Some Poems - читать онлайн бесплатно, автор Вальтер Скотт, ЛитПортал
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Some Poems

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CONCLUSION

I  “Who shall command Estrella’s mountain-tide    Back to the source, when tempest-chafed, to hie?  Who, when Gascogne’s vexed gulf is raging wide,    Shall hush it as a nurse her infant’s cry?  His magic power let such vain boaster try,    And when the torrent shall his voice obey,  And Biscay’s whirlwinds list his lullaby,    Let him stand forth and bar mine eagles’ way,And they shall heed his voice, and at his bidding stay.II  “Else ne’er to stoop, till high on Lisbon’s towers    They close their wings, the symbol of our yoke,  And their own sea hath whelmed yon red-cross powers!”    Thus, on the summit of Alverca’s rock  To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul’s Leader spoke.    While downward on the land his legions press,  Before them it was rich with vine and flock,    And smiled like Eden in her summer dress; -Behind their wasteful march a reeking wilderness.III  And shall the boastful Chief maintain his word,    Though Heaven hath heard the wailings of the land,  Though Lusitania whet her vengeful sword,    Though Britons arm and WELLINGTON command!  No! grim Busaco’s iron ridge shall stand    An adamantine barrier to his force;  And from its base shall wheel his shattered band,    As from the unshaken rock the torrent hoarseBears off its broken waves, and seeks a devious course.IV  Yet not because Alcoba’s mountain-hawk    Hath on his best and bravest made her food,  In numbers confident, yon Chief shall baulk    His Lord’s imperial thirst for spoil and blood:  For full in view the promised conquest stood,    And Lisbon’s matrons from their walls might sum  The myriads that had half the world subdued,    And hear the distant thunders of the drum,That bids the bands of France to storm and havoc come.V  Four moons have heard these thunders idly rolled,    Have seen these wistful myriads eye their prey,  As famished wolves survey a guarded fold -    But in the middle path a Lion lay!  At length they move – but not to battle-fray,    Nor blaze yon fires where meets the manly fight;  Beacons of infamy, they light the way    Where cowardice and cruelty uniteTo damn with double shame their ignominious flight.VI  O triumph for the Fiends of Lust and Wrath!    Ne’er to be told, yet ne’er to be forgot,  What wanton horrors marked their wreckful path!    The peasant butchered in his ruined cot,  The hoary priest even at the altar shot,    Childhood and age given o’er to sword and flame,  Woman to infamy; – no crime forgot,    By which inventive demons might proclaimImmortal hate to man, and scorn of God’s great name!VII  The rudest sentinel, in Britain born,    With horror paused to view the havoc done,  Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch forlorn,    Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer grasped his gun.  Nor with less zeal shall Britain’s peaceful son    Exult the debt of sympathy to pay;  Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun,    Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor the gay,Nor the poor peasant’s mite, nor bard’s more worthless lay.VIII  But thou – unfoughten wilt thou yield to Fate,    Minion of Fortune, now miscalled in vain!  Can vantage-ground no confidence create,    Marcella’s pass, nor Guarda’s mountain-chain?  Vainglorious fugitive! yet turn again!    Behold, where, named by some prophetic Seer,  Flows Honour’s Fountain, 2 as foredoomed the stain    From thy dishonoured name and arms to clear -Fallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her favour here!IX  Yet, ere thou turn’st, collect each distant aid;    Those chief that never heard the lion roar!  Within whose souls lives not a trace portrayed    Of Talavera or Mondego’s shore!  Marshal each band thou hast, and summon more;    Of war’s fell stratagems exhaust the whole;  Rank upon rank, squadron on squadron pour,    Legion on legion on thy foeman roll,And weary out his arm – thou canst not quell his soul.X  O vainly gleams with steel Agueda’s shore,    Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava’s plain,  And front the flying thunders as they roar,    With frantic charge and tenfold odds, in vain!  And what avails thee that, for CAMERON slain,    Wild from his plaided ranks the yell was given -  Vengeance and grief gave mountain-range the rein,    And, at the bloody spear-point headlong driven,Thy Despot’s giant guards fled like the rack of heaven.XI  Go, baffled boaster! teach thy haughty mood    To plead at thine imperious master’s throne,  Say, thou hast left his legions in their blood,    Deceived his hopes, and frustrated thine own;  Say, that thine utmost skill and valour shown,    By British skill and valour were outvied;  Last say, thy conqueror was WELLINGTON!    And if he chafe, be his own fortune tried -God and our cause to friend, the venture we’ll abide.XII  But you, ye heroes of that well-fought day,    How shall a bard, unknowing and unknown,  His meed to each victorious leader pay,    Or bind on every brow the laurels won?  Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest tone,    O’er the wide sea to hail CADOGAN brave;  And he, perchance, the minstrel-note might own,    Mindful of meeting brief that Fortune gave’Mid yon far western isles that hear the Atlantic rave.XIII  Yes! hard the task, when Britons wield the sword,    To give each Chief and every field its fame:  Hark! Albuera thunders BERESFORD,    And Red Barosa shouts for dauntless GRÆME!  O for a verse of tumult and of flame,    Bold as the bursting of their cannon sound,  To bid the world re-echo to their fame!    For never, upon gory battle-ground,With conquest’s well-bought wreath were braver victors crowned!XIV  O who shall grudge him Albuera’s bays,    Who brought a race regenerate to the field,  Roused them to emulate their fathers’ praise,    Tempered their headlong rage, their courage steeled,  And raised fair Lusitania’s fallen shield,    And gave new edge to Lusitania’s sword,  And taught her sons forgotten arms to wield -    Shivered my harp, and burst its every chord,If it forget thy worth, victorious BERESFORD!XV  Not on that bloody field of battle won,    Though Gaul’s proud legions rolled like mist away,  Was half his self-devoted valour shown, -    He gaged but life on that illustrious day;  But when he toiled those squadrons to array,    Who fought like Britons in the bloody game,  Sharper than Polish pike or assagay,    He braved the shafts of censure and of shame,And, dearer far than life, he pledged a soldier’s fame.XVI  Nor be his praise o’erpast who strove to hide    Beneath the warrior’s vest affection’s wound,  Whose wish Heaven for his country’s weal denied;    Danger and fate he sought, but glory found.  From clime to clime, where’er war’s trumpets sound,    The wanderer went; yet Caledonia! still  Thine was his thought in march and tented ground;    He dreamed ’mid Alpine cliffs of Athole’s hill,And heard in Ebro’s roar his Lyndoch’s lovely rill.XVII  O hero of a race renowned of old,    Whose war-cry oft has waked the battle-swell,  Since first distinguished in the onset bold,    Wild sounding when the Roman rampart fell!  By Wallace’ side it rung the Southron’s knell,    Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber owned its fame,  Tummell’s rude pass can of its terrors tell,    But ne’er from prouder field arose the nameThan when wild Ronda learned the conquering shout of GRÆME!XVIII  But all too long, through seas unknown and dark,    (With Spenser’s parable I close my tale,)  By shoal and rock hath steered my venturous bark,    And landward now I drive before the gale.  And now the blue and distant shore I hail,    And nearer now I see the port expand,  And now I gladly furl my weary sail,    And, as the prow light touches on the strand,I strike my red-cross flag and bind my skiff to land.

