Poetical Pictures of the Great War Suitable for Recitation. First Series ... Second Series ... Third Series ... Fourth Series. By Mackenzie Bell |
TRAFALGAR. |
Poetical Pictures of the Great War | ||
TRAFALGAR.
Written in 1913 at the request of my friend, Mr. William Miles, and given by him at his recitals.
It is a fortunate circumstance, even for the imperishable and world-wide renown of Nelson, that it is enshrined in two such masterpieces of English prose as the Lives by Robert Southey, and by Admiral Mahan, of the American Navy. If the advisability of allusion in this ballad to certain incidents in Nelson's career be questioned, it may, at least, be said, that such allusions are an inseparable part of both the biographies aforenamed, right up to the very end. The metaphor of the “feet of clay” in one of the stanzas is taken from a Biblical passage (the book of Daniel, chapter ii. verse 33). The phrases “Nelson,—the faithful sailor's friend,” and “Nelson, the just, and kind,” are no mere generalities. The touching anecdote respecting the “faithful sailor” can be read in the second volume of Admiral Mahan's work, page 360; and why Nelson was “just” and “kind,” i.e. humane, is set forth at pages 374 and 381 of the same narrative. Owing to Nelson's battle-scheme,
In reference to the line “Bold Hardy come again” it may be said that the epithet “Bold” is used advisedly, as no other epithet adequately describes Flag-Captain Hardy from the time of Nelson receiving his death-wound to that Admiral's death. For it must be recollected that he would not relinquish the command to Vice-Admiral Collingwood, and his conduct placed Hardy in much difficulty. Hardy visited twice his striken commander and life-long friend lying in the cockpit of his flagship, and it was on the latter occasion that the pathetic occurrence mentioned took place.
In my opinion it is a striking testimony to the unity of America and Great Britain in essentials, that Nelson's most satisfying biographer should be a distinguished American officer. For, great as are the merits of Southey, he has not the fulness of detail, or of accuracy, possessed by Admiral Mahan. The latter has not only the immeasurable advantage of writing in the temper of a later age, when evidence could be more readily and more convincingly sifted, but has, also, much wider knowledge. In very early life I knew intimately the son of a man who had served under Nelson during his last seven years, and, consequently, had been in the Victory at Trafalgar. I was never weary of the old man's stories, and for this, and other reasons, have always taken a deep interest in the events, memorable or otherwise, of the first Napoleonic period.
Why dream of Trafalgar?
Swift moves the world; and oftentimes
Dim seem these days afar.
Seldom we plough the seas,
With roods of sail,—nor are we now
The slaves of every breeze.
Are staunch,—yea, staunch as then;
Such are they. But that is not why
We dream, and dream again.
For us that there they bled?
Is it because for Britain's might
High poop and deck ran red?
Never shall pass away?
And yet, methinks, we see him now
With “feet” of common “clay.”
“Why Nelson's fame assail?”
“Enough!” would we reply, “his Judge
Shall see the right prevail.”
And war-worn form were seen,
'Twas as if Bravery's very self
Had donned man's garb and mien.
Oft as they call to mind
Nelson,—the faithful sailor's friend—
Nelson, the just and kind.
Grim War at last may cease,
And trumpets sound, but to proclaim
The halcyon years of peace.
Some unredeeméd wrong,—
While matchless courage still we love,
Or theme of stirring song—
Nigher, and yet more nigh
Towards the foe's relentless fire,
Silent—without reply.
These forty moments flee.
The Victory fires not:—and her men
Perish—all silently!
Of praise, which tell us how,
Never before, in all his fights,
His men face Death as now.
Hear that appalling roar,—
His ships first broadside—almost see
Him fall, to rise no more.
Amid his cruel pain,
His care for others:—almost see
Bold Hardy come again
And kiss his pallid cheek,
With touch, as soft as woman's touch,
Too tender to be weak.
Across the sunset wave,
The battle won; and then at length,
The burial of the brave.
Poetical Pictures of the Great War | ||