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32
April 7.
CHATHAM.
[_]
On this day [1778] Chatham sank down in an apoplectic fit, from which he never recovered, whilst raising his voice in the House of Lords against the relinquishment of the American Colonies, whose rights he had earnestly upholden, but whose separation from the mother country he looked upon as a dismemberment of the empire. “The circumstances seemed rather to belong to the tragic stage than to real life. A great statesman, full of years and honour, led forth to the Senate House by a son of rare hopes, and stricken down in full council whilst straining his feeble voice to rouse the drooping spirit of his country, could not but be remembered with peculiar veneration and tenderness.”— Macaulay, Essays, Earl of Chatham.
Not meanly yearned those knights of yore
To make a fair, fit end—
Their blood heroic forth to pour
Amidst the battle's rush and roar,
Upon their dying hour to cast
The glory of their fiery Past,
To make a fair, fit end—
Their blood heroic forth to pour
Amidst the battle's rush and roar,
Upon their dying hour to cast
The glory of their fiery Past,
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And with the trumpet's full, fierce blast
Their parting breath to blend:
Their last to dare, their last to smite
In some well-fought, victorious fight,
And consecrate their sinking hand
To Christ's dear Cross or Father Land.
Their parting breath to blend:
Their last to dare, their last to smite
In some well-fought, victorious fight,
And consecrate their sinking hand
To Christ's dear Cross or Father Land.
Thus greatly Chatham passed away,
His last thus nobly spoke;
Thus full upon his last great day
The lustre of his bright Past lay;
His voice its lingering glory spent
Within the accustomed Parliament,
And its last broken utterance shed
Where it so oft had thunderëd.
His last thus nobly spoke;
Thus full upon his last great day
The lustre of his bright Past lay;
His voice its lingering glory spent
Within the accustomed Parliament,
And its last broken utterance shed
Where it so oft had thunderëd.
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As aye for England's strength and cheer,
As aye on England's ravished ear
That voice imperial broke;
So its last tones for England rung,
For England strove that stammering tongue,
And forth that hand for England flung
Its last faint, faltering stroke.
He mourned her robes imperial rent,
He mourned her shining light far spent,—
He mourned her banner stained and torn,
The banner he had proudly borne,
The robes his mighty hand had wrought,
The glory his great soul had brought:
And rose the indignant cry.
The load of years oppressed in vain,
He trod upon the yoke of pain;
He came to speak for England's right,
He came to help her shrunken plight,
He came to rouse her fainting might,
He came to do and die!
O fiery heart! O voice sublime!
O stately soul and true!
O marvels of thy mighty prime!
O glory of that golden time,
When England called her darling son
To guide the conflict ill-begun,
To save the nation half undone,
And her bright Past renew!
Ah! trembling dotards held the helm;
Foul hucksters trafficked with the realm,
And in the hands of weaklings vile
Dwindled and drooped the imperial Isle.
And trouble came, and war arose,
And England fled before her foes.
Proud France her wonted victor overcame;
For stricken England everywhere was shame.
In field, on fort, her banner sank,
Her legions quailed, her empire shrank;
In the far East her glory paled,
In the far West her right hand failed;
Unhappy Byng the foe forbore;
St. George's spotless pennon bore
A moment's scathe, a moment's stain;
And her old vassal, the blue main,
A moment doubted of her reign.
As aye on England's ravished ear
That voice imperial broke;
So its last tones for England rung,
For England strove that stammering tongue,
And forth that hand for England flung
Its last faint, faltering stroke.
He mourned her robes imperial rent,
He mourned her shining light far spent,—
He mourned her banner stained and torn,
The banner he had proudly borne,
The robes his mighty hand had wrought,
The glory his great soul had brought:
And rose the indignant cry.
The load of years oppressed in vain,
He trod upon the yoke of pain;
He came to speak for England's right,
He came to help her shrunken plight,
He came to rouse her fainting might,
He came to do and die!
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O stately soul and true!
O marvels of thy mighty prime!
O glory of that golden time,
When England called her darling son
To guide the conflict ill-begun,
To save the nation half undone,
And her bright Past renew!
Ah! trembling dotards held the helm;
Foul hucksters trafficked with the realm,
And in the hands of weaklings vile
Dwindled and drooped the imperial Isle.
And trouble came, and war arose,
And England fled before her foes.
Proud France her wonted victor overcame;
For stricken England everywhere was shame.
In field, on fort, her banner sank,
Her legions quailed, her empire shrank;
36
In the far West her right hand failed;
Unhappy Byng the foe forbore;
St. George's spotless pennon bore
A moment's scathe, a moment's stain;
And her old vassal, the blue main,
A moment doubted of her reign.
Not idly England mused and mourned,
With shame, with wrath, with hope she burned;
From weaklings base to Pitt she turned,
Her hero well she knew.
In her chief soul she took delight;
She bowed before her Man of Might,
She gloried in her stainless knight;
She loved her lover true.
With shame, with wrath, with hope she burned;
From weaklings base to Pitt she turned,
Her hero well she knew.
In her chief soul she took delight;
She bowed before her Man of Might,
She gloried in her stainless knight;
She loved her lover true.
