Lyra Heroica Part 26

The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm: A creature of heroic blood, A proud though child-like form.

The flames rolled on--he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud; 'Say, father! say If yet my task is done!'

He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried, 'If I may yet be gone!'

And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; He looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair,

And shouted but once more aloud, 'My father! must I stay?'

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the s.h.i.+p in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound-- The boy--O! where was he?

Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea:

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part!

But the n.o.blest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart.

_Hemans._

Lx.x.xII

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England sh.o.r.e.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;-- They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roared-- This was their welcome home!

There were men with h.o.a.ry hair Amidst that pilgrim band; Why had _they_ come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod.

They have left unstained what there they found-- Freedom to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d.

_Hemans._

Lx.x.xIII

TO THE ADVENTUROUS

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific--and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

_Keats._

Lx.x.xIV

HORATIUS

THE TRYSTING

Lars Porsena of Clusium By the Nine G.o.ds he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more.

By the Nine G.o.ds he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth East and west and south and north To summon his array.

East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast.

Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome.

The hors.e.m.e.n and the footmen Are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine;

From lordly Volaterrae, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants For G.o.dlike kings of old; From sea-girt Populonia Whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky;

From the proud mart of Pisae, Queen of the western waves, Where ride Ma.s.silia's triremes Heavy with fair-haired slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders Through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark Auser's rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Of the Ciminian hill; Beyond all streams c.l.i.tumnus Is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves The great Volsinian mere.