LXVI THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. Toll for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore ! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, A land breeze shook the shrouds, Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock She sprang no fatal leak— She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er, And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the waves no more! LXVII YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. Ye mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Cowper. Your glorious standard launch again And sweep through the deep The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart When the storm has ceased to blow: CAMPBELL. LXVIII MARGUERITE OF FRANCE. The Moslem spears were gleaming Though a Christian banner from her wall Ay, proudly did the banner wave As queen of earth and air, But faint hearts throbbed beneath its folds In anguish and despair. Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon Their knighthood's best array. 'Twas mournful, when at feast they met, And mournful was their vigil And dark their slumber, dark with dreams Yet a few hearts of chivalry Rose high to breast the storm, And one-of all the loftiest thereThrilled in a woman's form; A woman, meekly bending O'er the slumber of her child; Oh! roughly cradled was thy babe Midst the crash of spear and lance, And a strange wild bower was thine, young queen Fair Marguerite of France! A dark and vaulted chamber Deep in the Saracenic gloom Of the warrior citadel; And there midst arms the couch was spread, And with banners curtained o'er For the daughter of the minstrel-land, The gay Provençal shore ! |