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O yes! her ear was meetly bent
Before that voice most eloquent;
Upon her lordly darling's breast she leant.
Back, trembling dotards! to her soul most grand
Yield the shorn glory of the Father Land!
Joy, England! wear again thy smiling face:
Lo! thy best lover guides thy way,
Thy chief of men the realm doth sway;
The mighty soul is in the mighty place!
Before that voice most eloquent;
Upon her lordly darling's breast she leant.
Back, trembling dotards! to her soul most grand
Yield the shorn glory of the Father Land!
Joy, England! wear again thy smiling face:
Lo! thy best lover guides thy way,
Thy chief of men the realm doth sway;
The mighty soul is in the mighty place!
O'er the fallen land her lover bent,
His heart on hers he laid:
Right from that glowing heart there went
A quickening fire omnipotent;
Her dull, dead eye his bright glance lit;
Her nerveless frame his strong will knit,
She lived the mighty life of Pitt,
She did whate'er he bade.
The sluggard toiled, the laggard flew,
The weakling to a giant grew;
The stricken realm all victory won;
The shamëd land all glorious shone.
O ne'er of old was England pressed
So close, so long to Victory's breast!
O never from the fierce French foe
She wrung such tears of shame and woe!
O ne'er her sword so widely swept,
O ne'er so deeply smote!
From end to end of earth it leapt,
O'er all the world its keen edge kept;
On ocean wave, 'midst storm-vexed fight,
In tented field, on guarded height,
In letters large, in letters bright
Her awful name it wrote:
In the far East it gleamëd glorious,
O'er the far West it waved victorious!
His heart on hers he laid:
Right from that glowing heart there went
A quickening fire omnipotent;
Her dull, dead eye his bright glance lit;
Her nerveless frame his strong will knit,
She lived the mighty life of Pitt,
She did whate'er he bade.
The sluggard toiled, the laggard flew,
The weakling to a giant grew;
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The shamëd land all glorious shone.
O ne'er of old was England pressed
So close, so long to Victory's breast!
O never from the fierce French foe
She wrung such tears of shame and woe!
O ne'er her sword so widely swept,
O ne'er so deeply smote!
From end to end of earth it leapt,
O'er all the world its keen edge kept;
On ocean wave, 'midst storm-vexed fight,
In tented field, on guarded height,
In letters large, in letters bright
Her awful name it wrote:
In the far East it gleamëd glorious,
O'er the far West it waved victorious!
O! needs must England's standards fly
From victory to victory!
Needs must her arm the world o'erbear;
The soul of Pitt was everywhere!
Hot in each seaman's heart it glowed,
Fierce through each soldier's veins it flowed;
Each chief, each hero it imbued
With more heroic hardihood.
It kindled Hawke to shew the sea
Strange proof of England's mastery,
Amidst the storm the foe to smite,
And darkness make with victory bright.
It strengthened Wolfe to dare and die,
And leave a realm for legacy.
With Clive invincible it went
Through all the amazëd Orient.
The hosts of Plassey it o'ercame,
It won the heights of Abraham.
It made the land of fire her own;
On realms of snow it built her throne;
An empire of an isle it made;
At crownëd England's feet the world it laid.
From victory to victory!
Needs must her arm the world o'erbear;
39
Hot in each seaman's heart it glowed,
Fierce through each soldier's veins it flowed;
Each chief, each hero it imbued
With more heroic hardihood.
It kindled Hawke to shew the sea
Strange proof of England's mastery,
Amidst the storm the foe to smite,
And darkness make with victory bright.
It strengthened Wolfe to dare and die,
And leave a realm for legacy.
With Clive invincible it went
Through all the amazëd Orient.
The hosts of Plassey it o'ercame,
It won the heights of Abraham.
40
On realms of snow it built her throne;
An empire of an isle it made;
At crownëd England's feet the world it laid.
Call, England, thy illustrious throng;
Gaze, gaze thy shining Past along;
In each majestic soul rejoice,
Bow beneath each imperial voice;
Unto each pillar of thy state,
Each lover true, each monarch great,
Melodious praises consecrate!
But O! a mounting strain require
For Chatham's soaring soul of fire!
On a strong-winged, full-hearted song
Thy mighty lover bear along!
Yes, only strains more glorious spare
For Alfred and for Oliver.
Gaze, gaze thy shining Past along;
In each majestic soul rejoice,
Bow beneath each imperial voice;
Unto each pillar of thy state,
Each lover true, each monarch great,
Melodious praises consecrate!
But O! a mounting strain require
For Chatham's soaring soul of fire!
On a strong-winged, full-hearted song
Thy mighty lover bear along!
Yes, only strains more glorious spare
For Alfred and for Oliver.
This longing was common to all mediæval warriors, whether heathen Vikings or Christian knights; witness sundry Scandinavian kings, Siward of Northumberland, the vanquisher of Macbeth, and Earl Douglas, a hero of Chevy Chace, and the victor of Otterbourne, where he fell, and where his dying lips rejoiced in the gratified aspiration.
The French took Minorca, which Admiral Byng failed to relieve; he was shot for hesitating to engage the French fleet which protected the siege.
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