LXXVIII

HAIL AND FAREWELL

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here,

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The lad of honourable death
Is here: up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

Byron.

LXXIX

AFTER CORUNNA

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse 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 that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

How 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.

LXXX

THE OLD NAVY

THE captain stood on the carronade: 'First lieutenant,' says he,

'Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list

to me;

I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons—because I'm bred to the sea;

That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight

with we.

And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as
I've been to sea,

I've fought 'gainst every odds-but I've
gained the victory!

That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take she,

'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture we; I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun;

If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son.

For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as
I've been to sea,

I've fought 'gainst every odds—and I've
gained the victory!'

We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enough;

'I little thought,' said he, 'that your men were of such stuff';

Our captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made to he;

'I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite

And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as
I've been to sea,

I've fought 'gainst every odds-and I've
gained the victory!'

Our captain sent for all of us: 'My merry men,' said he,

'I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be:

You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun;

If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged each mother's son.

For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as

I'm at sea,

I'll fight 'gainst every odds-and I'll gain

the victory!'

LXXXI

Marryat.

CASABIANCA

THE boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck

Shone round him o'er the dead.