Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne"er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there be, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his t.i.tles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those t.i.tles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
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When Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894) was twenty-one years old, he read that the Navy Department had decided to destroy the old, unseaworthy frigate "Const.i.tution," which had become famous in the War of 1812. In one evening he wrote the poem "Old Ironsides." This not only made Holmes immediately famous as a poet, but so aroused the American people that the Navy Department changed its plans and rebuilt the ship.
OLD IRONSIDES
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon"s roar:-- The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes" blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o"er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor"s tread, Or know the conquered knee;-- The harpies of the sh.o.r.e shall pluck The eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the G.o.d of storms, The lightning and the gale!
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William Collins (1721-1759), English poet, wrote only a few poems, but among them is this short dirge which keeps his name alive in popular memory. It was probably in honor of his countrymen who fell at Fontenoy in 1745, the year before its composition. Its austere brevity, its well-known personifications, its freedom from fulsome expressions, place it very high among patriotic utterances.
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE
WILLIAM COLLINS
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country"s wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy"s feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
368
The anonymous ballad dealing with the familiar story of Nathan Hale, of Revolutionary times, is the nearest approach to the old folk ballad in our history. Its repet.i.tions help it in catching something of the breathless suspense accompanying his daring effort, betrayal, and execution. The pathos of the closing incidents of Hale"s career has attracted the tributes of poets and dramatists. Francis Miles Finch, author of "The Blue and the Gray," wrote a well-known poetic account of Hale, while Clyde Fitch"s drama of _Nathan Hale_ had a great popular success.
THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE
The breezes went steadily through the tall pines, A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!"
As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush.
"Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young, In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road.
"For the tyrants are near, and with them appear What bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."
The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook; With mother and sister and memories dear, He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.
Cooling shades of the night were coming apace, The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.
The n.o.ble one sprang from his dark lurking-place, To make his retreat; to make his retreat.
He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves, As he pa.s.sed through the wood; as he pa.s.sed through the wood; And silently gained his rude launch on the sh.o.r.e, As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood.
The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.
They took him and bore him afar from the sh.o.r.e, To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.
No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.
But he trusted in love, from his Father above.
In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.
An ominous owl, with his solemn ba.s.s voice, Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by; "The tyrant"s proud minions most gladly rejoice, For he must soon die; for he must soon die."
The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,-- The cruel general! the cruel general!-- His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained, And said that was all; and said that was all.
They took him and bound him and bore him away, Down the hill"s gra.s.sy side; down the hill"s gra.s.sy side.
"Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array, His cause did deride; his cause did deride.
Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, For him to repent; for him to repent.
He prayed for his mother, he asked not another, To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.
The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.
And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale"s blood, As his words do presage; as his words do presage:
"Thou pale King of terrors, thou life"s gloomy foe, Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave; Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.
No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."
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That men of great courage are certain to recognize and pay tribute to courage in others, even if those others are their enemies, is the theme of "The Red Thread of Honor." Sir Francis Hastings Doyle (1810-1888) wrote two other stirring poems of action, "The Loss of the Birkenhead" and "The Private of the Buffs."
THE RED THREAD OF HONOR
FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE
Eleven men of England A breastwork charged in vain; Eleven men of England Lie stripp"d, and gash"d, and slain.
Slain; but of foes that guarded Their rock-built fortress well, Some twenty had been mastered, When the last soldier fell.
The robber-chief mused deeply, Above those daring dead; "Bring here," at length he shouted, "Bring quick, the battle thread.
Let Eblis blast forever Their souls, if Allah will: But we must keep unbroken The old rules of the Hill.