The Ontario Readers: The High School Reader, 1886 Part 47

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board: "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pa.s.s?"

laugh'd they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the pa.s.sage scarr'd and scored, Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside?

Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.

Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!"

Then was call'd a council straight.

Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, link'd together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound?

Better run the ships aground!"

(Ended Damfreville his speech.) Not a minute more to wait!

"Let the captains all and each Shove ash.o.r.e, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!

France must undergo her fate.

"Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepp'd, for in struck, amid all these,-- A captain? a lieutenant? a mate,--first, second, third?

No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete!

But a simple Breton sailor press'd 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, Enter'd free and anchor'd 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 its 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 sea's profound!

See, safe through 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 harbor'd 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 heights o'erlooking Greve.

Hearts that bled are stanch'd with balm.

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

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"

Now 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 stepp'd 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 laugh'd 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 ask'd 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, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!

_The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above; Do thou, as best thou may'st, thy duty do: Amid the things allow'd thee live and love, Some day thou shalt it view._

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

Lx.x.xIII. SONNET.

PRESIDENT WILSON.--1816-

Great things were ne'er begotten in an hour; Ephemerons in birth, are such in life; And he who dareth, in the n.o.ble strife Of intellects, to cope for real power,-- Such as G.o.d giveth as His rarest dower Of mastery, to the few with greatness rife,-- Must, ere the morning mists have ceased to lower Till the long shadows of the night arrive, Stand in the arena. Laurels that are won, Pluck'd from green boughs, soon wither; those that last Are gather'd patiently, when sultry noon And summer's fiery glare in vain are past.

Life is the hour of labor; on Earth's breast Serene and undisturb'd shall be thy rest.

Lx.x.xIV. OUR IDEAL.

PRESIDENT WILSON.

Did ever on painter's canvas live The power of his fancy's dream?

Did ever poet's pen achieve Fruition of his theme?

Did marble ever take the life That the sculptor's soul conceiv'd?

Or ambition win in pa.s.sion's strife What its glowing hopes believ'd?

Did ever racer's eager feet Rest as he reach'd the goal, Finding the prize achiev'd was meet To satisfy his soul?

Lx.x.xV. FROM THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES.