Collected Poems 1897 - 1907, by Henry Newbolt Part 2

All night in the trough of the sea we were tossed, And for want of ground-tackle good prizes were lost.

Then we hauled down the flag, at the fore it was red, And blue at the mizzen was hoisted instead By Nelson's famed Captain, the pride of each tar, Who fought in the _Victory_ off Cape Traflagar.

Northumberland

"The Old and Bold"

When England sets her banner forth And bids her armour s.h.i.+ne, She'll not forget the famous North, The lads of moor and Tyne; And when the loving-cup's in hand, And Honour leads the cry, They know not old Northumberland Who'll pa.s.s her memory by.

When Nelson sailed for Trafalgar With all his country's best, He held them dear as brothers are, But one beyond the rest.

For when the fleet with heroes manned To clear the decks began, The boast of old Northumberland He sent to lead the van.

Himself by _Victory's_ bulwarks stood And cheered to see the sight; "That n.o.ble fellow Collingwood, How bold he goes to fight!"

Love, that the league of Ocean spanned, Heard him as face to face; "What would he give, Northumberland, To share our pride of place?"

The flag that goes the world around And flaps on every breeze Has never gladdened fairer ground Or kinder hearts than these.

So when the loving-cup's in hand And Honour leads the cry, They know not old Northumberland Who'll pa.s.s her memory by.

For A Trafalgar Cenotaph

Lover of England, stand awhile and gaze With thankful heart, and lips refrained from praise; They rest beyond the speech of human pride Who served with Nelson and with Nelson died.

Craven

(Mobile Bay, 1864)

Over the turret, shut in his iron-clad tower, Craven was conning his s.h.i.+p through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, Now was the time for a charge to end the game.

There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; There lay the enemy's s.h.i.+ps, and sink or swim The flag was flying, and he was head of the line.

The fleet behind was jamming; the monitor hung Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed, Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed.

Into the narrowing channel, between the sh.o.r.e And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; She turned but a yard too short; a m.u.f.fled roar, A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.

Over the manhole, up in the iron-clad tower, Pilot and Captain met as they turned to fly: The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour, For one could pa.s.s to be saved, and one must die.

They stood like men in a dream: Craven spoke, Spoke as he lived and fought, with a Captain's pride, "After you, Pilot." The pilot woke, Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.

All men praise the deed and the manner, but we--- We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud, The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free, The grace of the empty hands and promises loud:

Sidney thirsting, a humbler need to slake, Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeon's hand, Lucas crushed with chains for a comrade's sake, Outram coveting right before command:

These were paladins, these were Craven's peers, These with him shall be crowned in story and song, Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears, Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong.

Messmates

He gave us all a good-bye cheerily At the first dawn of day; We dropped him down the side full drearily When the light died away.

It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there, And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over him And the great s.h.i.+ps go by.

He's there alone with green seas rocking him For a thousand miles round; He's there alone with dumb things mocking him, And we're homeward bound.

It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, While the months and the years roll over him And the great s.h.i.+ps go by.

I wonder if the tramps come near enough As they thrash to and fro, And the battle-s.h.i.+ps' bells ring clear enough To be heard down below; If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him When the great s.h.i.+ps go by.

The Death Of Admiral Blake

(August 7th, 1657)

Laden with spoil of the South, fulfilled with the glory of achievement, And freshly crowned with never-dying fame, Sweeping by sh.o.r.es where the names are the names of the victories of England, Across the Bay the squadron homeward came.

Proudly they came, but their pride was the pomp of a funeral at midnight, When dreader yet the lonely morrow looms; Few are the words that are spoken, and faces are gaunt beneath the torchlight That does but darken more the nodding plumes.

Low on the field of his fame, past hope lay the Admiral triumphant, And fain to rest him after all his pain; Yet for the love that he bore to his own land, ever unforgotten, He prayed to see the western hills again.

Fainter than stars in a sky long gray with the coming of the daybreak, Or sounds of night that fade when night is done, So in the death-dawn faded the splendour and loud renown of warfare, And life of all its longings kept but one.

"Oh! to be there for an hour when the shade draws in beside the hedgerows, And falling apples wake the drowsy noon: Oh! for the hour when the elms grow sombre and human in the twilight, And gardens dream beneath the rising moon.

"Only to look once more on the land of the memories of childhood, Forgetting weary winds and barren foam: Only to bid farewell to the combe and the orchard and the moorland, And sleep at last among the fields of home!"

So he was silently praying, till now, when his strength was ebbing faster, The Lizard lay before them faintly blue; Now on the gleaming horizon the white cliffs laughed along the coast-line, And now the forelands took the shapes they knew.

There lay the Sound and the Island with green leaves down beside the water, The town, the Hoe, the masts with sunset fired---- Dreams! ay, dreams of the dead! for the great heart faltered on the threshold, And darkness took the land his soul desired.