Ballads of Bravery
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Othello’s Story of his Life
HER father loved me; oft invited me;Still questioned me the story of my lifeFrom year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes,That I had past.I ran it through, e’en from my boyish days,To the very moment that he bade me tell it.Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,Of moving accidents by flood and field,Of hair-breadth ’scapes, in the imminent deadly breach,Of being taken by the insolent foe,And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,And with it all my travel’s history.All these to hear,Would Desdemona seriously incline;But still the house affairs would draw her thence,Whichever as she could with haste despatch,She’d come again, and with a greedy earDevour up my discourse. Which, I observing,Took once a pliant hour, and found good meansTo draw from her a prayer of earnest heartThat I would all my pilgrimage dilate,Whereof, by parcels, she had something heard,But not distinctly.I did consent;And often did beguile her of her tears,When I did speak of some distressful strokeThat my youth suffered. My story being done,She gave me for my pains a world of sighs.She swore in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange;’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful;She wished she had not heard it; yet she wishedThat heaven had made her such a man.She thanked me,And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,I should but teach him how to tell my story,And that would woo her. On this hint I spake;She loved me for the dangers I had passed;And I loved her that she did pity them:This is the only witchcraft which I’ve used.The Blacksmith of Ragenbach
IN a little German village,On the waters of the Rhine,Gay and joyous in their pastimes,In the pleasant vintage-time,Were a group of happy peasants,For the day released from toil,Thanking God for all his goodnessIn the product of their soil,When a cry rung through the welkin,And appeared upon the sceneA panting dog, with crest erect,Foaming mouth, and savage mien.“He is mad!” was shrieked in chorus.In dismay they all fell back, —All except one towering figure, —’Twas the smith of Ragenbach.God had given this man his image;Nature stamped him as complete.Now it was incumbent on himTo perform a greater featThan Horatius at the bridge,When he stood on Tiber’s bank;For behind him were his townsfolk,Who, appalled with terror, shrankFrom the most appalling danger, —That which makes the bravest quail, —While they all were grouped together,Shaking limbs and visage pale.For a moment cowered the beast,Snapping to the left and right,While the blacksmith stood before himIn the power of his might.“One must die to save the many,Let it then my duty be:I’ve the power. Fear not, neighbors!From this peril you’ll be free.”As the lightning from the storm-cloudLeaps to earth with sudden crash,So upon the rabid monsterDid this man and hero dash.In the death-grip then they struggled,Man and dog, with scarce a sound,Till from out the fearful conflictRose the man from off the ground,Gashed and gory from the struggle;But the beast lay stiff and dead.There he stood, while people gathered,And rained blessings on his head.“Friends,” he said, “from one great peril,With God’s help, I’ve set you free,But my task is not yet ended,There is danger now in me.Yet secure from harm you shall be,None need fear before I die.That my sufferings may be shortened,Ask of Him who rules on high.”Then unto his forge he straightwayWalked erect, with rapid step,While the people followed after,Some with shouts, while others wept;And with nerve as steady as whenHe had plied his trade for gain,He selected, without faltering,From his store, the heaviest chain.To his anvil first he bound it,Next his limb he shackled fast,Then he said unto his townsfolk,“All your danger now is past.Place within my reach, I pray you,Food and water for a time,Until God shall ease my sufferingsBy his gracious will divine.”Long he suffered, but at lastCame a summons from on high,Then his soul, with angel escort,Sought its home beyond the sky;And the people of that village,Those whom he had died to save,Still with grateful hearts assemble,And with flowers bedeck his grave.Marmion and Douglas
