VII. Now joy, Old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; By thy wild and stormy steep, VIII. Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! THOMAS CAMPBELL THE SEA FIGHT. AS TOLD BY AN ANCIENT MARINER. An, yes the fight! Well, messmates, well, To-night, be sure a crushing weight Of dread will sit. At any rate, Though land-locked here, a watch I'll keep— Grog cheers us still. Who cares for sleep? That Ninety-eight I sailed on board; Along the Frenchman's coast we flew; Right aft the rising tempest roared; A noble first-rate hove in view; And soon high in the gale there soared Her streamed-out bunting-red, white, blue! We cleared for fight, and landward bore, Masters, I cannot spin a yarn Twice laid with words of silken stuff. A fact's a fact; and ye may larn The rights o' this, though wild and rough My words may loom. 'Tis your consarn, Not mine, to understand. Enough;— We neared the Frenchman where he lay, And as we neared, he blazed away. We tacked, hove to; we filled, we wore; Now rounded off, and now broached to; And now our starboard broadside bore, And showers of iron through and through His vast hull hissed; our larboard then Swept from his three-fold decks his men. As we, like a huge serpent, toiled, And wound about, through that wild sea, The Frenchman each manœuvre foiled"Vantage to neither there could be. Whilst thus the waves between us boiled, We both resolved right manfully To fight it side by side;-began Then the fierce strife of man to man. Gun bellows forth to gun, and pain The slippery decks send up a steam The shredded limb, the splintered bone, Th' unstiffened corpse, now block the way! Who now can hear the dying groan? The trumpet of the judgment day, Had it pealed forth its mighty tone, We should not then have heard,—to say Would be rank sin; but this I tell, That could alone our madness quell. Upon the fore-castle I fought As captain of the for'ad gun. What mother then had known her son Of those who stood around?-distraught, And smeared with gore, about they run, Then fall, and writhe, and howling die! But one escaped-that one was I! CASABIANCA. Night darkened round, and the storm pealed, | Th' eddying flames with ravening tongue To windward of us lay the foe. As he to leeward over keeled, He could not fight his guns below; So just was going to strike-when reeled The huge ship from her element. Then howled the thunder. Tumult then Round Had stunned herself to silence. Were scattered lightning-blasted men! Our mainmast went. All stifled, drowned, Arose the Frenchman's shout. Again The bolt burst on us, and we found Just then-nay, messmates, laugh not now- 'Twas silence all-the raving flood, Or see anght of that scene of fear. My aged mother at her door Sat mildly o'er her humming wheel; The cottage, orchard, and the moor I saw them plainly all. I'll kneel, And swear I saw them! Oh, they wore A look all peace. Could I but feel Again that bliss that then I felt, That made my heart, like childhood's, melt! The blessed tear was on my cheek, She smiled with that old smile I know: "Turn to me, mother, turn and speak," Was on my quivering lips-when lo! All vanished, and a dark, red streak Glared wild and vivid from the foe, That flashed upon the blood-stained waterFor fore and aft the flames had caught her. She struck and hailed us. On us fast All burning, helplessly, she came— Near, and more near; and not a mast Had we to help us from that flame. Twas then the bravest stood aghast'Twas then the wicked, on the name With danger and with guilt appalled,) Of God, too long neglected, called. 889 MARCO BOZZARIS. Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? A remnant of our Spartan dead! What! silent still? and silent all? And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise-we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain-in vain; strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call, How answers each bold Bacchanal! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gaveThink ye he meant them for a slave? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! It made Anacreon's song divine; He served but served Polycrates- The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh that the present hour would lend Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there perhaps some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks- Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die. A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine! 391 LORD BYRON. MARCO BOZZARIS. Ar midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power. In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet-ringThen pressed that monarch's throne-a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote bandTrue as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Platæa's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arms to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far, as they. An hour passed on-the Turk awoke: Come, when his task of fame is wrought- Of sky and stars to prisoned men; "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Of brother in a foreign land; Greek!" He woke to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike-till the last armed foe expires; Strike for your altars and your fires; Strike for the green graves of your sires; God-and your native land!" They fought-like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered-but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Thy summons welcome as the cry To the world-seeking Genoese, Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb. The memory of her buried joys- Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's-One of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. |