England :: :: University of Virginia Library

“He is gracious if he be observed;
He hath a tear to pity, and a hand,
Open as day, for melting charity:
Yet, notwithstanding, being incens'd, he's flint.
His temper, therefore, must be well observed. [OMITTED]
God forgive them, that have so much sway'd
Your majesty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head!
And, in the closing of some glorious day,
Be bold to tell you that I am your son. [OMITTED]
I saw young Harry with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed,
Rise from the ground, like feather'd Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel, dropped down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
—Shakspeare.

Who hath not heard of this young jovial king,
His quips and cranks, and whims for ever new?
Light as the fresh blown blossoms of the spring,
Yet, with a heart, like summer's colours true.
Him did all impulses alike embue.
Now passionate, like the angry tempest's tongue,
Now mild and calm, as heaven's celestial blue:—
His heart with every freshest impulse rung;
Oh! may such kings as he for evermore be sung!

Who hath not heard of Falstaff? His prime sack?
His amorous sayings and his humorous woes?
Or when he bore brave Hotspur on his back,
And slew by scores his self-created foes?
Falstaff will live when monarchs, low, repose
In deep oblivion. Lofty is his name,
Link'd with great Shakspeare's poetry and prose.
But Henry, too, hath rear'd a mighty fame,
Won from the hearts of men and battle's smouldering flame.

What, though this royal king, in early youth,
Revell'd with pleasure in the summer shade?
What, though like amorous breezes of the south,
He woo'd each flower in field or sunny glade,
And made the midnight view his shining blade,
In frays that echoed through each sounding street?
What, though “to please himself” was aye his trade,
Delight still following at his rapid feet,
Whilst Love and Bacchus join'd to give attendance meet.

What, though old grey-hair'd dotards shook their head,
And, in malignant proverbs, prophesied.
Still hath he won, what soldiers, tamer bred,
In vain, through years of toil, have madly tried,
To sit with the old heroes, side by side.
The flush of young ambition aye must shew,
Like coming tempests o'er the slumbering tide.
Genius would die with its own maddening glow,
If, in the schoolboy's chains, it was constrain'd to go.

As well the Alpine torrents can be held,
As genius sink into the sodden mire;
It must burst forth—it cannot be withheld—
No earthly furnace can contain its fire.
Its natural love and aim is to aspire;
Its instinct is its own; and easier far
It is to tame the lion's fierce desire,
Or the lamb's freaks—or stop the tempest's roar,
Than bind to earthly aims what dwells in pomp afar.

Is it not so ye unforgotten dead;
Ye who have topp'd the battlements of fame;
Or, in your early greatness, bow'd the head,
Scorch'd wildly in your own volcanic flame?
Is it not so, each high and mighty name—
Tasso and Chatterton, Burns, Byron, all
Whom the world vainly would surround with shame?
Ye glorious dead who fill the immortal hall,
Is there not living fire even yet beneath your pall?

Then let us hear of youthful pranks no more,
But rather wait with expectation's eye,
And, where the burning chalice runneth o'er,
Hope only that it yet will fill more high,
Till its sweet sounds salute the morning sky.
Malignity and envy grovelling low,
Will ever watch, like vultures, to espy
The stain of weakness on a brother's brow;
But genius walks in climes where they can never go.

Lo, now the embarkation! On the sea
Ride the leviathans. The shining spars
Wanton among the sunbeams, bright and free,
Their streamers dallying with the hidden stars.
O little do these waves know of the wars
That soon shall shake huge France unto the core;
Their peaceful depths know nought of distant jars,
But love to greet the vessels gliding o'er,
And kiss their painted prows in love for evermore.

Ye idly heave, bright ships, upon the wave,
As if on you destruction could not come;
Ye dally with the pleasant winds that wave
Your streamers, or among your white sails roam,
As if no tempests shook their distant home!
Ye move like living creatures in your glee,
And sweep your painted hues among the foam;
And, if ye held great Neptune in your fee,
Ye could not walk more proudly o'er the heaving sea!

'Tis well, 'tis well—full many a distant heart
Will mourn your absence; many a solemn groan
Will sound to you from the hearts doom'd to part.
O many a noble maid will sit alone
Within her bower, and desolately moan.
Matrons will grieve your absence, and, at night,
Pray that the winds may breathe their softest tone;
And children, leaning in the household light,
Weep o'er the hideous tales of Crecy's murderous fight.

