 | Claribel and Other Poems |  |
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THREE ENGLISHMEN
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KING ALFRED
SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE
HARRY MARTEN
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KING ALFRED
What need more seeming dire than Alfred's was,
Fleeing from Chippenham that winter night?
Poor comfort found he in the woods and fens.
In his sure heart alone might faith alight
To breathe and wait occasion for new strife.
Fleeing from Chippenham that winter night?
Poor comfort found he in the woods and fens.
In his sure heart alone might faith alight
To breathe and wait occasion for new strife.
The snow fell softly over Wiltshire downs—
Hiding the horse of chalk out there by Calne—
When Alfred, having hunted Guthrun north,
Sat down to keep the feast of Epiphany
Within his walls, secure from all molest.
The Danish cavalry came o'er the snow
With noiseless speed; burst through the city gates,
And drove dismay through all the Saxon power
Or ever there was time to clutch a brand.
Right on the easy town that avalanche
Roll'd, whelming, crushing down the revelers;
Only some few, half-arm'd, escaped in the dark,
Across the Avon, out to the dreary wilds.
Hiding the horse of chalk out there by Calne—
When Alfred, having hunted Guthrun north,
Sat down to keep the feast of Epiphany
Within his walls, secure from all molest.
The Danish cavalry came o'er the snow
With noiseless speed; burst through the city gates,
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Or ever there was time to clutch a brand.
Right on the easy town that avalanche
Roll'd, whelming, crushing down the revelers;
Only some few, half-arm'd, escaped in the dark,
Across the Avon, out to the dreary wilds.
Seven years had Alfred waged unresting war:
Nine battles in one year the king had fought.
For ever, as one swarm of Danes was crush'd,
New swarms rode in upon the ocean wind:
Much as, when one essays to outtread a fire,
Fast as this flame expires, yon scattering sparks
Inflame quick embers in some other place.
Even so those hydra-natured pirates throve.
Now all was ablaze again throughout the land:
Our first sea victories, Warham's promised peace,
And the late gain at Execester,—all nought;
Victorious Alfred a poor fugitive,
Counted as dead by both his foes and friends,
His friends dispersed—none daring look for him,
His wide realm narrow'd to a forest lair,
Nor power nor vantage-ground save in himself.
Nine battles in one year the king had fought.
For ever, as one swarm of Danes was crush'd,
New swarms rode in upon the ocean wind:
Much as, when one essays to outtread a fire,
Fast as this flame expires, yon scattering sparks
Inflame quick embers in some other place.
Even so those hydra-natured pirates throve.
Now all was ablaze again throughout the land:
Our first sea victories, Warham's promised peace,
And the late gain at Execester,—all nought;
Victorious Alfred a poor fugitive,
Counted as dead by both his foes and friends,
His friends dispersed—none daring look for him,
His wide realm narrow'd to a forest lair,
Nor power nor vantage-ground save in himself.
But whoso holds from God a steadfast will
May laugh in the teeth of the most gaunt Despair;
Nay, even yoke that beast to pull the car
Of his triumphal course above the years.
May laugh in the teeth of the most gaunt Despair;
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Of his triumphal course above the years.
Follow, light Hope!—thou armourer to a king—
The hero's steps,—through all the thicket depth
Of his long hiding,—o'er the wild boar's track,
And the wide traces of the bounding deer;
Follow him through his lonesome wanderings,
By moor and dark morass and tangled dell,—
Glad if somewhile beside a swineherd's fire
His numb hands reinvigorate may trim
The arrows, once a terror to the Dane,
Now only used to bring the monarch's food.
Follow him day by day, night after night;
Speak to him in his lone and cheerless dreams;
Smile on his aimless path; till, one by one,
He meets some loyal subjects of his worth,
And breaks a way through the thin-frozen sludge
To Ethelingay's Isle—one solid space
In the vast breadth of slough, where he may build
A refuge from the overrunning Dane,
A sanctuary for what few hopes survive—
Rekindling in them patriot energy.
Follow him, Hope! tell him to bide his time.
The hero's steps,—through all the thicket depth
Of his long hiding,—o'er the wild boar's track,
And the wide traces of the bounding deer;
Follow him through his lonesome wanderings,
By moor and dark morass and tangled dell,—
Glad if somewhile beside a swineherd's fire
His numb hands reinvigorate may trim
The arrows, once a terror to the Dane,
Now only used to bring the monarch's food.
Follow him day by day, night after night;
Speak to him in his lone and cheerless dreams;
Smile on his aimless path; till, one by one,
He meets some loyal subjects of his worth,
And breaks a way through the thin-frozen sludge
To Ethelingay's Isle—one solid space
In the vast breadth of slough, where he may build
A refuge from the overrunning Dane,
A sanctuary for what few hopes survive—
Rekindling in them patriot energy.
Follow him, Hope! tell him to bide his time.
