Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd ; They that had fought so well Left of six hundred. 6 When can their glory fade? Noble six hundred ! A. Tennyson LXXXVIIT YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND Ye mariners of England, That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years Your glorious standard launch again, And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, 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, While the stormy winds do blow; Britannia needs no bulwarks, 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: And the storm has ceased to blow. T. Campbell N 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- His eye, methinks, pursued the flight A stormy midnight watch, he thought, 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 Until he launch'd a tiny boat By mighty working. Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond 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 But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, Till tidings of him chanced to reach With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger; And in his wonted attitude, '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; To see my mother.' 'And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said, He gave the tar a piece of gold, Our sailor oft could scantly shift T. Campbell XC BOADICEA An Ode When the British warrior queen, Sage beneath a spreading oak Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. |