Theday is dark and the nightTo him that would search their heart;No lips of cloud that will partNor morning song in the light:Only, gazing alone,To him wild shadows are shown,Deep under deep unknownAnd height above unknown height.Still we say as we go,—"Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day."The Past is over and fled;Named new, we name it the old;Thereof some tale hath been told,But no word comes from the dead;Whether at all they be,Or whether as bond or free,Or whether they too were we,Or by what spell they have sped.Still we say as we go,—"Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day."What of the heart of hateThat beats in thy breast, O Time?—Red strife from the furthest prime,And anguish of fierce debate;War that shatters her slain,And peace that grinds them as grain,And eyes fix'd ever in vainOn the pitiless eyes of Fate.Still we say as we go,—"Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day."What of the heart of loveThat bleeds in thy breast, O Man?—Thy kisses snatch'd 'neath the banOf fangs that mock them above;Thy bells prolong'd unto knells,Thy hope that a breath dispels,Thy bitter forlorn farewellsAnd the empty echoes thereof?Still we say as we go,—"Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day."The sky leans dumb on the sea,Aweary with all its wings;And oh! the song the sea singsIs dark everlastingly.Our past is clean forgot,Our present is and is not,Our future's a seal'd seedplot,And what betwixt them are we?—We who say as we go,—"Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day."

The Past is over and fled;Named new, we name it the old;Thereof some tale hath been told,But no word comes from the dead;Whether at all they be,Or whether as bond or free,Or whether they too were we,Or by what spell they have sped.Still we say as we go,—"Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day."

What of the heart of hateThat beats in thy breast, O Time?—Red strife from the furthest prime,And anguish of fierce debate;War that shatters her slain,And peace that grinds them as grain,And eyes fix'd ever in vainOn the pitiless eyes of Fate.Still we say as we go,—"Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day."

What of the heart of loveThat bleeds in thy breast, O Man?—Thy kisses snatch'd 'neath the banOf fangs that mock them above;Thy bells prolong'd unto knells,Thy hope that a breath dispels,Thy bitter forlorn farewellsAnd the empty echoes thereof?Still we say as we go,—"Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day."

The sky leans dumb on the sea,Aweary with all its wings;And oh! the song the sea singsIs dark everlastingly.Our past is clean forgot,Our present is and is not,Our future's a seal'd seedplot,And what betwixt them are we?—We who say as we go,—"Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day."

Upfrom the meadows rich with corn,Clear in the cool September morn,The cluster'd spires of Frederick standGreen-wall'd by the hills of Maryland.Round about them orchards sweep,Apple and peach tree fruited deep,—Fair as a garden of the LordTo the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde,On that pleasant morn of the early fallWhen Lee march'd over the mountain wall,—Over the mountains winding down,Horse and foot, into Frederick town.Forty flags with their silver stars,Forty flags with their crimson bars,Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sunOf noon look'd down, and saw not one.Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten;Bravest of all in Frederick town,She took up the flag the men haul'd down;In her attic-window the staff she set,To show that one heart was loyal yet.Up the street came the rebel tread,Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.Under his slouch'd hat left and rightHe glanced: the old flag met his sight."Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast"Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.It shiver'd the window, pane and sash;It rent the banner with seam and gash.Quick, as it fell, from the broken staffDame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf;She lean'd far out on the window-sill,And shook it forth with a royal will."Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,But spare your country's flag!" she said.A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,Over the face of the leader came;The nobler nature within him stirr'dTo life at that woman's deed and word:"Who touches a hair of yon grey head,Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.All day long through Frederick streetSounded the tread of marching feet:All day long that free flag toss'dOver the heads of the rebel host.Ever its torn folds rose and fellOn the loyal winds that lov'd it well;And through the hill-gaps sunset lightShone over it with a warm good-night.Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,And the Rebel rides on his raids no moreHonor to her! and let a tearFall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!Peace and order and beauty drawRound thy symbol of light and law;And ever the stars above look downOn thy stars below in Frederick town!

Upfrom the meadows rich with corn,Clear in the cool September morn,

The cluster'd spires of Frederick standGreen-wall'd by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,Apple and peach tree fruited deep,—

Fair as a garden of the LordTo the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fallWhen Lee march'd over the mountain wall,—

Over the mountains winding down,Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sunOf noon look'd down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,She took up the flag the men haul'd down;

In her attic-window the staff she set,To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouch'd hat left and rightHe glanced: the old flag met his sight.

"Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast"Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shiver'd the window, pane and sash;It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staffDame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf;

She lean'd far out on the window-sill,And shook it forth with a royal will.

"Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,But spare your country's flag!" she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirr'dTo life at that woman's deed and word:

"Who touches a hair of yon grey head,Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick streetSounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag toss'dOver the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fellOn the loyal winds that lov'd it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset lightShone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,And the Rebel rides on his raids no more

Honor to her! and let a tearFall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty drawRound thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look downOn thy stars below in Frederick town!

LittleI ask; my wants are few;I only wish a hut of stone,(Avery plainbrown stone will do,)That I may call my own;—And close at hand is such a one,In yonder street that fronts the sun.Plain food is quite enough for me;Three courses are as good as ten;—If Nature can subsist on three,Thank Heaven for three. Amen!I always thought cold victual nice;—Mychoicewould be vanilla-ice.I care not much for gold or land;—Give me a mortgage here and there,—Some good bank-stock,—some note of hand,Or trifling railroad share,—I only ask that Fortune sendAlittlemore than I shall spend.Honors are silly toys, I know,And titles are but empty names;I would,perhaps, be Plenipo,—But only near St. James;I'm very sure I should not careTo fill our Gubernator's chair.Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sinTo care for such unfruitful things;—One good-sized diamond in a pin,—Some,not so large, in rings,—A ruby, and a pearl, or so,Will do for me;—I laugh at show.My dame should dress in cheap attire;(Good, heavy silks are never dear;)—I own perhaps ImightdesireSome shawls of true Cashmere,—Some marrowy crapes of China silk,Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.I would not have the horse I driveSo fast that folks must stop and stare;An easy gait—two, forty-five—Suits me; I do not care,—Perhaps for just asingle spurt,Some seconds less would do no hurt.Of pictures I should like to ownTitians and Raphaels three or four,—I love so much their style and tone,—One Turner, and no more,(A landscape,—foreground golden dirt,—The sunshine painted with a squirt.)Of books but few,—some fifty scoreFor daily use, and bound for wear;The rest upon an upper floor;—SomelittleluxurythereOf red morocco's gilded gleam,And vellum rich as country cream.Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these,Which others often show for pride,Ivalue for their power to please,And selfish churls deride;—OneStradivarius, I confess,TwoMeerschaums, I would fain possess.Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;—Shall not carv'd tables serve my turn,Butallmust be of buhl?Give grasping pomp its double share,—I ask butonerecumbent chair.Thus humble let me live and die,Nor long for Midas' golden touch;If Heaven more generous gifts deny,I shall not miss themmuch,—Too grateful for the blessing lentOf simple tastes and mind content.

LittleI ask; my wants are few;I only wish a hut of stone,(Avery plainbrown stone will do,)That I may call my own;—And close at hand is such a one,In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;Three courses are as good as ten;—If Nature can subsist on three,Thank Heaven for three. Amen!I always thought cold victual nice;—Mychoicewould be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;—Give me a mortgage here and there,—Some good bank-stock,—some note of hand,Or trifling railroad share,—I only ask that Fortune sendAlittlemore than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know,And titles are but empty names;I would,perhaps, be Plenipo,—But only near St. James;I'm very sure I should not careTo fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sinTo care for such unfruitful things;—One good-sized diamond in a pin,—Some,not so large, in rings,—A ruby, and a pearl, or so,Will do for me;—I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire;(Good, heavy silks are never dear;)—I own perhaps ImightdesireSome shawls of true Cashmere,—Some marrowy crapes of China silk,Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I driveSo fast that folks must stop and stare;An easy gait—two, forty-five—Suits me; I do not care,—Perhaps for just asingle spurt,Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures I should like to ownTitians and Raphaels three or four,—I love so much their style and tone,—One Turner, and no more,(A landscape,—foreground golden dirt,—The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few,—some fifty scoreFor daily use, and bound for wear;The rest upon an upper floor;—SomelittleluxurythereOf red morocco's gilded gleam,And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these,Which others often show for pride,Ivalue for their power to please,And selfish churls deride;—OneStradivarius, I confess,TwoMeerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;—Shall not carv'd tables serve my turn,Butallmust be of buhl?Give grasping pomp its double share,—I ask butonerecumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,Nor long for Midas' golden touch;If Heaven more generous gifts deny,I shall not miss themmuch,—Too grateful for the blessing lentOf simple tastes and mind content.