NOT far advanced was morning day,When Marmion did his troop arrayTo Surrey’s camp to ride.He had safe-conduct for his band,Beneath the royal seal and hand,And Douglas gave a guide.The ancient earl, with stately grace,Would Clara on her palfrey place,And whispered in an undertone,“Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.”The train from out the castle drew,But Marmion stopped to bid adieu:“Though something I might ’plain,” he said,“Of cold respect to stranger guest,Sent hither by your king’s behest,While in Tantallon’s towers I stayed,Part we in friendship from your land,And, noble earl, receive my hand.”But Douglas round him drew his cloak,Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:“My manors, halls, and bowers shall stillBe open, at my sovereign’s will,To each one whom he lists, howe’erUnmeet to be the owner’s peer;My castles are my king’s alone,From turret to foundation-stone, —The hand of Douglas is his own,And never shall in friendly graspThe hand of such as Marmion clasp.”Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,And shook his very frame for ire,And – “This to me!” he said; —“An ’twere not for thy hoary beard,Such hand as Marmion’s had not sparedTo cleave the Douglas’ head!And first, I tell thee, haughty peer,He who does England’s message here,Although the meanest in her state,May well, proud Angus, be thy mate!And Douglas, more, I tell thee here,Even in thy pitch of pride,Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,(Nay, never look upon your lord,And lay your hands upon your sword,)I tell thee, thou ’rt defied!And if thou saidst I am not peerTo any lord in Scotland here,Lowland or Highland, far or near,Lord Angus, thou hast lied!”On the earl’s cheek the flush of rageO’ercame the ashen hue of age:Fierce he broke forth, “And dar’st thou thenTo beard the lion in his den,The Douglas in his hall?And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go?No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!Up drawbridge, grooms! What, warder, ho!Let the portcullis fall.”Lord Marmion turned, – well was his need! —And dashed the rowels in his steed,Like arrow through the archway sprung;The ponderous grate behind him rung:To pass there was such scanty room,The bars, descending, razed his plume.The steed along the drawbridge flies,Just as it trembled on the rise;Not lighter does the swallow skimAlong the smooth lake’s level brim;And when Lord Marmion reached his band,He halts, and turns with clinched hand,And shout of loud defiance pours,And shook his gauntlet at the towers.“Horse! horse!” the Douglas cried, “and chase!”But soon he reigned his fury’s pace:“A royal messenger he came,Though most unworthy of the name.St. Mary mend my fiery mood!Old age ne’er cools the Douglas blood,I thought to slay him where he stood.’Tis pity of him, too,” he cried;“Bold can he speak and fairly ride,I warrant him a warrior tried.”With this his mandate he recalls,And slowly seeks his castle walls.The Loss of the Hornet
CALL the watch! call the watch!“Ho! the starboard watch, ahoy!” Have you heardHow a noble ship so trim, like our own, my hearties, here,All scudding ’fore the gale, disappeared,Where yon southern billows roll o’er their bed so green and clear?Hold the reel! keep her full! hold the reel!How she flew athwart the spray, as, shipmates, we do now,Till her twice a hundred fearless hearts of steelFelt the whirlwind lift its waters aft, and plunge herdownward bow!Bear a hand!Strike top-gallants! mind your helm! jump aloft!’Twas such a night as this, my lads, a rakish bark was drowned,When demons foul, that whisper seamen oft,Scooped a tomb amid the flashing surge that never shall be found.Square the yards! a double reef! Hark the blast!O, fiercely has it fallen on the war-ship of the brave,When its tempest fury stretched the stately mastAll along her foamy sides, as they shouted on the wave,“Bear a hand!”Call the watch! call the watch!“Ho! the larboard watch, ahoy!” Have you heardHow a vessel, gay and taut, on the mountains of the sea,Went below, with all her warlike crew on board,They who battled for the happy, boys, and perished for the free?Clew, clew up, fore and aft! keep away!How the vulture bird of death, in its black and viewless form,Hovered sure o’er the clamors of his prey,While through all their dripping shrouds yelled the spirit ofthe storm!Bear a hand!Now out reefs! brace the yards! lively there!O, no more to homeward breeze shall her swelling bosom spread,But love’s expectant eye bid despairSet her raven watch eternal o’er the wreck in ocean’s bed.Board your tacks! cheerly, boys! But for them,Their last evening gun is fired, their gales are overblown;O’er their smoking deck no starry flag shall stream;They’ll sail no more, they’ll fight no more, for their gallantship’s gone down.Bear a hand!Man the Life-boat
MAN the life-boat! Man the life-boat!Help, or yon ship is lost!Man the life-boat! Man the life-boat!See how she’s tempest-tossed.No human power in such an hourThe gallant bark can save;Her mainmast gone, and running on,She seeks her watery grave.Man the life-boat! Man the life-boat!See, the dreaded signal flies!Ha! she’s struck, and from the wreckDespairing shouts arise.O, speed the life-boat! Speed the life-boat!O God, their efforts crown!She dashes on; the ship is gone,Full forty fathoms down.And see, the crew are struggling nowAmidst the tempest roar.They’re in the boat, they’re all afloat, —Hurrah! they’ve gained the shore.Bless the life-boat! Bless the life-boat!O God, thou’lt hear our prayer!Bless the life-boat! Bless the life-boat!No longer we’ll despair.Sir Galahad
