The Fighting Téméraire

T was eight bells ringing,

For the morning watch was done,
And the gunner's lads were singing,
As they polished every gun.
It was eight bells ringing,

And the gunner's lads were singing,
For the ship she rode a-swinging,
As they polished every gun.

Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
Téméraire! Téméraire!

Oh! to hear the round-shot biting,
Téméraire! Téméraire!

Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
And to hear the round-shot biting,
For we're all in love with fighting

On the Fighting Téméraire.

It was noontide ringing,

And the battle just begun,

When the ship her way was winging,
As they loaded every gun.

It was noontide ringing

When the ship her way was winging,
And the gunner's lads were singing
As they loaded every gun.

There'll be many grim and gory,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
There'll be few to tell the story,
Téméraire! Téméraire!

There'll be many grim and gory,
There'll be few to tell the story,

But we'll all be one in glory

With the Fighting Téméraire.

There's a far bell ringing
At the setting of the sun,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of the great days done.
There's a far bell ringing,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of renown for ever clinging
To the great days done.

Now the sunset breezes shiver,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
And she's fading down the river,
Téméraire! Téméraire!

Now the sunset breezes shiver,
And she's fading down the river,
But in England's song for ever
She's the Fighting Téméraire.

Henry Newbolt.

The Last Three from Trafalgar

N grappled ships around The Victory,

Three boys did England's Duty with stout cheer,

While one dread truth was kept from every

ear,

More dire than deafening fire that churned the sea:
For in the flag-ship's weltering cockpit, he

Who was the Battle's Heart without a peer,
He who had seen all fearful sights save Fear,
Was passing from all life save Victory.

And round the old memorial board to-day,

Three greybeards-each a warworn British Tar-
View through the mist of years that hour afar:

Who soon shall greet, 'mid memories of fierce fray,
The impassioned soul which on its radiant way
Soared through the fiery cloud of Trafalgar.

D. G. Rossetti.

Home-Thoughts from the Sea

N

OBLY, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the Northwest died away;

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking
into Cadiz Bay;

Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face
Trafalgar lay;

In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar

grand and gray;

"Here and here did England help me; how can I help England?"—say,

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise

and pray,

While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

Robert Browning.

The Burial of Sir John Moore

N

(1809)

OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried:
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning:

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory.

Charles Wolfe.

The Eve of Quatre Bras

(1815)

HERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and
brave men;

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell:

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye

not hear it?-No; 't was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet:

But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echoes would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is-it is—the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall

Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amid the festival,

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.