Flower in the crannied wall,I pluck you out of the crannies;—Hold you here, root and all, in my hand,Little flower—but if I could understandWhat you are, root and all, and all in all,I should know what God and man is.Tennyson.

Tennyson.

TheConstitution has not been the offspring of the thought of man. The Cabinet, and all the present relations of the Constitutional powers in this country, have grown into their present dimensions, and settled into their present places, not as the fruit of a philosophy, not in the effort to give effect to an abstract principle; but by the silent action of forces, invisible and insensible, the structure has come up into the view of all the world. It is, perhaps, the most conspicuous object on the wide political horizon; but it has thus risen, without noise, like the temple of Jerusalem."No workman steel, no ponderous hammers rung;Like some tall palm the stately fabric sprung."When men repeat the proverb which teaches us that "marriages are made in heaven," what they mean is that, in the most fundamental of all social operations, the building up of the family, the issues involved in the nuptial contract, lie beyond the best exercise of human thought, and the unseen forces of providential government make good the defect in our imperfect capacity. Even so would it seem to have been in that curious marriage of competing influences and powers, which brings about the composite harmony of the British Constitution. More, it must be admitted, than any other, it leaves open doors which lead into blind alleys; for it presumes, more boldly than any other, the good sense and good faith of those who work it. If, unhappily, these personages meettogether, on the great arena of a nation's fortunes, as jockeys meet upon a racecourse, each to urge to the uttermost, as against the others, the power of the animal he rides; or as counsel in a court, each to procure the victory of his client, without respect to any other interest or right: then this boasted Constitution of ours is neither more nor less than a heap of absurdities. The undoubted competency of each reaches even to the paralysis or destruction of the rest. The House of Commons is entitled to refuse every shilling of the Supplies. That House, and also the House of Lords, is entitled to refuse its assent to every Bill presented to it. The Crown is entitled to make a thousand Peers to-day, and as many to-morrow: it may dissolve all and every Parliament before it proceeds to business; may pardon the most atrocious crimes; may declare war against all the world; may conclude treaties involving unlimited responsibilities, and even vast expenditure, without the consent, nay without the knowledge, of Parliament, and this not merely in support or in development, but in reversal, of policy already known to and sanctioned by the nation. But the assumption is that the depositaries of power will all respect one another; will evince a consciousness that they are working in a common interest for a common end; that they will be possessed, together with not less than an average intelligence, of not less than an average sense of equity and of the public interest and rights. When these reasonable expectations fail, then, it must be admitted, the British Constitution will be in danger.Apart from such contingencies, the offspring only of folly or of crime, this Constitution is peculiarly liable to subtle change. Not only in the long-run, as man changes between youth and age, but also, like the human body,with a quotidian life, a periodical recurrence of ebbing and flowing tides. Its old particles daily run to waste, and give place to new. What is hoped among us is, that which has usually been found, that evils will become palpable before they have grown to be intolerable....Meantime, we of this island are not great political philosophers; and we contend with an earnest, but disproportioned, vehemence about changes which are palpable, such as the extension of the suffrage, or the redistribution of Parliamentary seats, neglecting wholly other processes of change which work beneath the surface, and in the dark, but which are even more fertile of great organic results. The modern English character reflects the English Constitution in this, that it abounds in paradox; that it possesses every strength, but holds it tainted with every weakness; that it seems alternately both to rise above and to fall below the standard of average humanity; that there is no allegation of praise or blame which, in some one of the aspects of its many-sided formation, it does not deserve; that only in the midst of much default, and much transgression, the people of this United Kingdom either have heretofore established, or will hereafter establish, their title to be reckoned among the children of men, for the eldest born of an imperial race.

"No workman steel, no ponderous hammers rung;Like some tall palm the stately fabric sprung."

