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 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
137
A LAY OF BRITTANY.
[_]
SUGGESTED BY READING MICHELET'S SPIRITED DESCRIPTION OF THIS OLD PROVINCE IN HIS HISTORY OF FRANCE.
Bretons love their native land
With its coast so dark and sterile—
Men of iron heart and hand,
Framed from youth to cope with peril.
Oft have Breton heads and breasts
Fierce invading cohorts driven
Back, with shorn and humbled crests,
And their armor hacked and riven.
Though the soil is cold and hard,
Small return to labor giving,
Scenes we point to, by the bard
Linked to song forever living.
With its coast so dark and sterile—
Men of iron heart and hand,
Framed from youth to cope with peril.
Oft have Breton heads and breasts
Fierce invading cohorts driven
Back, with shorn and humbled crests,
And their armor hacked and riven.
Though the soil is cold and hard,
Small return to labor giving,
Scenes we point to, by the bard
Linked to song forever living.
Name of terror to the brave—
Lair of danger ever lowering;
Grim Cape Raz above the wave
Full three hundred feet is towering.
Thither on the rocking surge,
Have the old sea kings been drifted,
While the tempest howled a dirge,
And rough hands in prayer were lifted.
On our dark and frowning strand
Crushed are vessels every winter,
And in vain a ghastly band,
Drowning, clench frail oar and splinter.
Lair of danger ever lowering;
Grim Cape Raz above the wave
Full three hundred feet is towering.
Thither on the rocking surge,
Have the old sea kings been drifted,
While the tempest howled a dirge,
And rough hands in prayer were lifted.
On our dark and frowning strand
Crushed are vessels every winter,
And in vain a ghastly band,
Drowning, clench frail oar and splinter.
138
Deadman's Bay within its breast
Hath entombed the lost for ages,
For a tide that knows no rest
War against the seaman wages.
Since the bearded Norsemen bold
By its hungry depths were swallowed,
Art of man, in sluggish mould,
Deeper charnel hath not hollowed.
In a last embrace entwined,
Wrecked at midnight black and cheerless,
To its custody consigned
Down have sunk the fair and fearless.
Treasure-house of wealth untold,
Jewels, amid bones, lie scattered,
Knightly arms inlaid with gold,
Dinted helm, and hauberk battered.
Hath entombed the lost for ages,
For a tide that knows no rest
War against the seaman wages.
Since the bearded Norsemen bold
By its hungry depths were swallowed,
Art of man, in sluggish mould,
Deeper charnel hath not hollowed.
In a last embrace entwined,
Wrecked at midnight black and cheerless,
To its custody consigned
Down have sunk the fair and fearless.
Treasure-house of wealth untold,
Jewels, amid bones, lie scattered,
Knightly arms inlaid with gold,
Dinted helm, and hauberk battered.
Islands rise above the wave,
Chained by fearful shoals together,
Where the Sacred Virgins gave
To the Celt sunshiny weather;
There their orgies drowned the gale,
Growling surf, and osprey screaming,
While around the distant sail
Glanced the lightning redly gleaming.
Mariners, far off at sea,
To the shrouds in terror clinging,
Heard their chant of hellish glee,
And barbaric cymbals ringing.
Chained by fearful shoals together,
Where the Sacred Virgins gave
To the Celt sunshiny weather;
There their orgies drowned the gale,
Growling surf, and osprey screaming,
While around the distant sail
Glanced the lightning redly gleaming.
Mariners, far off at sea,
To the shrouds in terror clinging,
Heard their chant of hellish glee,
And barbaric cymbals ringing.
Rifted rocks are near the coast,
Girdled by the billows hoary,
And each one of them can boast,
Stranger! its romantic story.
One that lifts its rugged brow,
With the spray around it curling,
Though so bare and dreary now,
Was the haunt of Wizard Merlin:
Never more will work his spell,
Nor the magic rhyme be spoken,
But of him our legends tell
Though his mighty wand is broken.
Girdled by the billows hoary,
And each one of them can boast,
Stranger! its romantic story.
One that lifts its rugged brow,
With the spray around it curling,
139
Was the haunt of Wizard Merlin:
Never more will work his spell,
Nor the magic rhyme be spoken,
But of him our legends tell
Though his mighty wand is broken.
Listen to that mournful roar,
To the ground-swell's measured beating!
Clamoring for graves on shore
Ghosts of shipwrecked men are meeting.
Fair the weather, or serene,
Newly-born the day, or dying,
Two black ravens may be seen
O'er yon rocky islet flying.
They are spirits of the dead—
Of a king whose doom is written.
And a child, whose beauteous head
By the same dark blow was smitten.
On yon rock in thunder rolls,
With its snow-white crown, the water,
Fitting dirge-note for the souls
Of King Grallo and his daughter.
To the ground-swell's measured beating!
Clamoring for graves on shore
Ghosts of shipwrecked men are meeting.
Fair the weather, or serene,
Newly-born the day, or dying,
Two black ravens may be seen
O'er yon rocky islet flying.
They are spirits of the dead—
Of a king whose doom is written.
And a child, whose beauteous head
By the same dark blow was smitten.
On yon rock in thunder rolls,
With its snow-white crown, the water,
Fitting dirge-note for the souls
Of King Grallo and his daughter.
Bretons love their province old,
Rugged nurse of gallant spirits—
Traitors cannot bribe with gold
Heart that Breton blood inherits.
Now, as in the glorious past,
France may trust in Breton daring;
When the sheath aside is cast,
Breton steel is aye unsparing.
Hohenlinden's Chief was nursed
By a dauntless Breton mother;
Let the storm of battle burst,
Breton prowess naught can smother!
Rugged nurse of gallant spirits—
Traitors cannot bribe with gold
Heart that Breton blood inherits.
Now, as in the glorious past,
France may trust in Breton daring;
When the sheath aside is cast,
Breton steel is aye unsparing.
Hohenlinden's Chief was nursed
By a dauntless Breton mother;
Let the storm of battle burst,
Breton prowess naught can smother!
140
History her leaves may turn,
And no braver name discover
Written than Latour D'Auvergne,
Glory's pure and faithful lover!
When at Waterloo eclipse
Dimm'd our hopes, one brave defender
Shouted out with Breton lips:—
“We can die, but not surrender!”
If in strife we meet once more
British bosoms, woe betide them!
Naught, upon our iron shores,
Foes e'er won but graves to hide them!
And no braver name discover
Written than Latour D'Auvergne,
Glory's pure and faithful lover!
When at Waterloo eclipse
Dimm'd our hopes, one brave defender
Shouted out with Breton lips:—
“We can die, but not surrender!”
If in strife we meet once more
British bosoms, woe betide them!
Naught, upon our iron shores,
Foes e'er won but graves to hide them!
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |