds to watch and ward,England, my own!You whose mailed hand keeps the keysOf such teeming destinies,You could know nor dread nor easeWere the Song on your bugles blown, England—Round the Pit on your bugles blown!Mother of Ships whose might,England, my England,Is the fierce old Sea's delight,England, my own,Chosen daughter of the Lord,Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,There's the menace of the WordIn the Song on your bugles blown, England—Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful sun,England, my England,Match the master-work you've done,England, my own?When shall he rejoice agenSuch a breed of mighty menAs come forward, one to ten,To the Song on your bugles blown, England—Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,England, my England:—"Take and break us: we are yours,England, my own!Life is good, and joy runs highBetween English earth and sky:Death is death; but we shall dieTo the Song on your bugles blown, England—To the stars on your bugles blown!"

They call you proud and hard,England, my England:You with worlds to watch and ward,England, my own!You whose mailed hand keeps the keysOf such teeming destinies,You could know nor dread nor easeWere the Song on your bugles blown, England—Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might,England, my England,Is the fierce old Sea's delight,England, my own,Chosen daughter of the Lord,Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,There's the menace of the WordIn the Song on your bugles blown, England—Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

W. E. Henley

(Charles Mackay, at the end of his American tour in 1859, was entertained in Boston by the leading literary men. This poem, written for the occasion, was read to speed the parting guest.)

Brave singer of the coming time,Sweet minstrel of the joyous present,Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme,The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant,[4]Good-bye! Good-bye!—Our hearts and hands,Our lips in honest Saxon phrases,Cry, God be with him, till he standsHis feet among the English daisies!'Tis here we part;—for other eyesThe busy deck, the fluttering streamer,The dripping arms that plunge and rise,The waves in foam, the ship in tremor,The kerchiefs waving from the pier,The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him,The deep blue desert, lone and drear,With heaven above and home before him!His home!—the Western giant smiles,And twirls the spotty globe to find it;—This little speck the British Isles?'Tis but a freckle,—never mind it!He laughs, and all his prairies roll,Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles,And ridges stretched from pole to poleHeave till they crack their iron knuckles!But Memory blushes at the sneer,And Honour turns with frown defiant,And Freedom, leaning on her spear,Laughs louder than the laughing giant:"An islet is a world," she said,"When glory with its dust has blended,And Britain keeps her noble deadTill earth and seas and skies are rended!"Beneath each swinging forest-boughSome arm as stout in death reposes,—From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed browHer valour's life-blood runs in roses;Nay, let our brothers of the WestWrite smiling in their florid pages,One-half her soil has walked the restIn poets, heroes, martyrs, sages!Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp,From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather,The British oak with rooted graspHer slender handful holds together;Withcliffs of white and bowers of green,And Ocean narrowing to caress her,And hills and threaded streams between;—Our little mother isle, God bless her!

'Tis here we part;—for other eyesThe busy deck, the fluttering streamer,The dripping arms that plunge and rise,The waves in foam, the ship in tremor,The kerchiefs waving from the pier,The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him,The deep blue desert, lone and drear,With heaven above and home before him!

His home!—the Western giant smiles,And twirls the spotty globe to find it;—This little speck the British Isles?'Tis but a freckle,—never mind it!He laughs, and all his prairies roll,Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles,And ridges stretched from pole to poleHeave till they crack their iron knuckles!

But Memory blushes at the sneer,And Honour turns with frown defiant,And Freedom, leaning on her spear,Laughs louder than the laughing giant:"An islet is a world," she said,"When glory with its dust has blended,And Britain keeps her noble deadTill earth and seas and skies are rended!"

Beneath each swinging forest-boughSome arm as stout in death reposes,—From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed browHer valour's life-blood runs in roses;Nay, let our brothers of the WestWrite smiling in their florid pages,One-half her soil has walked the restIn poets, heroes, martyrs, sages!

Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp,From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather,The British oak with rooted graspHer slender handful holds together;Withcliffs of white and bowers of green,And Ocean narrowing to caress her,And hills and threaded streams between;—Our little mother isle, God bless her!

Oliver Wendell Holmes

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