THE BRITISH SAILOR'S SONG
AWAY with bayonet and with lance,
With corselet, casque, and sword;
Our island-king no war-horse needs,
For on the sea he's lord.
His throne's the war-ship's lofty deck,
His sceptre is the mast;
His kingdom is the rolling wave,
His servant is the blast.
His anchor's up, fair Freedom's flag
Proud to the mast he nails;
Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads,
For there your terror sails.
I saw fierce Prussia's chargers stand,
Her children's sharp swords out;-
Proud Austria's bright spurs streaming red
When rose the closing shout;
But soon the steeds rush'd masterless,
By tower, and town, and wood;
For lordly France her fiery youth
Poured o'er them like a flood.
Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels,
And let your steeds run free;
Then come to our unconquered decks,
And learn to reign at sea.
black and batter'd hulk
That slumbers on the tide,
There is no sound from stem to stern,
For peace has pluck'd her pride;
The masts are down, the cannon mute
She shows nor sheet nor sail,
Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze,
Nor answers shout nor hail;
Her merry men, with all their mirth,
Have sought some other shore;
And she with all her glory on,
Shall rule the sea no more.
So landsmen speak. Lo! her top-masts
Are quivering in the sky;
Her sails are spread, her anchor's raised,
There sweeps she gallant by.
A thousand warriors fill her decks;
Within her painted side
The thunder sleeps-man's might has nought
Can match or mar her pride.
In victor glory goes she forth ;
Her stainless flag flies free;
Kings of the earth, come and behold
How Britain reigns on sea!
When on your necks the armèd foot
Of fierce Napoleon trod,
And all was his, save the wide sea,
Where we triumphant rode,
He launched his terror and his strength,
Our sea-born pride to tame;
They came-they got the Nelson-touch,
And vanish'd as they came.
Go, hang your bridles in your halls,
And set your war-steeds free;
The world has one unconquer'd king,
And he reigns on the sea!
ONCE more upon the waters! Yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar !
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.
I've taught me other tongues-and in strange eyes
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise;
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find
A country with-aye, or without mankind;
Yet was I born where men are proud to be,-
Not without cause; and should I leave behind
The inviolate Island of the sage and free,
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,
Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay
My ashes in a soil which is not mine,
My Spirit shall resume it—if we may
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine
My hopes of being remembered in my line
With my land's language: if too fond and far
These aspirations in their scope incline,-
If my Fame should be, as my fortunes are,
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar
My name from out the temple where the dead
Are honoured by the Nations—let it be
And light the Laurels on a loftier head!
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me-
Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.' Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor needThe thorns which I have reaped are of the tree I planted, they have torn me, and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,-
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute.
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.'
The mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free,
For standing on the Persians' grave
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations;-all were his!
He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set where were they?
And where are they? And where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now,
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
"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?
Must we but blush? Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla !
What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no;-the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
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 !
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
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 mine-
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry-and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !
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