Lyra Heroica Part 35

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese.

And, 'What mockery or malice have we here?' cries Herve Riel: 'Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?

Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues?

Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?

Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anch.o.r.ed fast at the foot of Solidor.

Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!

Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this _Formidable_ clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a pa.s.sage I know well, Right to Solidor past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, --Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!' cries Herve Riel.

Not a minute more to wait.

'Steer us in, then, small and great!

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!' cried his chief.

'Captains, give the sailor place!

He is Admiral, in brief.'

Still the north-wind, by G.o.d's grace!

See the n.o.ble fellow's face, As the big ship with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the pa.s.sage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound!

See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief!

The peril, see, is past, All are harboured to the last, And just as Herve Riel hollas 'Anchor!'--sure as fate Up the English come, too late!

So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the o'erlooking Greve.

Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.

'Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English take the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance, As they cannonade away!

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!'

How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!

Out burst all with one accord, 'This is Paradise for h.e.l.l!

Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!'

What a shout, and all one word, 'Herve Riel!'

As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, 'My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard.

Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward.

'Faith our sun was near eclipse!

Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville.'

Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 'Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- Since the others go ash.o.r.e-- Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!'

That he asked and that he got,--nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.

Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank!

You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel.

So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

_Browning._

C

THE DYING FIREMAN

I am the mashed fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have cleared the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie, exhausted but not so unhappy, White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps, The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

_Whitman._

CI

A SEA-FIGHT

Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight?

Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?

List to the yarn, as my grandmother's father the sailor told it to me.

'Our foe was no skulk in his ship, I tell you (said he), His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be; Along the lowered eve he came horribly raking us.

We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touched, My captain lashed fast with his own hands.

We had received some eighteen-pound shots under the water, On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead.

Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark, Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported, The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves.

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.

Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter?

If our colours are struck and the fighting done?

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, "We have not struck," he composedly cries, "we have just begun our part of the fighting."

Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast, Two well served with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.

Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.

One of the pumps had been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.

Serene stands the little captain, He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.