When men repeat the proverb which teaches us that "marriages are made in heaven," what they mean is that, in the most fundamental of all social operations, the building up of the family, the issues involved in the nuptial contract, lie beyond the best exercise of human thought, and the unseen forces of providential government make good the defect in our imperfect capacity. Even so would it seem to have been in that curious marriage of competing influences and powers, which brings about the composite harmony of the British Constitution. More, it must be admitted, than any other, it leaves open doors which lead into blind alleys; for it presumes, more boldly than any other, the good sense and good faith of those who work it. If, unhappily, these personages meettogether, on the great arena of a nation's fortunes, as jockeys meet upon a racecourse, each to urge to the uttermost, as against the others, the power of the animal he rides; or as counsel in a court, each to procure the victory of his client, without respect to any other interest or right: then this boasted Constitution of ours is neither more nor less than a heap of absurdities. The undoubted competency of each reaches even to the paralysis or destruction of the rest. The House of Commons is entitled to refuse every shilling of the Supplies. That House, and also the House of Lords, is entitled to refuse its assent to every Bill presented to it. The Crown is entitled to make a thousand Peers to-day, and as many to-morrow: it may dissolve all and every Parliament before it proceeds to business; may pardon the most atrocious crimes; may declare war against all the world; may conclude treaties involving unlimited responsibilities, and even vast expenditure, without the consent, nay without the knowledge, of Parliament, and this not merely in support or in development, but in reversal, of policy already known to and sanctioned by the nation. But the assumption is that the depositaries of power will all respect one another; will evince a consciousness that they are working in a common interest for a common end; that they will be possessed, together with not less than an average intelligence, of not less than an average sense of equity and of the public interest and rights. When these reasonable expectations fail, then, it must be admitted, the British Constitution will be in danger.

Apart from such contingencies, the offspring only of folly or of crime, this Constitution is peculiarly liable to subtle change. Not only in the long-run, as man changes between youth and age, but also, like the human body,with a quotidian life, a periodical recurrence of ebbing and flowing tides. Its old particles daily run to waste, and give place to new. What is hoped among us is, that which has usually been found, that evils will become palpable before they have grown to be intolerable....

Meantime, we of this island are not great political philosophers; and we contend with an earnest, but disproportioned, vehemence about changes which are palpable, such as the extension of the suffrage, or the redistribution of Parliamentary seats, neglecting wholly other processes of change which work beneath the surface, and in the dark, but which are even more fertile of great organic results. The modern English character reflects the English Constitution in this, that it abounds in paradox; that it possesses every strength, but holds it tainted with every weakness; that it seems alternately both to rise above and to fall below the standard of average humanity; that there is no allegation of praise or blame which, in some one of the aspects of its many-sided formation, it does not deserve; that only in the midst of much default, and much transgression, the people of this United Kingdom either have heretofore established, or will hereafter establish, their title to be reckoned among the children of men, for the eldest born of an imperial race.

It fortifies my soul to knowThat, though I perish, Truth is so:That, howsoe'er I stray and range,Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change.I steadier step when I recallThat, if I slip Thou dost not fall.Arthur Hugh Clough.

It fortifies my soul to knowThat, though I perish, Truth is so:That, howsoe'er I stray and range,Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change.I steadier step when I recallThat, if I slip Thou dost not fall.

Arthur Hugh Clough.

Inher ear he whispers gayly,"If my heart by signs can tell,Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily,And I think thou lov'st me well."She replies, in accents fainter,"There is none I love like thee."He is but a landscape-painter,And a village maiden she.He to lips, that fondly falter,Presses his without reproof:Leads her to the village altar,And they leave her father's roof."I can make no marriage present;Little can I give my wife.Love will make our cottage pleasant,And I love thee more than life."They by parks and lodges goingSee the lordly castles stand:Summer woods, about them blowing,Made a murmur in the land.From deep thought himself he rousesSays to her that loves him well,"Let us see these handsome housesWhere the wealthy nobles dwell."So she goes by him attended,Hears him lovingly converse,Sees whatever fair and splendidLay betwixt his home and hers;Parks with oak and chestnut shady,Parks and order'd gardens great,Ancient homes of lord and lady,Built for pleasure and for state.All he shows her makes him dearer:Evermore she seems to gazeOn that cottage growing nearer,Where they twain will spend their days.O but she will love him truly!He shall have a cheerful home;She will order all things duly,When beneath his roof they come.Thus her heart rejoices greatly,Till a gateway she discernsWith armorial bearings stately,And beneath the gate she turns;Sees a mansion more majesticThan all those she saw before:Many a gallant gay domesticBows before him at the door.And they speak in gentle murmur,When they answer to his call,While he treads with footsteps firmer,Leading on from hall to hall.And, while now she wonders blindly,Nor the meaning can divine,Proudly turns he round and kindly,"All of this is mine and thine."Here he lives in state and bounty,Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,Not a lord in all the countyIs so great a lord as he.All at once the color flushesHer sweet face from brow to chin:As it were with shame she blushes,And her spirit changed within.Then her countenance all overPale again as death did prove;But he clasp'd her like a lover,And he cheer'd her soul with love.So she strove against her weakness,Tho' at times her spirits sank:Shaped her heart with woman's meeknessTo all duties of her rank:And a gentle consort made he,And her gentle mind was suchThat she grew a noble lady,And the people lov'd her much.But a trouble weigh'd upon her,And perplex'd her, night and morn,With the burden of an honorUnto which she was not born.Faint she grew, and ever fainter,As she murmur'd, "O, that heWere once more that landscape-painter,Which did win my heart from me!"So she droop'd and droop'd before him,Fading slowly from his side:Three fair children first she bore him,Then before her time she died.Weeping, weeping late and early,Walking up and pacing down,Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh,Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.And he came to look upon her,And he look'd at her and said,"Bring the dress and put it on her,That she wore when she was wed."Then her people, softly treading,Bore to earth her body, drestIn the dress that she was wed in,That her spirit might have rest.