Full many a noble son and sire is there,
Britannia's strongest stems—her chiefest pride.
Then be ye still, ye storms! ye heavens, shine fair!
Restrain thy bounds, O thou remorseless tide!
Ye spirits of the deep, in rest abide!
And, O ye soldiers, pray the God on high,
That he will never wander from your side;
And you, ye moon and stars, that deck the sky,
Keep back the midnight clouds that veil your placid eye.

Hurrah!—Hurrah for England! Now they go
And dash among the breakers in their glee.
Proudly about their sides the waters flow,
Like children, climbing round their mother's knee.
And, O they move majestical and free
These armaments, and shall exist as long
As England dwells in strength and majesty;
And other Trafalgars shall have the song
Of patriots—future deeds stand forth as pure and strong.

Why should the ocean dare to be your foe?
Ye who have brav'd the tempest's wildest rage,
And, from your mountain-thrones, ruled o'er the snow,
And mist, and whirlwind of full many an age.
For all the forest birds ye were a cage:
Myriads of insects had from you their food.
Five hundred years the seasons tried to wage
War with you, still you rul'd each mighty wood,
And held your peaceful reign without a drop of blood.

Then roll, roll on thy surges, thou deep sea,
'Tis all in vain, thy strength they shall defy!
The time was not yet far, when glad and free
These vessels should in every harbour lie.
Into the Orient have they cast their eye;
Within the temples of the setting sun;
And where eternal snows salute the sky;
Beneath the poles their glorious course hath run,
To lands, where ne'er before the foot of man had gone.

And now, though centuries have past away,
Since to the winds your pennants glittered clear,
Our ships have still retain'd the sea in sway,
Still have they travers'd ocean without fear,
O'er every clime, o'er every hemisphere.
And O, in looking o'er far times to come,
Where will your glories cease? Oh! let us hear
The limits of your reign, your final home,
The unbounded ocean paths whereon you yet shall roam?

We have done more than Carthage, Greece, and Rome,
Than Macedonia, Babylon, or Tyre,
Sidon or Nineveh. Immers'd in gloom,
The sextant was unknown. Each tempest dire
Shook us to nought. But now the sacred fire
Of knowledge burns, and the deep hungry sea
Then trod with fear, is bridled as for hire.
Our ships in every harbour anchor free,
And with the tempests sport, and hold the waves in fee.

The scene is changed. It is no battle field;
There are no dancing plumes, save those of death.
There is no flaming sword, nor sounding shield,
Nor scarfs, nor banners,—nought but mourners' breath,
The hearse, the pall, the bier, and dust beneath.
Woe soundeth everywhere through London's street.
Sharp sorrow, like a sword within its sheath,
Lies hid; and mourners, with slow heavy feet,
Move to and fro, like ghosts, cas'd in their winding sheet.

The giant river seems to heave a groan
From out its inmost heart, and sigheth deep
Far up into its fountains. There's a tone
Of sorrow in the breezes' mournful sweep,
And the heavens seem like one about to weep:
Even the little birds have ceas'd to sing,
Fearing from out their leafy bowers to creep;
And the bright sun, his offering to bring,
Is pall'd with murky clouds, from which sweet tear-drops wring.

He died, as kings and heroes aye should die,
With all his glory circling round his brow;
Victorious armies met his fading eye,
And mighty nations did before him bow.
He died, 'mid acclamations sounding thro'
His dreams—he died a victor and a king.
Glorious, and, like a star that falleth low,
Quench'd in its brightness, so life droop'd its wing;
And of his name and deeds the world shall ever ring.

O lay him down in all his regal shew,
And place his conquering sword upon his breast!
Let sculpture come, with its enchanting glow,
And o'er his noble features carve her best—
The hero and the god in kingly rest!
His emblem, be the youthful lion slain
Beside its vanquish'd foe, (for he redrest
Old England's wrongs upon the battle plain)
And be his right hand laid upon the lion's mane!

And oh! unto the utmost verge of time
England shall mourn this glory past away,
Darken'd and vanish'd in its brightest prime!
And, sadly weeping by the insensate clay,
Lament in gloom o'er life's extinguish'd ray!
Lament that all things fade we most would cherish;
And strength, and youth, and beauty all decay;
And, what the nations in their love would nourish,
In death's remorseless fires, at last must fade and perish.