My Lyrical Life :: :: University of Virginia Library

Our Happy Warrior! of a race
To whom are richly given
Great glory and peculiar grace,
Because in league with Heaven.
Not that the mortal course they trod
Was free from briar and thorn;
Who wears the arrow-mark of God,
Must first the wound have borne.

O like a Sailor Saint was he,
Our Sea-king! grave and sweet
In temper after victory,
Or cheerful in defeat;
And men would leave their quiet home
To follow in his wake,
And fight in fire, or float in foam,
For love of Robert Blake.

Like that drumhead of Zitska's skin,
Thrills his heroic name;
And how the salt-sea-sparkle in
Us, flashes at his fame!
His picture in our hearts' best books
Still keeps its pride of place,
From which a lofty spirit looks
With an unfading face;

The face as of an Angel, who
Might live his Boyhood here!
And yet how deadly grand it grew,
When Wrong drew darkening near.

All ridged, and ready trenched for war
The fair frank brow was bent,
Then shone like sudden Scimitar,
The lion-lineament.

Behold him, with his gallant band,
On leaguered Lyme's red beach.
Shoulder to shoulder, see them stand,
At Taunton in the breach.
Safe through the battle-shocks he went,
With sword-sweep stern and wide;
Strode the grim heaps as Death had lent
Him his White Horse to ride.

“Give in! our toils you cannot break;
The Lion is in the net!
Famine fights for us.” “No,” said Blake,
“My boots I have not ate.”
He smiled across the bitter cup;
He gripped his good Sword-heft:
“I should not dream of giving up
While such a meal is left.”

Where trumpets blow and streamers flow,
Behold him, calm and proud,
Bear down upon the bravest foe,
A bursting thunder-cloud.
Foremost of all the host that strove
To crowd Death's open door,
In giant mood his way he clove;
Aye first to go before.

And though the battle-lightning blazed,
The thunders roar and roll,
He to Immortal Beauty raised
A statue with his soul.

And never did the Greeks of old
Mirror in marble rare
A Wrestler of so fine a mould,
An Athlete half so fair.

Homeward the dying Sea-king turns
From his last famous fight,
For England's dear green hills he yearns
At heart, and strains his sight.
The old cliffs loom out gray and grand,
The old War-ship glides on,
With one last wave life tries to land,
Falls seaward, and is gone.

With that last leap to touch the coast,
He passed into his rest,
And Blake's unwearying arms were crossed
Upon his martial breast.
And while our England waits, and twines
For him her latest wreath,
His is a crown of stars that shines
From out the dusk of death.

For him no pleasant age of ease,
To wear what youth could win;
For him no Children round his knees,
To gather his harvest in.
But with a soul serene, he takes
Whatever lot may come;
And such a life of labour makes
A glorious going home.

Famous old Trueheart, dead and gone,
Long shall his glory grow,
Who never turned his back upon
A friend, nor face from foe.

He made them fear old England's name
Wherever it was heard,
He put her proudest foes to shame;
And Peace smiled on his Sword.

With lofty courage, loftier love,
He died for England's sake;
And 'mid the loftiest lights above,
Shines our illustrious Blake.—
And shall shine! Glory of the West,
And Beacon for the seas;
While Britain bares its sailor breast
To battle or to breeze.

Great Sailor on the seas of strife;
Victor by land and wave;
Brave liver of a gallant life;
Lord of a glorious grave;
True Soldier set on earthly hill
As Sentinel of heaven;
A King who keeps his kingdom till
The last award be given.

Till she forget her old Sea-fame,
Shall England honour him,
And keep the grave-grass from his name
Till her old eyes be dim:
And long as free waves folding round,
Brimful with blessing break,
At heart she holds him, calm and crowned,
Immortal Robert Blake.