The Ontario Readers: Fourth Book Part 33

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news, which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood!

And all I remember is,--friends flocking round, As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

Browning

AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the p.r.o.ne brow Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,"-- Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You scarcely could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by G.o.d's grace We've got you Ratisbon!

The Marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.

Browning

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it.

Tennyson

BRITISH COLONIAL AND NAVAL POWER

The sagacity of England is in nothing more clearly shown than in the foresight with which she has provided against the emergency of war. Let it come when it may, it will not find her unprepared. So thickly are her colonies and naval stations scattered over the face of the Earth, that her war-s.h.i.+ps can speedily reach every commercial centre on the globe.

There is that great centre of commerce, the Mediterranean Sea. It was a great centre long ago, when the Phoenician traversed it, and, pa.s.sing through the Pillars of Hercules, sped on his way to the distant, and then savage, Britain. It was a great centre when Rome and Carthage wrestled in a death-grapple for its possession. But at the present day England is as much at home on the Mediterranean as if it were one of her own Canadian lakes.

Nor is it simply the number of the British colonies, or the evenness with which they are distributed, that challenges our admiration. The positions which these colonies occupy, and their natural military strength, are quite as important facts. There is not a sea or a gulf in the world, which has any real commercial importance, but England has a stronghold on its sh.o.r.es. And wherever the continents tending southward come to points, around which the commerce of nations must sweep, there is a British settlement; and the cross of St. George salutes you as you are wafted by. There is hardly a little desolate, rocky island or peninsula, formed apparently by Nature for a fortress, and nothing else, but the British flag floats securely over it.

These are literal facts. Take, for example, the great Overland Route from Europe to Asia. Despite its name, its real highway is on the waters of the Mediterranean and Red Seas. It has three gates--three only.

England holds the key to every one of these gates. Count them--Gibraltar, Malta, Aden. But she commands the entrance to the Red Sea, not by one, but by several strongholds. Midway in the narrow strait is the black, bare rock of Perim, sterile, precipitous, a perfect counterpart of Gibraltar; and on either side, between it and the mainland, are the s.h.i.+p-channels which connect the Red Sea with the great Indian Ocean. This rock England holds.

A little farther out is the peninsula of Aden, another Gibraltar, as rocky, as sterile, and as precipitous, connected with the mainland by a narrow strait, and having a harbour safe in all winds, and a central coal depot. This England bought in 1839. And to complete her security, she has purchased from some petty sultan the neighbouring islands of Socotra and Kouri, giving, as it were, a retaining fee, so that, though she does not need them herself, no rival power may ever possess them.

As we sail a little farther on, we come to the China Sea. What a beaten track of commerce is this! What wealth of comfort and luxury is wafted over it by every breeze!--the teas of China; the silks of farther India; the spices of the East. The s.h.i.+ps of every clime and nation swarm on its waters--the stately barques of England, France, and Holland; the swift s.h.i.+ps of America; and mingled with them, in picturesque confusion, the clumsy junk of the Chinaman, and the slender, darting canoe of the Malaysian islanders.

At the lower end of the China Sea, where it narrows into Malacca Strait, England holds the little island of Singapore--a spot of no use to her whatever, except as a commercial depot, but of inestimable value for that; a spot which, under her fostering care, is growing up to take its place among the great emporiums of the world. Half-way up the sea she holds the island of Labuan, whose chief worth is this, that beneath its surface and that of the neighbouring mainland there lie inexhaustible treasures of coal, which are likely to yield wealth and power to the hand that controls them. At the upper end of the sea she holds Hong-Kong, a hot, unhealthy island, but an invaluable base from which to threaten and control the neighbouring waters.

Even in the broad, and as yet comparatively untracked Pacific, she is making silent advances towards dominion. The vast continent of Australia, which she has secured, forms its south-western boundary. And pushed out six hundred miles eastward from this lies New Zealand, like a strong outpost, its sh.o.r.es so scooped and torn by the waves that it must be a very paradise of commodious bays and safe havens for the mariner.

The soil, too, is of extraordinary fertility; and the climate, though humid, deals kindly with the Englishman's const.i.tution. Nor is this all; for, advanced from it, north and south, like picket stations, are Norfolk Island, and the Auckland group, both of which have good harbours. And it requires no prophet's eye to see that, when England needs posts farther eastward, she will find them among the green coral islets that stud the Pacific.

Turn now your steps homeward, and pause a moment at the Bermudas, those beautiful isles, with their fresh verdure--green gems in the ocean, with air soft and balmy as Eden's was! They have their home uses too. They furnish arrow-root for the sick, and ample supplies of vegetables earlier than sterner climates will yield them. Is this all that can be said? Reflect a little more deeply. These islands possess a great military and naval depot; and a splendid harbour, landlocked, strongly fortified, and difficult of access to strangers;--and all within a few days' sail of the chief ports of the Atlantic sh.o.r.es of the New World.

England therefore retains them as a station on the road to her West Indian possessions; and should America go to war with her, she would use it as a base for offensive operations, where she might gather and whence she might hurl upon any unprotected port all her gigantic naval and military power.

"Atlantic Monthly."

ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND

What have I done for you, England, my England?

What is there I would not do, England, my own?

With your glorious eyes austere, As the Lord were walking near, Whispering terrible things and dear As the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you've done, England, my own?

When shall he rejoice agen Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures, England, my England:-- "Take and break us: we are yours, England, my own!

Life is good, and joy runs high Between English earth and sky: Death is death; but we shall die To the Song on your bugles blown, England-- To the stars on your bugles blown!"

They call you proud and hard, England, my England: You with worlds to watch and ward, England, my own!

You whose mailed hand keeps the keys Of such teeming destinies, You could know nor dread nor ease Were the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of s.h.i.+ps whose might, England, my England, Is the fierce old Sea's delight, England, my own, Chosen daughter of the Lord, Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, There's the menace of the Word In the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

W. E. Henley

A GOOD TIME GOING

(Charles Mackay, at the end of his American tour in 1859, was entertained in Boston by the leading literary men. This poem, written for the occasion, was read to speed the parting guest.)

Brave singer of the coming time, Sweet minstrel of the joyous present, Crowned with the n.o.blest wreath of rhyme, The holly-leaf of Ayrs.h.i.+re's peasant,[4]

Good-bye! Good-bye!--Our hearts and hands, Our lips in honest Saxon phrases, Cry, G.o.d be with him, till he stands His feet among the English daisies!