There in his fastness, in the heart o' the waste,
The monarch and his little band abode,
Enduring hardest shifts of outlawry,—
The winged arrows for their pillowing,
And sunlight startling them with hostile glance,
Making swift forays or for food or news,
Snatching such scant subsistence as they could,
Inquiring where the Danes, where English souls,—
Until they heard how Alfred's old renown
Had stirr'd some few brave spirits in the land
To new achievement, and how Devon's Earl,
Besieged in Kinwith, fiercely sallying forth,
Had put to rout the Danish Hubba there
With mighty slaughter;—then the king arose,
And loosed his banner, and his war-cry flew
Through all the English heavens, and men look'd up,
And flung their swords on high to hail the shout
Of ‘Alfred once again for England's war!’
Who needeth tell what every child repeats?
How as a harper 'mong the enemy
The daring monarch pass'd,—amused their sloth
With idle song beside their dissolute boards,
Spied out their weakness, caught them out of guard,
And paid them back the trick of former days.
The sun is yet scarce risen on Ethandune,
The pirate watchers nod o'er their debauch;
At Egbert's stone by Selwood-side have met
The best of Wessex, Alfred at their head;
Before that sun the fallen wine-cup gilds
The Avon shall be red with Danish blood
And Chippenham's surprize have like revenge.
Thereafter the Defeated wins his way
From strife to strife, a crowned conqueror:
Taming his former victors, trampling down
Invasion on invasion: not without
Disaster and due costs of high reward,—
A long and weary tale of restless days,
Fatigues innumerable, ceaseless cares,
Sometimes discomfiture and falling back,
And baffled hope, and work to be redone,
Zeal forced to drudge like the worst-burden'd slave,
And Courage with its armour never off,
And Speed ill-yoked unto unequal help:
A work like that of Sisyphus— to roll
The rock of sure success to heaven height.
For year by year the foemen seemed subdued,
Swore peace, departed, and again return'd.
But nought can stand against determined will,
Stronger than Fate. A ceaseless drip outwears
The granite: patient resolution so
Softens the stony heart of Destiny.
Though even the indomitable Hastings try
His subtilest sleights, and war, by genius led,
Put forth, Briareus-like, its hundred hands,
Striking the king on this side and on that,
Compelling his swift presence everywhere,
From Romney Marsh and Thames to Severn's mouth,
And from the southernmost cliffs to Chester walls,—
Though pestilence come in the invader's train,
And every form of difficulty strive
To farther aid accomplish'd generalship,—
Though in ward pain, even from his early years
Gnawing out strength, conspire against his life,—
Defeat on Alfred never more shall press.
For he had met it, and had overcome,
In every shade it knows, save one—despair:
And in that guise it dared not look on him.
So stalwart Truth at last was olive-crown'd.
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Enduring hardest shifts of outlawry,—
The winged arrows for their pillowing,
And sunlight startling them with hostile glance,
Making swift forays or for food or news,
Snatching such scant subsistence as they could,
Inquiring where the Danes, where English souls,—
Until they heard how Alfred's old renown
Had stirr'd some few brave spirits in the land
To new achievement, and how Devon's Earl,
Besieged in Kinwith, fiercely sallying forth,
Had put to rout the Danish Hubba there
With mighty slaughter;—then the king arose,
And loosed his banner, and his war-cry flew
Through all the English heavens, and men look'd up,
And flung their swords on high to hail the shout
Of ‘Alfred once again for England's war!’
Who needeth tell what every child repeats?
How as a harper 'mong the enemy
The daring monarch pass'd,—amused their sloth
With idle song beside their dissolute boards,
Spied out their weakness, caught them out of guard,
And paid them back the trick of former days.
The sun is yet scarce risen on Ethandune,
The pirate watchers nod o'er their debauch;
At Egbert's stone by Selwood-side have met
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Before that sun the fallen wine-cup gilds
The Avon shall be red with Danish blood
And Chippenham's surprize have like revenge.
Thereafter the Defeated wins his way
From strife to strife, a crowned conqueror:
Taming his former victors, trampling down
Invasion on invasion: not without
Disaster and due costs of high reward,—
A long and weary tale of restless days,
Fatigues innumerable, ceaseless cares,
Sometimes discomfiture and falling back,
And baffled hope, and work to be redone,
Zeal forced to drudge like the worst-burden'd slave,
And Courage with its armour never off,
And Speed ill-yoked unto unequal help:
A work like that of Sisyphus— to roll
The rock of sure success to heaven height.
For year by year the foemen seemed subdued,
Swore peace, departed, and again return'd.
But nought can stand against determined will,
Stronger than Fate. A ceaseless drip outwears
The granite: patient resolution so
Softens the stony heart of Destiny.
Though even the indomitable Hastings try
His subtilest sleights, and war, by genius led,
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Striking the king on this side and on that,
Compelling his swift presence everywhere,
From Romney Marsh and Thames to Severn's mouth,
And from the southernmost cliffs to Chester walls,—
Though pestilence come in the invader's train,
And every form of difficulty strive
To farther aid accomplish'd generalship,—
Though in ward pain, even from his early years
Gnawing out strength, conspire against his life,—
Defeat on Alfred never more shall press.
