Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

LXXXIX

NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOR
A true story

Napoleon's banners at Boulogne

Arm'd in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman.

They suffer'd him-I know not how-
Unprison'd on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow
On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain half-way over;
With envy they could reach the white
Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought
To England nearer.

At last, when care had banish'd sleep,

He saw one morning-dreaming-doating,

An empty hogshead from the deep

Come shoreward floating;

He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The livelong day laborious; lurking

Until he launch'd a tiny boat

By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond
Description wretched: such a wherry
Perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond,
Or cross'd a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt sea-field,

It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, No sail-no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd
The foaming billows-

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,
His little Argo sorely jeering;

Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger;
And in us wonted attitude,

Address'd the stranger :

'Rash man that wouldst yon channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassion'd.'

'I have no sweetheart,' said the lad;
'But-absent long from one another-
Great was the longing that I had

To see my mother.'

'And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said,
'Ye've both my favour fairly won;
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son.'

He gave the tar a piece of gold,
And with a flag of truce commanded
He should be shipp'd to England Old,
And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift
To find a dinner plain and hearty;
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Bonaparte.

T. Campbell

XC

BOADICEA

An Ode

When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods;

Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief.

Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land,

Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow;
Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;
Dying hurl'd them at the foe;

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

W. Cowper

XCI

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was

young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers

sung.

« AnteriorContinuar »