Golden Numbers Part 66

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have s.h.i.+ps like these to pa.s.s?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the pa.s.sage 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 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, 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, Entered free and anch.o.r.ed fast at foot of Solidor.

"Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fitty Hogues!

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!

Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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 his 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 s.h.i.+p with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the pa.s.sage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound!

See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a s.h.i.+p that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief!

The peril, see, is past, All are harboured 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 stanched 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!"

How 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 stepped 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 s.h.i.+ps, 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 laughed 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 asked 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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, honour France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

ROBERT BROWNING.

_Vision of Belshazzar._

The King was on his throne, The Satraps throng'd the hall: A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival.

A thousand cups of gold, In Judah deem'd divine-- Jehovah's vessels hold The G.o.dless Heathen's wine.

In that same hour and hall, The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall, And wrote as if on sand: The fingers of a man-- A solitary hand Along the letters ran, And traced them like a wand.

The monarch saw, and shook, And bade no more rejoice; All bloodless wax'd his look, And tremulous his voice.

"Let the men of lore appear, The wisest of the earth, And expound the words of fear, Which mar our royal mirth."

Chaldea's seers are good, But here they have no skill; And the unknown letters stood Untold and awful still.

And Babel's men of age Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage, They saw--but knew no more.

A captive in the land, A stranger and a youth, He heard the king's command, He saw that writing's truth.

The lamps around were bright, The prophecy in view; He read it on that night-- The morrow proved it true.

"Belshazzar's grave is made, His kingdom pa.s.s'd away, He, in the balance weigh'd, Is light and worthless clay; The shroud his robe of state, His canopy the stone; The Mede is at his gate!

The Persian on his throne!"

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

_Solomon and the Bees_

When Solomon was reigning in his glory, Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came-- (So in the Talmud you may read the story)-- Drawn by the magic of the monarch's fame, To see the splendors of his court, and bring Some fitting tribute to the mighty King.

Nor this alone: much had her highness heard What flowers of learning graced the royal speech; What gems of wisdom dropped with every word; What wholesome lessons he was wont to teach In pleasing proverbs; and she wished, in sooth, To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth.

Besides, the Queen had heard (which piqued her most) How through the deepest riddles he could spy; How all the curious arts that women boast Were quite transparent to his piercing eye; And so the Queen had come--a royal guest-- To put the sage's cunning to the test.

And straight she held before the monarch's view, In either hand, a radiant wreath of flowers; The one bedecked with every charming hue, Was newly culled from Nature's choicest bowers; The other, no less fair in every part, Was the rare product of divinest Art.

"Which is the true, and which the false?" she said.

Great Solomon was silent. All amazed, Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head; While at the garlands long the monarch gazed, As one who sees a miracle, and fain For very rapture, ne'er would speak again.

"Which is the true?" once more the woman asked, Pleased at the fond amazement of the King; "So wise a head should not be hardly tasked, Most learned Liege, with such a trivial thing!"