For he had met it, and had overcome,
In every shade it knows, save one—despair:
And in that guise it dared not look on him.
So stalwart Truth at last was olive-crown'd.
And now in his old days the king hath peace;
And the land rest,—its trust lain like a bride
Upon that royal heart, securely glad.
And he, who whilom at the swineherd's hearth
Bore chiding for the lowliest neglect,
Now leads the nation with his puissant will—
As valourous in peace as erst in war,
Seateth bright Justice with him on his throne,
Foundeth great universities, and rules
His own life with as scholarly discipline—
Making each hour his steward for good deeds.
He, who divided his last bit of bread
With some wayfarer, now sends costly gifts
Out of his treasury, to farthest Ind;
His ships, with Victory's breath to swell their sails,
Full-freighted with his fame for many lands,
Bring back the homage of the first of earth;
And from the heaven whereto his soul aspired
His glory beams on us along the years—
A star whose splendour may not be outshone.
And the land rest,—its trust lain like a bride
Upon that royal heart, securely glad.
And he, who whilom at the swineherd's hearth
Bore chiding for the lowliest neglect,
Now leads the nation with his puissant will—
As valourous in peace as erst in war,
Seateth bright Justice with him on his throne,
Foundeth great universities, and rules
His own life with as scholarly discipline—
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He, who divided his last bit of bread
With some wayfarer, now sends costly gifts
Out of his treasury, to farthest Ind;
His ships, with Victory's breath to swell their sails,
Full-freighted with his fame for many lands,
Bring back the homage of the first of earth;
And from the heaven whereto his soul aspired
His glory beams on us along the years—
A star whose splendour may not be outshone.
Such is the life of Valour. It persists.
Its proud defiance answereth Defeat.
It tramples on despondency. It tholes
Under God's harrow; bides; and overcomes.
Why, the poor spider in Lord Robert's cell
Seven times repeats his foil'd endeavouring:
Shall Bruce do less? Thence unto Bannockburn
Is but a journey, master'd step by step.
Rightly did Rome's great senate honour him
Who in his country's ruin slew despair.
Wait yet by Hope's lone altar, Poland! wait.
To-morrow's sun will rise for all these tears.
Its proud defiance answereth Defeat.
It tramples on despondency. It tholes
Under God's harrow; bides; and overcomes.
Why, the poor spider in Lord Robert's cell
Seven times repeats his foil'd endeavouring:
Shall Bruce do less? Thence unto Bannockburn
Is but a journey, master'd step by step.
Rightly did Rome's great senate honour him
Who in his country's ruin slew despair.
Wait yet by Hope's lone altar, Poland! wait.
To-morrow's sun will rise for all these tears.
That ‘isle of Nobles’ to the mainland now
Is join'd. So to this isolated act
Of English worship let the continent
Of later worth adhere! Till England be
An Isle of Nobles—the world's Athelney.
Is join'd. So to this isolated act
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Of later worth adhere! Till England be
An Isle of Nobles—the world's Athelney.
GRENVILLE'S LAST FIGHT
Our ships lay under Florez. You will mind
'Twas three years after Effingham had chased
The Pope's Armada from our English side.
We had been cruizing in the Western Main,
Singeing some Spanish beards; and now we lay,
Light-ballasted, with empty water-casks,
And half our crews disabled; our six sail—
Beside two pinnaces and victuallers—
Pester'd and rommaging, all out of sorts.
My ship was Richard Grenville's, The Revenge.
They knew Sir Richard in the Spanish seas,
And told wild stories of him; their brown dames
Frighted the babes with fancies of his deeds.
So hard-complexion'd was he (they would say)
That, when a health was drunk, he crush'd the glass
Between his teeth and swallow'd cup and all.
And then his blood-draughts.—Tush! such idle tales!
We only knew a gallant gentleman
Who never turn'd his back on friend or foe.
'Twas three years after Effingham had chased
The Pope's Armada from our English side.
We had been cruizing in the Western Main,
Singeing some Spanish beards; and now we lay,
Light-ballasted, with empty water-casks,
And half our crews disabled; our six sail—
Beside two pinnaces and victuallers—
Pester'd and rommaging, all out of sorts.
My ship was Richard Grenville's, The Revenge.
They knew Sir Richard in the Spanish seas,
And told wild stories of him; their brown dames
Frighted the babes with fancies of his deeds.
So hard-complexion'd was he (they would say)
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Between his teeth and swallow'd cup and all.
And then his blood-draughts.—Tush! such idle tales!
We only knew a gallant gentleman
Who never turn'd his back on friend or foe.
Well, lying by Florez—as I told you now,
The Spanish force unlook'd for hove in sight:
A force of fifty-three great men-of-war.
