Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron !' cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, 70 Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, 75 Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harboured to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas' Anchor!'—sure as fate Up the English come, too late! VIII. So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 'Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 80 85 90 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!' How hope succeeds despair on each captain's counte nance! Out burst all with one accord, 'This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!' Ask to heart's content and have! or my name 's not Dam freville.' X. Then a beam of fun outbroke. On the bearded mouth that spoke, Since on board the duty 's done, 115 And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run? Since 't is ask and have, I may— Since the others go ashore Come! A good whole holiday! 120 Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore !' That he asked and that he got-nothing more. 125 XI. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, 130 In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank ! 135 You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! 140 CLIVE. I and Clive were friends-and why not? Friends! I think you laugh, my lad. Clive it was gave England India, while your father gives, egad! England nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak 'Well, sir, you and Clive were comrades'—with a tongue thrust in your cheek! Very true in my eyes, your eyes, all the world's eyes, Clive was man, 5 I was, am, and ever shall be-mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan Sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen's estimate for fame; While the man Clive-he fought Plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game, Conquered and annexed and Englished! Never mind! As o'er my punch (You away) I sit of evenings, silence, save for biscuit crunch, Black, unbroken,—thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years, Notes this forthright, that meander, till the long-past life ap pears Like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood, Once, and well remembered still,—I'm startled in my soli. tude Ever and anon by-what's the sudden mocking light that breaks 15 On me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes While I ask-aloud, I do believe, God help me!-'Was it thus? Can it be that so I faltered, stopped when just one step for us (Us,—you were not born, I grant, but surely some day born would be) 'One bold step had gained a province' (figurative talk, you see), 'Got no end of wealth and honour,—yet I stood stock still no less?' 'For I was not Clive,' you comment: but it needs no Clive to guess Wealth were handy, honour ticklish, did no writing on the wall Warn me 'Trespasser, 'ware man-traps!' Him who braves that notice-call Hero! None of such heroics suit myself who read plain words, 25 Doff my hat, and leap no barrier. Scripture says the land 's the Lord's: Louts then-what avail the thousand, noisy in a smockfrocked ring, All agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be Clive, their king? Higher warrant must you show me ere I set one foot be fore Tother in that dark direction, though I stand forever more 30 Poor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By and by Job grows rich and Moses valiant, Clive turns out less wise than I. |