Various - Ballads of Bravery

Beat faint. They went; and o’er his eyes
A gathering film beclouded light;
And music murmured in his brain,
Such respite sang from toil and strain
That all his senses, wearied quite,
Were lapped to slumber, lulling pain;
Whilst soothing visions seemed to rise,
That brought him scenes of other times,
With cherub faces, beaming bright,
Of many children, and the rhymes
His mother taught him on her knee,
In happy days of infancy.
Then gentlest forms, with rustling wings,
Were wafting him a world of ease
Beneath those downy canopies,
Wherewith they shut out angry skies;
And they with winning beckonings —
Who looked so sweet and saintly wise —
His buoyant spirit drew afar
From creaking timbers, shivering sails,
And ships that strain in autumn gales,
And snow-mixed rains, and sleeting hails,
And wind and waves at endless war.
Oh! who will e’er forget the day,
The bitter tears, the voiceless prayer,
The thoughts of grief we could not say,
The shallow graves within the bay,
The fifteen dear ones buried there,
The grown, the young, who, side by side,
Without or coffin, shroud, or priest,
Were laid; and him we mourned not least, —
The boy that had so bravely died!

HER arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the beggar maid
Before the king Cophetua.
In robe and crown the king stept down
To meet and greet her on her way.
“It is no wonder,” said the lords,
“She is more beautiful than day.”

As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen;
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace,
In all that land had never been;
Cophetua sware a royal oath, —
“This beggar maid shall be my queen.”

NOT yet, not yet! Steady, steady!”
On came the foe in even line,
Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine.
We looked into their eyes. “Ready!”
A sheet of flame, a roll of death!
They fell by scores: we held our breath.
Then nearer still they came.
Another sheet of flame,
And brave men fled who never fled before.
Immortal fight!
Foreshadowing flight
Back to the astounded shore.

Quickly they rallied, re-enforced,
’Mid louder roar of ships’ artillery,
And bursting bombs and whistling musketry,
And shouts and groans anear, afar,
All the new din of dreadful war.
Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed
The blood of those stout farmers, aiming
For freedom, manhood’s birthright claiming.
Onward once more they came.
Another sheet of deathful flame!
Another and another still!
They broke, they fled,
Again they sped
Down the green, bloody hill.

Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,
Stormed with commanders’ rage.
Into each emptied barge
They crowd fresh men for a new charge
Up that great hill.
Again their gallant blood we spill.
That volley was the last:
Our powder failed.
On three sides fast
The foe pressed in, nor quailed
A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks
They fought, and gave death-dealing knocks,
Till Prescott ordered the retreat.
Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet
From Bunker Hill and Breed,
Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read,
Led off the remnant of those heroes true,
The foe too weakened to pursue.
The ground they gained; but we
The victory.

The tidings of that chosen band
Flowed in a wave of power
Over the shaken, anxious land,
To men, to man, a sudden dower.
History took a fresh, higher start
From that stanch, beaming hour;
And when the speeding messenger, that bare
The news that strengthened every heart,
Met near the Delaware
The leader, who had just been named,
Who was to be so famed,
The steadfast, earnest Washington,
With hands uplifted, cries,
His great soul flashing to his eyes,
“Our liberties are safe! The cause is won!”
A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then
His steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men.

STAND still, my steed, though the foe is near,
And sharp the rattle of hoofs on the hill.
And see! there’s the glitter of many a spear,
And a wrathful shout that bodes us ill.
Stand still! Our way is weary and long,
And muscle and foot are put to the test.
Buckle and girth must be tightened and strong;
And rider and horse are far from rest.

A moment more, and then we’ll skim
Like a driving cloud o’er hill and plain;
The vision of horseman will slowly dim,
And pursuer seek the pursued in vain.
Ha! stirrup is strong and girth is tight!
One bound to the saddle, and off we go.
I count their spears as they glisten bright
In the ruddy beams of the sunset glow.

’Tis life or death; but we’re fresh and strong,
And buckle and girth are fastened tight.
The race is hard and the way is long,
But we’ll win as twilight fades into night.
Hurrah for rider and horse to-day,
For buckle and saddle fastened tight!
We’ll win! we’re gaining! They drop away!
Our haven of rest is full in sight.

ON the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French, – woe to France!
And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,
With the English fleet in view.
’Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase,
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville.
Close on him fled, great and small,
Twenty-two good ships in all;
And they signalled to the place,
“Help the winners of a race!
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick, – or, quicker still,
Here’s the English can and will!”

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board.
“Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?”
laughed they.
“Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred
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 called 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, linked 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 ashore, 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 stepped, 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, pressed by Tourville for the fleet, —
A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel, the Croisickese.