Lord Thomas, taking note of their array,
Deeming it vain to grapple with such odds,
Signall'd his company to weigh or cut;
And so all did except our Grenville's ship.
You see, we anchor'd nearest to the town,
And half our men were sick on shore. Beside,
Sir Richard never hurried from a fight.
We got our sick on board and safely stow'd
Upon the ballast; and, that done, we weigh'd.
By this the Spaniard's on our weather-bow;
And some would fain the captain should be led
To back his mainsail, cast about, and trust
Our sailing. Nothing of that mind was he.
He would not so—he said—for any fear
Disgrace his flag, his country, or himself;
But pass their squadrons through despite of all,
Forcing the Seville ships to give him way.
And thus he did on divers of the first,
So—as we mariners say—they sprang their luff,
And fell under our lee. But windward bore
A huge high-cargéd ship—the Spaniards call'd
San Philip, took the breeze out of our sails,
And ran aboard us. Then, entangled so,
Four others, two upon our starboard bow,
And two on the larboard, up and boarded us.
We help'd San Philip from our lower tier,
And flung her back; the other four closed in,—
Drove on us like so many hornet-nests,
Thinking their multitudes could swarm us down.
We brush'd them off and brush'd them off again.
The fight began at three o' the afternoon;
And all the night through we kept up the game:
Darkening the stars and the full harvest-moon
With the incessant vomit of our smoke.
Ship after ship came on at our Revenge,
Ne'er less than two big galleons on her side,
Boarding her, as the tides wash up a rock,
To fall off broken and foaming 'mid the roar
Of their own thunder. They so ill approved
Our entertainment, that by break of day
They had lost appetite for new assaults;
And slunk far from us, like a ring of dogs
About a crippled lion, out of reach
Of daring that has taught them due respect,
Watching till his last agony spends itself.
Some fifteen of them grappled us in vain.
Two we had sunk, and finely maul'd the rest.
But, as day broaden'd out, it show'd our plight:
No sail in view—but the foes that hemm'd us round,
Save one of the pinnaces, which had hover'd near
To mark our chance, and now, like hare with hounds,
Was hunted by the Spaniards,—but escaped.
A bare one hundred men was our first count;
And each slew his fifteen. But by this time
Our powder was all used, and not a pike
Left us unbroken. All our rigging spoil'd;
Our masts gone by the side; our upper works
Shatter'd to pieces; and the ship herself
Began to settle slowly in the sea.
It was computed that eight hundred shot
Of great artillery had pierced through her sides.
Full forty of our men lay dead on deck;
And blood enough, be sure, the living miss'd.
Sir Richard, badly hurt at the very first,
Would never stand aside till mid of dark:
When, as they dress'd his wounds, he was shot through,
The surgeon falling on him. Still he lived,—
Nor blench'd his courage when all hope was gone;
But, as the morning wore, he call'd to him
The master-gunner, a most resolute man,
And bade him split and sink the unconquer'd ship,
Trusting God's mercy, leaving to the foe
Not even a plank to bear their victory.
What worth a few more hours of empty life,
To stint full-handed Death of English fame?
The Spanish force unlook'd for hove in sight:
A force of fifty-three great men-of-war.
Lord Thomas, taking note of their array,
Deeming it vain to grapple with such odds,
Signall'd his company to weigh or cut;
And so all did except our Grenville's ship.
You see, we anchor'd nearest to the town,
And half our men were sick on shore. Beside,
Sir Richard never hurried from a fight.
We got our sick on board and safely stow'd
Upon the ballast; and, that done, we weigh'd.
By this the Spaniard's on our weather-bow;
And some would fain the captain should be led
To back his mainsail, cast about, and trust
Our sailing. Nothing of that mind was he.
He would not so—he said—for any fear
Disgrace his flag, his country, or himself;
But pass their squadrons through despite of all,
Forcing the Seville ships to give him way.
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So—as we mariners say—they sprang their luff,
And fell under our lee. But windward bore
A huge high-cargéd ship—the Spaniards call'd
San Philip, took the breeze out of our sails,
And ran aboard us. Then, entangled so,
Four others, two upon our starboard bow,
And two on the larboard, up and boarded us.
We help'd San Philip from our lower tier,
And flung her back; the other four closed in,—
Drove on us like so many hornet-nests,
Thinking their multitudes could swarm us down.
We brush'd them off and brush'd them off again.
The fight began at three o' the afternoon;
And all the night through we kept up the game:
Darkening the stars and the full harvest-moon
With the incessant vomit of our smoke.
Ship after ship came on at our Revenge,
Ne'er less than two big galleons on her side,
Boarding her, as the tides wash up a rock,
To fall off broken and foaming 'mid the roar
Of their own thunder. They so ill approved
Our entertainment, that by break of day
They had lost appetite for new assaults;
And slunk far from us, like a ring of dogs
About a crippled lion, out of reach
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Watching till his last agony spends itself.
