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109
August 17.
THE DEATH OF BLAKE. (1657.)
“Foremost of all the victorious squadron the St. George rode with
its precious burden into the Sound (Plymouth), and just as it came into
full view of the eager thousands crowding the beach, the pier-head, the
walls of the citadel, or dashing in countless boats over the smooth
waters between St. Nicholas and the Docks, ready to catch the first
glimpse of the hero of Santa Cruz and salute him with a true English
welcome—he, in his silent cabin, in the midst of his lion-hearted
comrades now sobbing like little children, yielded up his soul to God.”
—
Dixon's
Life of Blake, p. 362.
The Sea King on his war-steed rideth home,
But rideth home to die;
From many a battle hath he come,
And each a victory.
Full fiercely hath he ridden o'er the main,
And shunned no foe and met no peer;
Full proudly borne along the ocean-plain
The banner of his England dear:
And now he rideth home full gloriously.
But not to reach the dear-loved isle,
But not to catch her proud, glad smile,
Unto her Blake is given;
No! end more glorious still hath he,
The mighty Sea King dieth on the sea;
His spirit hath gone home to Heaven.
But rideth home to die;
From many a battle hath he come,
And each a victory.
Full fiercely hath he ridden o'er the main,
And shunned no foe and met no peer;
Full proudly borne along the ocean-plain
The banner of his England dear:
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But not to reach the dear-loved isle,
But not to catch her proud, glad smile,
Unto her Blake is given;
No! end more glorious still hath he,
The mighty Sea King dieth on the sea;
His spirit hath gone home to Heaven.
O arm of might! O soul sublime!
O Seeker of the Lord!
O breather of that awful glorious time
When full on England was the Spirit poured,
When burned in England's heart a sacred flame,
When gleamed in England's hand a sacred sword,
When God's own great ones in this isle were great,
When captains of the host by faith o'ercame,
And prayer fast rooted, pillars of the state!
O heart aglow with calm, pure fires!
O simple, stainless man of might!
The Good, Old Cause thy sword requires;
For God and England thou canst fight:
As ancient vikings, dread and bold,
Prayerful and calm as saints of old!
O wondrous Sea King! greater far
Than any nurseling of the sea!
Thou needest not to learn the lore of war;
To conquer and command were born with thee.
Upon the waves a monarch peerless!
Upon the shore a champion fearless!
O strong against a host to keep
A little, lonely town!
O strong to sweep across the deep
And ride whole navies down!
O dreadful when the wall was rent,
When in the breach the fight waxed sore!
O terrible when Ocean blent
His awful voice with battle's roar!
O Seeker of the Lord!
O breather of that awful glorious time
When full on England was the Spirit poured,
When burned in England's heart a sacred flame,
When gleamed in England's hand a sacred sword,
When God's own great ones in this isle were great,
When captains of the host by faith o'ercame,
And prayer fast rooted, pillars of the state!
O heart aglow with calm, pure fires!
O simple, stainless man of might!
The Good, Old Cause thy sword requires;
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As ancient vikings, dread and bold,
Prayerful and calm as saints of old!
O wondrous Sea King! greater far
Than any nurseling of the sea!
Thou needest not to learn the lore of war;
To conquer and command were born with thee.
Upon the waves a monarch peerless!
Upon the shore a champion fearless!
O strong against a host to keep
A little, lonely town!
O strong to sweep across the deep
And ride whole navies down!
O dreadful when the wall was rent,
When in the breach the fight waxed sore!
O terrible when Ocean blent
His awful voice with battle's roar!
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England or Holland! which shall be
Lady and mistress of the sea?
Which champion shall his land imperial make,
Redoubted Tromp, or hero-hearted Blake?
O never on the ocean yet
Had two such peerless champions met;
But flamed more fiercely England's eye,
Her champion smote more terribly.
And the vexed ocean, that awhile
Scarce knew which land for queen to take,
His duty learned at last from Blake,
And bowed before the imperial isle.
Lady and mistress of the sea?
Which champion shall his land imperial make,
Redoubted Tromp, or hero-hearted Blake?
O never on the ocean yet
Had two such peerless champions met;
But flamed more fiercely England's eye,
Her champion smote more terribly.
And the vexed ocean, that awhile
Scarce knew which land for queen to take,
His duty learned at last from Blake,
And bowed before the imperial isle.
O famëd Midland Sea!
Over whose waves sublime
The mighty of all time
Have on the pathway of their glory gone;
Around whose shores hath risen and shone
And set the sun of each great empery!
Another conqueror made love to thee.
An English Sea King rode thy waves upon!
Tremendous Blake! around he bore
His England's might, his England's fame.
Echoed each famous isle, each glorious shore
The Northern Island's more majestic name;
And on all men fell the fear
Of her awful Oliver.
Fierce rained those dreadful strokes of Blake
Upon the spoilers of the main!
O blessed strokes! of power to break
From Christian limbs the chain!
Over whose waves sublime
The mighty of all time
Have on the pathway of their glory gone;
Around whose shores hath risen and shone
And set the sun of each great empery!
Another conqueror made love to thee.
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Tremendous Blake! around he bore
His England's might, his England's fame.
Echoed each famous isle, each glorious shore
The Northern Island's more majestic name;
And on all men fell the fear
Of her awful Oliver.
Fierce rained those dreadful strokes of Blake
Upon the spoilers of the main!
O blessed strokes! of power to break
From Christian limbs the chain!
Trembled pale Antichrist to know so nigh
The war-steeds of the Northern Isle abhorred.
Low bent his darling Spain, when terribly
Those riders of the main against her spurred.
Within that strongly guarded bay
Those richly laden galleons lay:
But past those forts, but through that flame
Onward the awful Red Cross came.
In vain the Spaniard fiercely strove;
Right on his prey the Sea King drove,
And smote the ships and spread the blaze.
O deed of deeds! O day of days!
Blake! hast thou not fulfilled thy praise?
Thou canst not lift thy land more high;
Go! bear thy glory home, and die!
The war-steeds of the Northern Isle abhorred.
Low bent his darling Spain, when terribly
Those riders of the main against her spurred.
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Those richly laden galleons lay:
But past those forts, but through that flame
Onward the awful Red Cross came.
In vain the Spaniard fiercely strove;
Right on his prey the Sea King drove,
And smote the ships and spread the blaze.
O deed of deeds! O day of days!
Blake! hast thou not fulfilled thy praise?
Thou canst not lift thy land more high;
Go! bear thy glory home, and die!
The stately war-ship maketh way;
The white cliffs gleam not yet:
On, war-steed! down thy mighty rider lay
Where he would fain be set!
The summer sun still shineth clear,
Still beats the heroic heart;
Upon the bosom of his England dear
That faithful soul would part.
They rise! the sacred white cliffs rise!
But not on those dim, dying eyes.
The Sea King lieth dead upon his throne;
To its own Father Land the spirit fair hath flown.
The white cliffs gleam not yet:
On, war-steed! down thy mighty rider lay
Where he would fain be set!
The summer sun still shineth clear,
Still beats the heroic heart;
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That faithful soul would part.
They rise! the sacred white cliffs rise!
But not on those dim, dying eyes.
The Sea King lieth dead upon his throne;
To its own Father Land the spirit fair hath flown.
In 1643 Blake, with 1000 men, successfully defended the fishing town of Lyme Regis against Prince Maurice with 20,000; and in 1644-5 beat back three royalist armies from before the scarcely fortified Taunton.
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