 | The Poetical Works of Sydney Dobell |  |
50
SCENE IX.
The Study.Balder, at his writing-table.
Balder.
This very morn
Thro' her green island home the laughing spring
Drove, flinging joy, her blossom-laden car.
Forth from the polar cavern of the snows,
Dripping with winter, leaped a northern storm,
And shook himself; and she lay buried white
Beneath an avalanche. At that dread sight
Up rose the West, and such a wind went by
As stunned the isle with voices, like a chief
Rushing to battle with a sounding host
In shouting ranks wide on the echoing hills.
At first a roar of warning, ‘to the north!’
Then like the shriek of all a ravished land,
‘O Europe, Europe, Europe, Europe, Europe!’
And then like the world's trumpet blown to war,
‘The North, the North, the North, the North, the North!’
Enter, under the window, wandering Sailors, singing.
Sailors.
‘How many?’ said our good Captain.
‘Twenty sail and more.’
We were homeward bound,
Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the Nore.
Right athwart our tack,
The foe came thick and black, Like Hell-birds and foul weather—you might count them by the score.
‘Twenty sail and more.’
We were homeward bound,
Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the Nore.
51
The foe came thick and black, Like Hell-birds and foul weather—you might count them by the score.
The Betsy Jane did slack
To see the game in view.
They knew the Union-Jack,
And the tyrant's flag we knew! Our Captain shouted ‘clear the decks!’ and the Bo'sun's whistle blew.
To see the game in view.
They knew the Union-Jack,
And the tyrant's flag we knew! Our Captain shouted ‘clear the decks!’ and the Bo'sun's whistle blew.
Then our gallant Captain,
With his hand he seized the wheel,
And pointed with his stump to the middle of the foe.
‘Hurrah, lads, in we go!’
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft.)
With his hand he seized the wheel,
And pointed with his stump to the middle of the foe.
‘Hurrah, lads, in we go!’
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft.)
‘There are twenty sail,’ sang he,
‘But little Betsy Jane bobs to nothing on the sea!’
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft.)
‘But little Betsy Jane bobs to nothing on the sea!’
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft.)
‘See yon ugly craft
With the pennon at her main!
Hurrah, my merry boys,
There goes the Betsy Jane!’
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft.)
With the pennon at her main!
Hurrah, my merry boys,
There goes the Betsy Jane!’
52
Fore and aft.)
The foe, he beats to quarters, and the Russian bugles sound;
And the little Betsy Jane she leaps upon the sea.
‘Port and starboard!’ cried our Captain;
‘Pay it in, my hearts!’ sang he.
‘We're old England's sons,
And we'll fight for her to-day!’
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft.)
‘Fire away!’
In she runs,
And her guns
Thunder round.
And the little Betsy Jane she leaps upon the sea.
‘Port and starboard!’ cried our Captain;
‘Pay it in, my hearts!’ sang he.
‘We're old England's sons,
And we'll fight for her to-day!’
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft.)
‘Fire away!’
In she runs,
And her guns
Thunder round.
[Exeunt Sailors.
Balder.
As he who turns
From the full-shining and white orb of noon
Sees a black sun in air, this chant of Freedom
Leaves in my soul its hideous contrary. [Pauses.
Be patient, Death, for if not thee I paint,
None but thine immemorial minister,
Thy dear abortion whom thy craft sent here
That by his side thou mayst look good and fair,
Prevents thine honours.
From the full-shining and white orb of noon
Sees a black sun in air, this chant of Freedom
Leaves in my soul its hideous contrary. [Pauses.
Be patient, Death, for if not thee I paint,
None but thine immemorial minister,
Thy dear abortion whom thy craft sent here
That by his side thou mayst look good and fair,
Prevents thine honours.
My poor goosequill! Bah!
Had I a pen plucked where Celæno flies
Uncleanest!
Had I a pen plucked where Celæno flies
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My old ink-horn!—why thou drop
Of rheum! thou milk-pot!— [Writes and then reads.
Lo Tyranny! a Juggernaut than he
Who makes an Indian Bacchanal blush blood
At his unuttered hideousness more foul.
Nor on a car of India, but upborne
Upon a monstrous shape for which the brood
Of creeping reptiles, or the noisome plagues
Egyptian found no type, nor Hydra old,
Nor fell Chimæra. High the idol sat,
Gore-stained, nor arm to seize, nor leg to stand
Had he, but from his beast his branchless trunk
Rose festerous thro' the morning. What he rode
Headless came onward, manifold and one
As a dishevelled legion, and far off
Showed like a galley of ten thousand oars
In numberless commotion, nor in stroke
Ordered, but with division infinite
Beating the air; for round its dreadful length
Such moving arms innumerous like a fry
Of twining fiery Pythons plied the earth
Incessant, and, alternate feet and hands,
Bore the black bulk, or with contentious haste
Incredible, before, beside, behind,
In manifold appearance all too slow
To feed consumption, filled the ghastly maw
Of him who sat above, and eyes had none,
Nor human front, nor but a mouth obscene,
Abominable, that for ever yawned
Insatiate, drivelling from its carrion sides
Infernal ichor. Wide the cavern gaped,
Still straining wider, and thro' gurgling weight
Of seething full corruption night and day
His craving bowels, famished in his fill,
Bellowed for more. Which, when the creature heard
That bore him, dread, like a great shock of life,
Convulsed it, and the myriad frantic hands
Sprang like the dances of a madman's dream.
And so he came; and o'er his head a sweat
Hung like a sulphurous vapour, and beneath
Fetid and thunderous as from belching hell,
The hot and hideous torrent of his dung
Roared down explosive, and the earth, befouled
And blackened by the stercorous pestilence,
Wasted below him, and where'er he passed
The people stank.
Of rheum! thou milk-pot!— [Writes and then reads.
Lo Tyranny! a Juggernaut than he
Who makes an Indian Bacchanal blush blood
At his unuttered hideousness more foul.
Nor on a car of India, but upborne
Upon a monstrous shape for which the brood
Of creeping reptiles, or the noisome plagues
Egyptian found no type, nor Hydra old,
Nor fell Chimæra. High the idol sat,
Gore-stained, nor arm to seize, nor leg to stand
Had he, but from his beast his branchless trunk
Rose festerous thro' the morning. What he rode
Headless came onward, manifold and one
As a dishevelled legion, and far off
Showed like a galley of ten thousand oars
In numberless commotion, nor in stroke
Ordered, but with division infinite
Beating the air; for round its dreadful length
Such moving arms innumerous like a fry
Of twining fiery Pythons plied the earth
Incessant, and, alternate feet and hands,
Bore the black bulk, or with contentious haste
Incredible, before, beside, behind,
In manifold appearance all too slow
To feed consumption, filled the ghastly maw
Of him who sat above, and eyes had none,
54
Abominable, that for ever yawned
Insatiate, drivelling from its carrion sides
Infernal ichor. Wide the cavern gaped,
Still straining wider, and thro' gurgling weight
Of seething full corruption night and day
His craving bowels, famished in his fill,
Bellowed for more. Which, when the creature heard
That bore him, dread, like a great shock of life,
Convulsed it, and the myriad frantic hands
Sprang like the dances of a madman's dream.
And so he came; and o'er his head a sweat
Hung like a sulphurous vapour, and beneath
Fetid and thunderous as from belching hell,
The hot and hideous torrent of his dung
Roared down explosive, and the earth, befouled
And blackened by the stercorous pestilence,
Wasted below him, and where'er he passed
The people stank.
| The Poetical Works of Sydney Dobell | |