Some fifteen of them grappled us in vain.
Two we had sunk, and finely maul'd the rest.
But, as day broaden'd out, it show'd our plight:
No sail in view—but the foes that hemm'd us round,
Save one of the pinnaces, which had hover'd near
To mark our chance, and now, like hare with hounds,
Was hunted by the Spaniards,—but escaped.
A bare one hundred men was our first count;
And each slew his fifteen. But by this time
Our powder was all used, and not a pike
Left us unbroken. All our rigging spoil'd;
Our masts gone by the side; our upper works
Shatter'd to pieces; and the ship herself
Began to settle slowly in the sea.
It was computed that eight hundred shot
Of great artillery had pierced through her sides.
Full forty of our men lay dead on deck;
And blood enough, be sure, the living miss'd.
Sir Richard, badly hurt at the very first,
Would never stand aside till mid of dark:
When, as they dress'd his wounds, he was shot through,
The surgeon falling on him. Still he lived,—
Nor blench'd his courage when all hope was gone;
But, as the morning wore, he call'd to him
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And bade him split and sink the unconquer'd ship,
Trusting God's mercy, leaving to the foe
Not even a plank to bear their victory.
What worth a few more hours of empty life,
To stint full-handed Death of English fame?
Brave Gentleman! I think we had no heart
To sink so rare a treasure. Some of us
Were stiffening in our pain, and faintly cared
For loftier carriage; cowards were there none;
But so it was, that we among us chose
An honourable surrender,—the first time
Our captain's word refusing. I must own
The Spaniard bore him very handsomely.
Well-pleased he was to give us soldier terms
Rather than tempt the touch of our last throe;
And courteously were the conditions kept.
The Spanish Admiral sent his own state-barge
To fetch our dying hero,—for our ship
Was marvellously unsavoury; and round
The Southern warriors reverently throng'd
To look upon the mighty in his death:
So much his worth compell'd acknowledgment.
And well nigh a new battle had burst out
'Twixt the Biscayans and the Portugals,
Disputing which had boarded The Revenge.
To sink so rare a treasure. Some of us
Were stiffening in our pain, and faintly cared
For loftier carriage; cowards were there none;
But so it was, that we among us chose
An honourable surrender,—the first time
Our captain's word refusing. I must own
The Spaniard bore him very handsomely.
Well-pleased he was to give us soldier terms
Rather than tempt the touch of our last throe;
And courteously were the conditions kept.
The Spanish Admiral sent his own state-barge
To fetch our dying hero,—for our ship
Was marvellously unsavoury; and round
The Southern warriors reverently throng'd
To look upon the mighty in his death:
So much his worth compell'd acknowledgment.
And well nigh a new battle had burst out
'Twixt the Biscayans and the Portugals,
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For him, he bade them do even as they would
With his unvalued body. A few hours,
And Death bow'd down to crown him. Never sign
Of faintness show'd he; but in Spanish said
These words, so they might be well heard by all.
With his unvalued body. A few hours,
And Death bow'd down to crown him. Never sign
Of faintness show'd he; but in Spanish said
These words, so they might be well heard by all.
‘Here with a joyful and a quiet mind
I Richard Grenville die. My life is closed
As a good soldier's should be, who hath fought
For country's sake, and for his faith and fame.
Whereby from this body gladly parts my soul,
Leaving behind the everlasting name
Of a true soldier and right-valiant man
Who did the work that duty bade him do.’
I Richard Grenville die. My life is closed
As a good soldier's should be, who hath fought
For country's sake, and for his faith and fame.
Whereby from this body gladly parts my soul,
Leaving behind the everlasting name
Of a true soldier and right-valiant man
Who did the work that duty bade him do.’
When he had finish'd these and other words
Of such-like grandeur, he gave up the ghost
With stoutest courage. No man on his face
Could see the shade of any heaviness.
So He and Death went proudly on their way
Upon the errand of Almighty God;
And God's smile was the gladness of that path.
Of such-like grandeur, he gave up the ghost
With stoutest courage. No man on his face
Could see the shade of any heaviness.
So He and Death went proudly on their way
Upon the errand of Almighty God;
And God's smile was the gladness of that path.
And now immediately on this great fight
So terrible a tempest there ensued
As never any saw or heard the like.
Nigh on a hundred sail of merchantmen
Join'd their Armada when the fight was done,—
Rich Indian argosies. Of all the host
But thirty-two e'er reach'd a Spanish port.
Their men-of-war, so riddled by our shot,
Sank one by one; and our Revenge herself,
Disdaining any foreign mastery,
Regarding else her captain's foil'd intent,
Went down, as soon as she was newly mann'd,
Under Saint Michael's Rocks, with all her crew.
The Spaniards said the Devil wrought their loss,
Helping the heretics. But we know well
How God stands by the true man in his work;
And, if he helps not, surely will revenge
The boldly dutiful. My tale is done.
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As never any saw or heard the like.
Nigh on a hundred sail of merchantmen
Join'd their Armada when the fight was done,—
Rich Indian argosies. Of all the host
But thirty-two e'er reach'd a Spanish port.
Their men-of-war, so riddled by our shot,
Sank one by one; and our Revenge herself,
Disdaining any foreign mastery,
Regarding else her captain's foil'd intent,
Went down, as soon as she was newly mann'd,
Under Saint Michael's Rocks, with all her crew.
The Spaniards said the Devil wrought their loss,
Helping the heretics. But we know well
How God stands by the true man in his work;
And, if he helps not, surely will revenge
The boldly dutiful. My tale is done.
Sir Walter Raleigh—Grenville's cousin, he—
Has given the tale in fitter words than mine.
My story looks like shabby beggar's rags
About a hero. But you see the Man.
The diamond shines however meanly set.
Sir Walter laid his cloak before the Queen;
But Grenville threw his life upon that deck
For Honour's Self to walk on. 'Twas well done.
For fifteen hours our hundred kept at bay
Ten thousand: one poor ship 'gainst fifty-three.
The Spaniard proved that day our English pith.
No new Armada on our cliffs shall look
While English Valour echoes Grenville's fame.
Has given the tale in fitter words than mine.
My story looks like shabby beggar's rags
About a hero. But you see the Man.
The diamond shines however meanly set.
Sir Walter laid his cloak before the Queen;
But Grenville threw his life upon that deck
For Honour's Self to walk on. 'Twas well done.
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Ten thousand: one poor ship 'gainst fifty-three.
The Spaniard proved that day our English pith.
No new Armada on our cliffs shall look
While English Valour echoes Grenville's fame.
I have some strength left. I will hence to sail
With Master Davis. Home is very calm;
But Honour rideth on the crested wave.
With Master Davis. Home is very calm;
But Honour rideth on the crested wave.
HARRY MARTEN'S DUNGEON THOUGHTS
Thou flowest, Stream! beside old Chepstow's walls,
Hence to the Severn, and the Severn falls
To the wide ocean. I have ceased to flow.
And yet thou listenest to the stagnant Woe
That overhangs thy banks, like some vain weed
Rooted in Chepstow's hoariness. Indeed,—
Save that the veriest weed its hope may fling
Upon the winds, there as on certain wing
Borne to the mainland,—I but weed-like seem.
Hence to the Severn, and the Severn falls
To the wide ocean. I have ceased to flow.
And yet thou listenest to the stagnant Woe
That overhangs thy banks, like some vain weed
Rooted in Chepstow's hoariness. Indeed,—
Save that the veriest weed its hope may fling
Upon the winds, there as on certain wing
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And yet my memory loves to watch the dream
Of Harry Marten's triumphs,—those brave days
When Vane outshone me with his steady rays,
When gravest Milton scorn'd not Harry's wit,
And fierce-will'd Cromwell had some heed of it;
When we stood in the breach against the world,
And from his folly's wall the Stuart hurl'd
Into the tide of ruin. By this tower,
If all those glorious days were in my power,
I would not reconsider them again,
But shout my battle-song to the same high strain,
Take the same odds, the same gay daring strife,
And the same forfeit of a prison'd life
Past even the natural riddance of the grave.
Not for himself, O Freedom! would thy knave
Ask some poor wages. Let my life be shent,
And this worn tomb be all my monument.
Of Harry Marten's triumphs,—those brave days
When Vane outshone me with his steady rays,
When gravest Milton scorn'd not Harry's wit,
And fierce-will'd Cromwell had some heed of it;
When we stood in the breach against the world,
And from his folly's wall the Stuart hurl'd
Into the tide of ruin. By this tower,
If all those glorious days were in my power,
I would not reconsider them again,
But shout my battle-song to the same high strain,
Take the same odds, the same gay daring strife,
And the same forfeit of a prison'd life
Past even the natural riddance of the grave.
Not for himself, O Freedom! would thy knave
Ask some poor wages. Let my life be shent,
And this worn tomb be all my monument.
Dear Freedom! have we vainly toil'd for thee?
Our Rachel lost—and our apprentice-fee
This Leah, the Evil-favour'd. Shall I laugh,
Write on her lips my jesting epitaph,
And hug Misfortune for another term?
Alas! if hope might set the slowest germ
In these old chinks. But England's soil is dead
As Chepstow' stones. The blue sky overhead
Is all the prisoner's hope in these wall'd years.
Our Rachel lost—and our apprentice-fee
This Leah, the Evil-favour'd. Shall I laugh,
Write on her lips my jesting epitaph,
And hug Misfortune for another term?
Alas! if hope might set the slowest germ
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As Chepstow' stones. The blue sky overhead
Is all the prisoner's hope in these wall'd years.
I need not wet this dungeon-mould with tears;
I will not tame my spirit to its cage;
As little would I stoop me to assuage
Captivity with foolish querulousness.
And yet my courage mourneth nonetheless
Our ruin'd cause, and that nor sword nor voice
Of mine may lead the time to worthier choice:
While I rust here like a forgotten blade,
And Scot and Vane in bloody tombs are laid.
And yet not so, friend Scot!—thy better doom
To wait by God until new chance may bloom
Out of the barren land men call thy grave:
That England which thy virtues could not save,
Nor pious Vane lift heavenward from the slough.
I will not tame my spirit to its cage;
As little would I stoop me to assuage
Captivity with foolish querulousness.
And yet my courage mourneth nonetheless
Our ruin'd cause, and that nor sword nor voice
Of mine may lead the time to worthier choice:
While I rust here like a forgotten blade,
And Scot and Vane in bloody tombs are laid.
And yet not so, friend Scot!—thy better doom
To wait by God until new chance may bloom
Out of the barren land men call thy grave:
That England which thy virtues could not save,
Nor pious Vane lift heavenward from the slough.
For me hard penance but atoneth now
My many a youthful folly: though the worst
Left me a patriot. Wassails quench'd no thirst
For the full cup of England's liberty.
I never squander'd my great love for thee;
And though men call me loose of life and speech,
There was no public act they could impeach,
And my loose tongue was first which dared to say
What hinderance 'twas stood in the nation's way.
Or loose or not, it wagg'd to no ill tune
Nor out of time. 'Troth, I'll forswear no boon
Of this frank life; and now in living grave
Am thankful that I had. And that I have:
While memory traces back the flow of mirth,
From here where it is driven under earth—
As if the Wye had dived 'neath Chepstow's base.
God give the stream some outlet of his grace!—
There is some reach of joy in looking back
On the lost river's current. I can track
Its merry laughing gush among the reeds,
And how its ripplings lipp'd the blossomy weeds
In shallow passages, its songful strife
Swift bounding o'er the rocks of active life,
And see again the glorious forms whose worth
Its sometime deeper water imaged forth.
No idle image was reflected there:
Not in the stream but on the rock I bear
The impress of the Gods who stood by me.
Nor was I all unmeriting to be
Their chosen companion. Arrows may hang loose:
The bowman yet be staunch and mind their use.
My many a youthful folly: though the worst
Left me a patriot. Wassails quench'd no thirst
For the full cup of England's liberty.
I never squander'd my great love for thee;
And though men call me loose of life and speech,
There was no public act they could impeach,
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What hinderance 'twas stood in the nation's way.
Or loose or not, it wagg'd to no ill tune
Nor out of time. 'Troth, I'll forswear no boon
Of this frank life; and now in living grave
Am thankful that I had. And that I have:
While memory traces back the flow of mirth,
From here where it is driven under earth—
As if the Wye had dived 'neath Chepstow's base.
God give the stream some outlet of his grace!—
There is some reach of joy in looking back
On the lost river's current. I can track
Its merry laughing gush among the reeds,
And how its ripplings lipp'd the blossomy weeds
In shallow passages, its songful strife
Swift bounding o'er the rocks of active life,
And see again the glorious forms whose worth
Its sometime deeper water imaged forth.
No idle image was reflected there:
Not in the stream but on the rock I bear
The impress of the Gods who stood by me.
Nor was I all unmeriting to be
Their chosen companion. Arrows may hang loose:
The bowman yet be staunch and mind their use.
My England! never one of all thy brave
Whose love o'erpass'd my love. I could be grave
Whene'er thy need required a solemn brow.
What was my task? To give thee room to grow:
To give thee sober freedom, godly growth:
Freedom and sanctifying worship: both.
Milton and Vane and Scot and I at one
Were in this work. And I am here alone.
And Milton in his darkness—If he lives.
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Whene'er thy need required a solemn brow.
What was my task? To give thee room to grow:
To give thee sober freedom, godly growth:
Freedom and sanctifying worship: both.
Milton and Vane and Scot and I at one
Were in this work. And I am here alone.
And Milton in his darkness—If he lives.
O English hearts! are ye but Danaid sieves
Wherethrough like water noblest blood is pour'd?
O English sense! what is this word Restored?
Restore Heroic Virtue, Holy Strength,
Now, Agonistes-like, through all the length
Of this great England prostrate! Gyved you lie,
Mock'd at by Dalila, your Royalty.
I set this dungeon-gloom against the May
Of all your Restoration. I will say
Against it. I, a pleasure-loving man,
Place every pleasure under Honour's ban,
And bid you give your country life, and death,
Rather than foul the land with slavish breath.
Am I a prisoner? Difference between
Chepstow and England is not much, I ween.
'Tis but a cell a few more paces wide.
Wherethrough like water noblest blood is pour'd?
O English sense! what is this word Restored?
Restore Heroic Virtue, Holy Strength,
Now, Agonistes-like, through all the length
Of this great England prostrate! Gyved you lie,
Mock'd at by Dalila, your Royalty.