MY good blade carves the casques of men,My tough lance thrusteth sure,My strength is as the strength of ten,Because my heart is pure.The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,The hard brands shiver on the steel,The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly,The horse and rider reel:They reel, they roll in clanging lists,And when the tide of combat stands,Perfume and flowers fall in showers,That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.How sweet are looks that ladies bendOn whom their favors fall!For them I battle till the end,To save from shame and thrall:But all my heart is drawn above,My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine:I never felt the kiss of love,Nor maiden’s hand in mine.More bounteous aspects on me beam,Me mightier transports move and thrill;So keep I fair through faith and prayerA virgin heart in work and will.When down the stormy crescent goes,A light before me swims,Between dark stems the forest glows,I hear a noise of hymns:Then by some secret shrine I ride;I hear a voice, but none are there;The stalls are void, the doors are wide,The tapers burning fair.Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,The silver vessels sparkle clean,The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,And solemn chants resound between.Sometimes on lonely mountain-meresI find a magic bark;I leap on board: no helmsman steers:I float till all is dark.A gentle sound, an awful light!Three angels bear the holy Grail:With folded feet, in stoles of white,On sleeping wings they sail.Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!My spirit beats her mortal bars,As down dark tides the glory slides,And star-like mingles with the stars.When on my goodly charger borneThrough dreaming towns I go,The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,The streets are dumb with snow.The tempest crackles on the leads,And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;But o’er the dark a glory spreads,And gilds the driving hail.I leave the plain, I climb the height;No branchy thicket shelter yields;But blessed forms in whistling stormsFly o’er waste fens and windy fields.A maiden knight, to me is givenSuch hope, I know not fear;I yearn to breathe the airs of heavenThat often meet me here.I muse on joy that will not cease,Pure spaces clothed in living beams,Pure lilies of eternal peace,Whose odors haunt my dreams;And, stricken by an angel’s hand,This mortal armor that I wear,This weight and size, this heart and eyes,Are touched, are turned to finest air.The clouds are broken in the sky,And through the mountain-wallsA rolling organ-harmonySwells up, and shakes and falls.Then move the trees, the copses nod,Wings flutter, voices hover clear:“O just and faithful knight of God,Ride on! the prize is near.”So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;By bridge and ford, by park and pale,All armed I ride, whate’er betide,Until I find the holy Grail.King Canute and his Nobles
CANUTE was by his nobles taught to fancyThat, by a kind of royal necromancy,He had the power old Ocean to control.Down rushed the royal Dane upon the strand,And issued, like a Solomon, command, – poor soul!“Go back, ye waves, you blustering rogues,” quoth he;“Touch not your lord and master, Sea;For by my power almighty, if you do – ”Then, staring vengeance, out he held a stick,Vowing to drive old Ocean to Old Nick,Should he even wet the latchet of his shoe.The sea retired, – the monarch fierce rushed on,And looked as if he’d drive him from the land;But Sea, not caring to be put upon,Made for a moment a bold stand.Not only made a stand did Mr. Ocean,But to his waves he made a motion,And bid them give the king a hearty trimming.The order seemed a deal the waves to tickle,For soon they put his Majesty in pickle,And set his royalties, like geese, a swimming.All hands aloft, with one tremendous roar,Sound did they make him wish himself on shore;His head and ears they most handsomely doused, —Just like a porpoise, with one general shout,The waves so tumbled the poor king about.No anabaptist e’er was half so soused.At length to land he crawled, a half-drowned thing,Indeed, more like a crab than like a king,And found his courtiers making rueful faces;But what said Canute to the lords and gentry,Who hailed him from the water, on his entry,All trembling for their lives or places?“My lords and gentlemen, by your advice,I’ve had with Mr. Sea a pretty bustle;My treatment from my foe, not overnice,Just made a jest for every shrimp and mussel.“A pretty trick for one of my dominion!My lords, I thank you for your great opinion.You’ll tell me, p’r’aps, I’ve only lost one gameAnd bid me try another, – for the rubber.Permit me to inform you all, with shame,That you’re a set of knaves and I’m a lubber.”Outward Bound
