And four hours after, he had done
With winds and troubled foam.
The Reaper was borne dead upon
Our load of harvest home.
Not till he knew the old flag flew
Alone on all the deep;

Then said he, "Hardy, is that you?
Kiss me." And fell asleep.

Well, 'twas his chosen death, below
The deck in triumph trod;
'Tis well. A sailor's soul should go
From his good ship to God.
He would have chosen death aboard,
From all the crowns of rest;
And burial with the patriot's sword
Upon the victor's breast.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

THOMAS CAMPBELL

THE victory of Trafalgar destroyed the French and Spanish fleets and secured to Britain the mastery of the seas. There was no further fear of invasion for the island kingdom. Her only rival, the United States, was three thousand miles distant.

I

Ye Mariners of England

That guard our native seas.

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe:

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.

II

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

III

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

IV

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

AT CORUÑA

ROBERT SOUTHEY

THE nations of Europe had one by one yielded to Napoleon until his conquest of the Continent seemed as complete as England's control of the sea. The first opportunity to meet the great antagonist on land came when (1808) the Spanish people rose in revolt against his tyranny. An English army, under Sir Arthur Wellesley, later Duke of Wellington, was immediately sent to their aid. The French were driven from Portugal, but the attempt to shake their hold on Spain was at first unsuccessful. Sir John Moore, with an army of twenty thousand men, advanced to Salamanca, but learning that Napoleon was marching to meet him with a force twice his own, the English commander beat a hasty retreat to Coruña. Here he expected to find transports to convey his shattered troops back to England. The vessels were late, however, and Moore found himself obliged to fight (January 6, 1809). The French were beaten off at every point, but in the moment of victory, Sir John fell, mortally wounded. The English were embarked the same night.

When from these shores the British army first
Boldly advanced into the heart of Spain,

The admiring people who beheld its march
Call'd it "the Beautiful." And surely well
Its proud array, its perfect discipline,
Its ample furniture of war complete,
Its powerful horse, its men of British mould,
All high in heart and hope, all of themselves
Assured, and in their leaders confident,
Deserved the title. Few short weeks elapsed
Ere hither that disastrous host return'd,
A fourth of all its gallant force consumed
In hasty and precipitate retreat,

Stores, treasure and artillery, in the wreck
Left to the fierce pursuer, horse and man
Founder'd, and stiffening on the mountain snows.
But when the exulting enemy approach'd
Boasting that he would drive into the sea
The remnant of the wretched fugitives,

Here ere they reach'd their ships, they turn'd at bay.
Then was the proof of British courage seen;
Against a foe far overnumbering them,
An insolent foe, rejoicing in pursuit,
Sure of the fruit of victory, whatsoe'er
Might be the fate of battle, here they stood
And their safe embarkation-all they sought,
Won manfully. That mournful day avenged
Their sufferings, and redeem'd their country's name;
And thus Coruña, which in this retreat

Had seen the else indelible reproach

Of England, saw the stain effaced in blood.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

CHARLES WOLFE

MOORE was buried at Coruña in the garden of San Carlos. A monument was erected on the spot in 1814.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!