I set this dungeon-gloom against the May
Of all your Restoration. I will say
Against it. I, a pleasure-loving man,
Place every pleasure under Honour's ban,
And bid you give your country life, and death,
Rather than foul the land with slavish breath.
Am I a prisoner? Difference between
Chepstow and England is not much, I ween.
'Tis but a cell a few more paces wide.
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Year after year, and under Chepstow' side
The muddied Wye still flows. My hair is grey;
My old bones cramp'd; my heart this many a day
O'ermoss'd with sorrow, like an ancient tomb.
Now the old man is harmless, he may roam
So far as falls the shadow of his jail.
Jail'd for his life. I have not learn'd to quail.
The muddied Wye still flows. My hair is grey;
My old bones cramp'd; my heart this many a day
O'ermoss'd with sorrow, like an ancient tomb.
Now the old man is harmless, he may roam
So far as falls the shadow of his jail.
Jail'd for his life. I have not learn'd to quail.
Thou askest me—‘Was it to do again?’
I tell thee—Yes! the tyrant should be slain.
Scot's word is mine: ‘Not only was my hand
But my heart in it.’ Here I take my stand;
Nor twenty years of solitude can move
My conscience from its keep. And so this love,
Your pity proffer'd me, must be withdrawn?
Well, Harry Marten never cared to fawn.
I am alone again, on my grave's edge.
I tell thee—Yes! the tyrant should be slain.
Scot's word is mine: ‘Not only was my hand
But my heart in it.’ Here I take my stand;
Nor twenty years of solitude can move
My conscience from its keep. And so this love,
Your pity proffer'd me, must be withdrawn?
Well, Harry Marten never cared to fawn.
I am alone again, on my grave's edge.
And my long-suffering shall be as a wedge
To rive this tyranny. I climb thy height,
Old feudal fastness! with my feeble might,
And see from thee, for all my age is dim,
The beautiful rich woods beyond the rim
Of Wye and Severn, and the meadows fair
Stretching into the distance; and the air
Is charged with fragrance; and the uncaged birds
Say blithely in the sun their liberal words,
Which yet shall wake the tillers of the ground.
And lo! the harvestmen are gathering round
The banner of God. They put their sickles in;
The day of a new trial doth begin.
Thou saidst aright, my Vane! it had to be.
Nor jail nor scaffold stays futurity.
To rive this tyranny. I climb thy height,
Old feudal fastness! with my feeble might,
And see from thee, for all my age is dim,
The beautiful rich woods beyond the rim
Of Wye and Severn, and the meadows fair
Stretching into the distance; and the air
Is charged with fragrance; and the uncaged birds
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Which yet shall wake the tillers of the ground.
And lo! the harvestmen are gathering round
The banner of God. They put their sickles in;
The day of a new trial doth begin.
Thou saidst aright, my Vane! it had to be.
Nor jail nor scaffold stays futurity.
The twenty years have pass'd even as a mist;
And now the dying prisoner's brow is kiss'd
By his old comrades: Hampden, Pym, and Vane,
Fairfax, and Scot, and Ludlow, Cromwell fain
To hide old scars and holding Milton's hand,
Bradshaw and Ireton: at my side they stand,
And the old cheerful smile illumes my cell.
‘There is no death nor bondage: we, who dwell
In higher realms of faith, assure thee this.’—
Friends! ye say sooth; this cell no longer is
A prison; England only is my bound,
This coward England all unworthy found.
Still you can smile.—‘The resurrection-morn
Riseth o'er England's grave; and we forlorn
Shall be triumphant. Look thou forth and see
Our merry England, kingless, bold and free.
We have not lived, we have not died, for nought.
The victory we have lost shall yet be wrought:
We have not sown high deeds and hopes in vain.’
And now the dying prisoner's brow is kiss'd
By his old comrades: Hampden, Pym, and Vane,
Fairfax, and Scot, and Ludlow, Cromwell fain
To hide old scars and holding Milton's hand,
Bradshaw and Ireton: at my side they stand,
And the old cheerful smile illumes my cell.
‘There is no death nor bondage: we, who dwell
In higher realms of faith, assure thee this.’—
Friends! ye say sooth; this cell no longer is
A prison; England only is my bound,
This coward England all unworthy found.
Still you can smile.—‘The resurrection-morn
Riseth o'er England's grave; and we forlorn
Shall be triumphant. Look thou forth and see
Our merry England, kingless, bold and free.
We have not lived, we have not died, for nought.
The victory we have lost shall yet be wrought:
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Bright lightning-flash of death! speed through my brain,
And sink into the grave my sacrifice:
A grave unhonour'd until England rise
To avenge the Regicide—
And sink into the grave my sacrifice:
A grave unhonour'd until England rise
To avenge the Regicide—
O Martyr Tomb!
Thou bear'st the seed of Triumph in thy womb.
Thou bear'st the seed of Triumph in thy womb.
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