CLINK – clink – clink! goes our windlass.“Ahoy!” “Haul in!” “Let go!”Yards braced and sails set,Flags uncurl and flow.Some eyes that watch from shore are wet,(How bright their welcome shone!)While, bending softly to the breeze,And rushing through the parted seas,Our gallant ship glides on.Though one has left a sweetheart,And one has left a wife,’Twill never do to mope and fret,Or curse a sailor’s life.See, far away they signal yet, —They dwindle – fade – they’re gone:For, dashing outwards, bold and brave,And springing light from wave to wave,Our merry ship flies on.Gay spreads the sparkling ocean;But many a gloomy nightAnd stormy morrow must be metEre next we heave in sight.The parting look we’ll ne’er forget,The kiss, the benison,As round the rolling world we go.God bless you all! Blow, breezes blow!Sail on, good ship, sail on!The Brides of Venice
It was St. Mary’s eve; and all poured forth,As to some grand solemnity. The fisherCame from his islet, bringing o’er the wavesHis wife and little one; the husbandmanFrom the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta,Crowding the common ferry. All arrived;And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened,So great the stir in Venice. Old and youngThronged her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk,Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew,In yellow hat and threadbare gabardine,Hurrying along. For, as the custom was,The noblest sons and daughters of the state,They of patrician birth, the flower of Venice,Whose names are written in the “Book of Gold,”Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials.At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd,Rising and rolling on, announced their coming;And never from the first was to be seenSuch splendor or such beauty. Two and two(The richest tapestry unrolled before them),First came the brides in all their loveliness;Each in her veil, and by two bridemaids followed.Only less lovely, who behind her boreThe precious caskets that within containedThe dowry and the presents. On she moved,Her eyes cast down, and holding in her handA fan, that gently waved, of ostrich feathers.Her veil, transparent as the gossamer,Fell from beneath a starry diadem;And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone,Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst;A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath,Wreathing her gold brocade.Before the church,That venerable pile on the sea-brink,Another train they met, – no strangers to them, —Brothers to some, and to the rest still dearer,Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume,And, as he walked, with modest dignityFolding his scarlet mantle, his tabarro.They join, they enter in, and up the aisleLed by the full-voiced choir, in bright procession,Range round the altar. In his vestments thereThe patriarch stands; and while the anthem flows,Who can look on unmoved? Mothers in secretRejoicing in the beauty of their daughters;Sons in the thought of making them their own;And they, arrayed in youth and innocence,Their beauty heightened by their hopes and fears.At length the rite is ending. All fall downIn earnest prayer, all of all ranks together;And stretching out his hands, the holy manProceeds to give the general benediction,When hark! a din of voices from without,And shrieks and groans and outcries, as in battle;And lo! the door is burst, the curtain rent,And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep,Savage, uncouth, led on by BarbarigoAnd his six brothers in their coats of steel,Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like,Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude,Each with his sabre up, in act to strike;Then, as at once recovering from the spell,Rush forward to the altar, and as soonAre gone again, amid no clash of arms,Bearing away the maidens and the treasures.Where are they now? Ploughing the distant waves,Their sails all set, and they upon the deckStanding triumphant. To the east they go,Steering for Istria, their accursed barks(Well are they known, the galliot and the galley)Freighted with all that gives to life its valueThe richest argosies were poor to them!Now might you see the matrons running wildAlong the beach; the men half armed and arming;One with a shield, one with a casque and spear;One with an axe, hewing the mooring-chainOf some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank,But on that day was drifting. In an hourHalf Venice was afloat. But long before, —Frantic with grief, and scorning all control, —The youths were gone in a light brigantine,Lying at anchor near the arsenal;Each having sworn, and by the holy rood,To slay or to be slain.And from the towerThe watchman gives the signal. In the eastA ship is seen, and making for the port;Her flag St. Mark’s. And now she turns the point,Over the waters like a sea-bird flying.Ha! ’tis the same, ’tis theirs! From stern to prowHung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, restoringAll that was lost!Coasting, with narrow search.Friuli, like a tiger in his spring,They had surprised the corsairs where they lay,Sharing the spoil in blind security,And casting lots; had slain them one and all, —All to the last, – and flung them far and wideInto the sea, their proper element.Him first, as first in rank, whose name so longHad hushed the babes of Venice, and who yetBreathing a little, in his look retainedThe fierceness of