Lyra Heroica Part 43

On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, The burn rins blithe and fain: There's nought wi' me I wadna gie To look thereon again.

On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide: There sounds nae hunting-horn That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat Round banks where Tyne is born.

The Wansbeck sings with all her springs The bents and braes give ear; But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings I may not see nor hear; For far and far thae blithe burns are, And strange is a' thing near.

The light there lightens, the day there brightens, The loud wind there lives free: Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me That I wad hear or see.

But O gin I were there again, Afar ayont the faem, Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed That haps my sires at hame!

We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair, And the sweet grey gleaming sky, And the lordly strand of Northumberland, And the goodly towers thereby; And none shall know but the winds that blow The graves wherein we lie.

_Swinburne._

CXIX

THE REVEILLe

Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, And of armed men the hum; Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered Round the quick alarming drum,-- Saying, 'Come, Freemen, come!

Ere your heritage be wasted,' said the quick alarming drum.

'Let me of my heart take counsel: War is not of life the sum; Who shall stay and reap the harvest When the autumn days shall come?'

But the drum Echoed, 'Come!

Death shall reap the braver harvest,' said the solemn-sounding drum.

'But when won the coming battle, What of profit springs therefrom?

What if conquest, subjugation, Even greater ills become?'

But the drum Answered, 'Come!

You must do the sum to prove it,' said the Yankee-answering drum.

'What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, Whistling shot and bursting bomb, When my brothers fall around me, Should my heart grow cold and numb?'

But the drum Answered, 'Come!

Better there in death united, than in life a recreant,--Come!'

Thus they answered,--hoping, fearing, Some in faith, and doubting some, Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, Said, 'My chosen people, come!'

Then the drum, Lo! was dumb, For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, 'Lord, we come!'

_Bret Harte._

CXX

WHAT THE BULLET SANG

O Joy of creation To be!

O rapture to fly And be free!

Be the battle lost or won Though its smoke shall hide the sun, I shall find my love--the one Born for me!

I shall know him where he stands, All alone, With the power in his hands Not o'erthrown; I shall know him by his face, By his G.o.d-like front and grace; I shall hold him for a s.p.a.ce All my own!

It is he--O my love!

So bold!

It is I--All thy love Foretold!

It is I. O love! what bliss!

Dost thou answer to my kiss?

O sweetheart! what is this Lieth there so cold?

_Bret Harte._

CXXI

A BALLAD OF THE ARMADA

King Philip had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to f.a.got and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our s.h.i.+ps on the main; But we had bold Neptune to back us-- And where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christened of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames He had thought like an egg sh.e.l.l to crack us; Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus-- For where are the galleons of Spain?

Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some l.u.s.tier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!-- But where are the galleons of Spain?

ENVOY

Gloriana!--the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain; He must reach us before he can rack us, ...

And where are the galleons of Spain?

_Dobson._

CXXII

THE WHITE PACHA

Vain is the dream! However Hope may rave, He perished with the folk he could not save, And though none surely told us he is dead, And though perchance another in his stead, Another, not less brave, when all was done, Had fled unto the southward and the sun, Had urged a way by force, or won by guile To streams remotest of the secret Nile, Had raised an army of the Desert men, And, waiting for his hour, had turned again And fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know GORDON is dead, and these things are not so!

Nay, not for England's cause, nor to restore Her trampled flag--for he loved Honour more-- Nay, not for Life, Revenge, or Victory, Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned to die.

He will not come again, whate'er our need, He will not come, who is happy, being freed From the deathly flesh and perishable things, And lies of statesmen and rewards of kings.

Nay, somewhere by the sacred River's sh.o.r.e He sleeps like those who shall return no more, No more return for all the prayers of men-- Arthur and Charles--they never come again!