Who soon shall greet, 'mid memories of fierce fray,
The impassioned soul which on its radiant way
Soared through the fiery cloud of Trafalgar.

D. G. Rossetti.

Home-Thoughts, from the Sea

N

OBLY, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the Northwest died away;

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking
into Cadiz Bay;

Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face
Trafalgar lay;

In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and gray;

"Here and here did England help me; how can I help England?"-say,

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise

and pray,

While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

Robert Browning.

The Burial of Sir John Moore

N

(1809)

OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried:
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning:

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory.

Charles Wolfe.

The Eve of Quatre Bras

(1815)

HERE 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!

Did ye not hear it?-No; 't was but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet:—

But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echoes would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amid the festival,

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! they come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's Gathering" rose!
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard; and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers

With the fierce native daring which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

(B 838)

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,

Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!

Byron.

The Hallowing of the Fleet

(1854)

ER captains for the Baltic bound

H

In silent homage stood around;
Silent, whilst holy dew

Dimmed her kind eyes. She stood in tears,
For she had felt a mother's fears,

And wifely cares she knew.

She wept, she could not bear to say,
"Sail forth, my mariners, and slay
The liegemen of my foe".
Meanwhile on Russian steppe and lake
Are women weeping for the sake
Of them that seaward go.