English Narrative Poems Part 14

"You Arden, you! nay,--sure he was a foot 850 Higher than you be." Enoch said again, "My G.o.d has bow'd me down to what I am; My grief and solitude have broken me; Nevertheless, know you that I am he Who married--but that name has twice been changed-- 855 I married her who married Philip Ray.

Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 860 Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly To rush abroad all round the little haven, Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 865 Saying only, "See your bairns before you go!

Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung A moment on her words, but then replied:

"Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 870 But let me hold my purpose till I die.

Sit down again; mark me and understand, While I have power to speak. I charge you now When you shall see her, tell her that I died Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; 875 Save for the bar between us, loving her As when she lay her head beside my own.

And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw So like her mother, that my latest breath Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 880 And tell my son that I died blessing him.

And say to Philip that I blest him too; He never meant us any thing but good.

But if my children care to see me dead, Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 885 I am their father; but she must not come, For my dead face would vex her after-life.

And now there is but one of all my blood, Who will embrace me in the world-to-be: This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it, 890 And I have borne it with me all these years, And thought to bear it with me to my grave; But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone, Take, give her this, for it may comfort her: 895 It will moreover be a token to her, That I am he."

He ceased; and Miriam Lane Made such a voluble answer promising all, That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 900 She promised.

Then the third night after this, While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, There came so loud a calling of the sea, That all the houses in the haven rang. 905 He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad, Crying with a loud voice "A sail! a sail!

I am saved;" and so fell back and spoke no more.

So past the strong heroic soul away.

And when they buried him the little port 910 Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.

THE REVENGE

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET

I

At Flores in the Azores[225] Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: 'Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!'

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard[226]: 'Fore G.o.d I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, 5 And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.

We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?'

II

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: 'I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.

But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ash.o.r.e. 10 I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition[227] dogs and the devildoms of Spain.'

III

So Lord Howard pa.s.sed away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land 15 Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford[228] in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, 20 To the thumbscrew[229] and the stake[230] for the glory of the Lord.

IV

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow.

'Shall we fight or shall we fly? 25 Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die!

There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.'

And Sir Richard said again, 'We be all good English men.

Let us bang these dogs of Seville,[231] the children of the devil, 30 For I never turn'd my back upon Don[232] or devil yet.'

V

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of her fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, 35 And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between.

VI

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, 40 And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.

VII

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, 45 Four galleons[233] drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

VIII

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went 50 Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. 55

IX

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.

Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. 60 For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more-- G.o.d of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

X

For he said, 'Fight on! fight on!'

Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, 65 With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said 'Fight on! fight on!'

XI

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, 70 And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, So they watch'd what the end would be.

And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, 75 Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; 80 And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 'We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again!

We have won great glory, my men! 85 And a day less or more At sea or ash.o.r.e, We die--does it matter when?

Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain!

Fall into the hands of G.o.d, not into the hands of Spain!' 90

XII

And the gunner said 'Ay, ay,' but the seamen made reply: 'We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives.

We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.' 95 And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.