The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 30

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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.eward 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, uncompa.s.s'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 pa.s.s'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 his wonted att.i.tude, Address'd the stranger:--

'Rash man that wouldst yon channel pa.s.s On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; Thy heart with some sweet British la.s.s Must be impa.s.sion'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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.ds;

Sage beneath a spreading oak Sat the Druid, h.o.a.ry 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 Caesar 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 f.a.ggot 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.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part, My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us,--rest, thou art weary and worn!

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

_T. Campbell_

XCII

_LOVE AND GLORY_

Young Henry was as brave a youth As ever graced a gallant story; And Jane was fair as lovely truth, She sigh'd for Love, and he for Glory!