his soul.Thus were the bridesLost and recovered. And what now remainedBut to give thanks? Twelve breastplates and twelve crowns,Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offeringsOf the young victors to their patron saint,Vowed on the field of battle, were erelongLaid at his feet; and to preserve foreverThe memory of a day so full of change,From joy to grief, from grief to joy again,Through many an age, as oft as it came round,’Twas held religiously with all observance.The Doge resigned his crimson for pure ermine;And through the city in a stately bargeOf gold were borne, with songs and symphonies,Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they wereIn bridal white with bridal ornaments,Each in her glittering veil; and on the deckAs on a burnished throne, they glided by.No window or balcony but adornedWith hangings of rich texture; not a roofBut covered with beholders, and the airVocal with joy. Onward they went, their oarsMoving in concert with the harmony,Through the Rialto to the ducal palace;And at a banquet there, served with due honor,Sat, representing in the eyes of all —Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears —Their lovely ancestors, the “Brides of Venice.”The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers
THE breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods against a stormy skyTheir giant branches tossed;And the heavy night hung darkThe hills and water o’er,When a band of exiles moored their barkOn the wild New England shore.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 gloomWith 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 rangTo the anthem of the free!The ocean eagle soaredFrom 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 hoary hairAmidst 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!Aye, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod;They have left unstained what there they found, —Freedom to worship God.The Days of Chivalry
ALAS! The days of chivalry are fled,The brilliant tournament exists no more;Our loves are cold, and dull as ice or lead,And courting is a most enormous bore.In those good “olden times,” a “ladye bright”Might sit within her turret or her bower,While lovers sang and played without all night,And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower.Yet if one favored swain would persevere,In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh,Perchance she threw him, with the closing year,An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf.Off then, away he’d ride o’er sea and land,And dragons fell and mighty giants smiteWith the tough spear he carried in his hand;And all to prove himself her own true knight.Meanwhile a thousand more, as wild as he,Were all employed upon the self-same thing;And when each had rode hard for his “ladye,”They all come back and met within a ring.Where all the men who were entitled “syr”Appeared with martial air and haughty frown,Bearing “long poles, each other up to stir,”And, in the stir-up, thrust each other down.And then they galloped round with dire intent,Each knight resolved another’s pride to humble;And laughter rang around the tournamentAs oft as any of them had a tumble.And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die,The victim of a stout, unlucky poke,Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye,The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke.Soon, then, the lady, whose grim, stalwart swainHad got the strongest horse and toughest pole,Bedecked him, kneeling, with a golden chain,And plighted troth before the motley whole.Alas! the days of chivalry are fled,The brilliant tournament exists no more.Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead,And even courtship is a dreadful bore.The Song of the Camp
GIVE us a song!” the soldiers cried,The outer trenches guarding,When the heated guns of the camps alliedGrew weary of bombarding.The dark Redan, in silent scoff,Lay grim and threatening under;And the tawny mound of the MalakoffNo longer belched its thunder.There was a pause. A guardsman said,“We storm the forts to-morrow;Sing while we may, another dayWill bring enough of sorrow.”They lay along the battery’s side,Below the smoking cannon,Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,And from the banks of Shannon.They sang of love, and not of fame;Forgot was Britain’s glory:Each heart recalled a different name,But all sang “Annie Lawrie.”Voice after voice caught up the song,Until its tender passionRose like an anthem, rich and strong, —Their battle-eve confession.Beyond the darkening ocean burnedThe bloody sunset’s embers,While the Crimean valleys learnedHow English love remembers.And once again a fire of hellRained on the Russian quarters,With scream of shot and burst of shellAnd bellowing of the mortars!And Irish Nora’s eyes are dimFor a singer dumb and gory;And English Mary mourns for himWho sang of “Annie Lawrie.”Sleep, soldiers! still in honored restYour truth and valor wearing.The bravest are the tenderest,The loving are the daring.