And yet, dear heart! remembering thee,Am I not richer than of old?Whittier.

And yet, dear heart! remembering thee,Am I not richer than of old?

Whittier.

Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.

Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.

AtFlores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward!But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day,Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the landVery carefully and slow,Men of Bideford in Devon,And we laid them on the ballast down below;For we brought them all aboard,And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,And he sail'd away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow."Shall we fight or shall we fly?Good Sir Richard, let us know,For to fight is but to die!There'll be little of us left by the time the sun be set."And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen.Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet."Sir Richard spoke, and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and soThe little "Revenge" ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,And the little "Revenge" ran on thro' the long sea-lane between.Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks andlaugh'd,Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craftRunning on and on, till delay'dBy their mountain-like "San Philip" that, of fifteen hundred tons,And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.And while now the great "San Philip" hung above us like a cloudWhence the thunderbolt will fallLong and loud,Four galleons drew awayFrom the Spanish fleet that day,And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,And the battle-thunder broke from them all.But anon the great "San Philip," she bethought herself and went,Having that within her womb that had left her ill-content;And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand tohand,For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers,And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his earsWhen he leaps from the water to the land.And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over thesummer sea,But never a moment ceas'd the fight of the one and the fifty-three.Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleonscame,Ship after ship, the whole night long, with their battle-thunderand flame;Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her deadand her shame;For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fightus no more—God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?For he said, "Fight on! fight on!"Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck;And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone,With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck,But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,And he said, "Fight on! fight on!"And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over thesummer sea,And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we stillcould sting,So they watch'd what the end would be.And we had not fought them in vain,But in perilous plight were we,Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,And half of the rest of us maim'd for lifeIn the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;And the sick men down in the hold were most of them starkand cold,And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was allof it spent;And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;But Sir Richard cried in his English pride,"We have fought such a fight for a day and a nightAs may never be fought again!We have won great glory, my men!And a day less or moreAt sea or shore,We die—does it matter when?Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain!Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:"We have children, we have wives,And the Lord hath spared our lives.We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,And they prais'd him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do:With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"And he fell upon their decks, and he died.And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap,That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew,And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own;When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,And a wave like the wave that is rais'd by an earthquake grew,Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts andtheir flags,And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navyof Spain,And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island cragsTo be lost evermore in the main.There is no land like England, where'er the light of day be;There are no hearts like English hearts, such hearts of oak asthey be.Tennyson.

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."

So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day,Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the landVery carefully and slow,Men of Bideford in Devon,And we laid them on the ballast down below;For we brought them all aboard,And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,And he sail'd away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow."Shall we fight or shall we fly?Good Sir Richard, let us know,For to fight is but to die!There'll be little of us left by the time the sun be set."And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen.Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet."

Sir Richard spoke, and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and soThe little "Revenge" ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,And the little "Revenge" ran on thro' the long sea-lane between.

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks andlaugh'd,Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craftRunning on and on, till delay'dBy their mountain-like "San Philip" that, of fifteen hundred tons,And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.

And while now the great "San Philip" hung above us like a cloudWhence the thunderbolt will fallLong and loud,Four galleons drew awayFrom the Spanish fleet that day,And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

But anon the great "San Philip," she bethought herself and went,Having that within her womb that had left her ill-content;And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand tohand,For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers,And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his earsWhen he leaps from the water to the land.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over thesummer sea,But never a moment ceas'd the fight of the one and the fifty-three.Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleonscame,Ship after ship, the whole night long, with their battle-thunderand flame;Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her deadand her shame;For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fightus no more—God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?For he said, "Fight on! fight on!"Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck;And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone,With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck,But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,And he said, "Fight on! fight on!"

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over thesummer sea,And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we stillcould sting,So they watch'd what the end would be.And we had not fought them in vain,But in perilous plight were we,Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,And half of the rest of us maim'd for lifeIn the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;And the sick men down in the hold were most of them starkand cold,And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was allof it spent;And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;But Sir Richard cried in his English pride,"We have fought such a fight for a day and a nightAs may never be fought again!We have won great glory, my men!And a day less or moreAt sea or shore,We die—does it matter when?Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain!Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"

And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:"We have children, we have wives,And the Lord hath spared our lives.We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,And they prais'd him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do:With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap,That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew,And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own;When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,And a wave like the wave that is rais'd by an earthquake grew,Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts andtheir flags,And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navyof Spain,And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island cragsTo be lost evermore in the main.

There is no land like England, where'er the light of day be;There are no hearts like English hearts, such hearts of oak asthey be.

Tennyson.

Onthe 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 through the blue,Like a crowd of frighten'd 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 signall'd to the place"Help the winners of a race!Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick;—or, quickerstill,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?"laugh'd they:"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarr'd andscored,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 call'd a council straight.Brief and bitter the debate:"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them takein towAll that's left us of the fleet, link'd 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 stepp'd, 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 press'd by Tourville for the fleet,A poor coasting-pilot he,—HervéRiel, the Croisickese.And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries HervéRiel:"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 riverdisembogues?Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?Morn and eve, night and day,Have I piloted your bay,Enter'd free and anchor'd fast at the foot of Solidor.Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse thanfifty Hogues!Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe methere'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 HervéRiel.Not a minute more to wait."Steer us in, then, small and great!Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried itschief.Captains, give the sailor place!He is admiral, in brief.Still the north-wind, by God's grace!See the noble fellow's faceAs the big ship, with a bound,Clears the entry like a hound,Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea'sprofound!See, safe through 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 harbor'd to the last!And just as HervéRiel 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'erlookingGrève.Hearts that bled are stanch'd with balm."Just our rapture to enhance,Let the English rake the bay,Gnash their teeth and glare askanceAs they cannonade away!'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"Now hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance!Out burst all with one accord,"This is Paradise for Hell!Let France, let France's king,Thank the man that did the thing!"What a shout, and all one word,"HervéRiel!"As he stepp'd 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 laugh'd 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 arun?—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 ask'd 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 borethe 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 HervéRiel.So, for better and for worse,HervéRiel, accept my verse!In my verse, HervéRiel, do thou once moreSave the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!

'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 signall'd to the place"Help the winners of a race!Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick;—or, quickerstill,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?"laugh'd they:"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarr'd andscored,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 call'd a council straight.Brief and bitter the debate:"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them takein towAll that's left us of the fleet, link'd 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 stepp'd, 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 press'd by Tourville for the fleet,A poor coasting-pilot he,—HervéRiel, the Croisickese.

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries HervéRiel:"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 riverdisembogues?Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?Morn and eve, night and day,Have I piloted your bay,Enter'd free and anchor'd fast at the foot of Solidor.Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse thanfifty Hogues!Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe methere'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 HervéRiel.

Not a minute more to wait."Steer us in, then, small and great!Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried itschief.Captains, give the sailor place!He is admiral, in brief.Still the north-wind, by God's grace!See the noble fellow's faceAs the big ship, with a bound,Clears the entry like a hound,Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea'sprofound!See, safe through 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 harbor'd to the last!And just as HervéRiel 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'erlookingGrève.Hearts that bled are stanch'd with balm."Just our rapture to enhance,Let the English rake the bay,Gnash their teeth and glare askanceAs they cannonade away!'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"Now hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance!Out burst all with one accord,"This is Paradise for Hell!Let France, let France's king,Thank the man that did the thing!"What a shout, and all one word,"HervéRiel!"As he stepp'd 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 laugh'd 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 arun?—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 ask'd 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 borethe 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 HervéRiel.So, for better and for worse,HervéRiel, accept my verse!In my verse, HervéRiel, do thou once moreSave the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!

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