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO

IFair Brussels, thou art far behind,Though, lingering on the morning wind,  We yet may hear the hourPealed over orchard and canal,With voice prolonged and measured fall,  From proud St. Michael’s tower;Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,Where the tall beeches’ glossy bough  For many a league around,With birch and darksome oak between,Spreads deep and far a pathless screen,  Of tangled forest ground.Stems planted close by stems defyThe adventurous foot – the curious eye  For access seeks in vain;And the brown tapestry of leaves,Strewed on the blighted ground, receives  Nor sun, nor air, nor rain.No opening glade dawns on our way,No streamlet, glancing to the ray,  Our woodland path has crossed;And the straight causeway which we treadProlongs a line of dull arcade,Unvarying through the unvaried shade  Until in distance lost.IIA brighter, livelier scene succeeds;In groups the scattering wood recedes,Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads,  And corn-fields glance between;The peasant, at his labour blithe,Plies the hooked staff and shortened scythe: -  But when these ears were green,Placed close within destruction’s scope,Full little was that rustic’s hope  Their ripening to have seen!And, lo, a hamlet and its fane: -Let not the gazer with disdain  Their architecture view;For yonder rude ungraceful shrine,And disproportioned spire, are thine,  Immortal WATERLOO!IIIFear not the heat, though full and highThe sun has scorched the autumn sky,And scarce a forest straggler nowTo shade us spreads a greenwood bough;These fields have seen a hotter dayThan e’er was fired by sunny ray,Yet one mile on – yon shattered hedgeCrests the soft hill whose long smooth ridge  Looks on the field below,And sinks so gently on the daleThat not the folds of Beauty’s veil  In easier curves can flow.Brief space from thence, the ground againAscending slowly from the plain  Forms an opposing screen,Which, with its crest of upland ground,Shuts the horizon all around.  The softened vale betweenSlopes smooth and fair for courser’s tread;Not the most timid maid need dreadTo give her snow-white palfrey head  On that wide stubble-ground;Nor wood, nor tree, nor bush are there,Her course to intercept or scare,  Nor fosse nor fence are found,Save where, from out her shattered bowers,Rise Hougomont’s dismantled towers.IVNow, see’st thou aught in this lone sceneCan tell of that which late hath been? -  A stranger might reply,“The bare extent of stubble-plainSeems lately lightened of its grain;And yonder sable tracks remainMarks of the peasant’s ponderous wain,  When harvest-home was nigh.On these broad spots of trampled ground,Perchance the rustics danced such round  As Teniers loved to draw;And where the earth seems scorched by flame,To dress the homely feast they came,And toiled the kerchiefed village dame  Around her fire of straw.”VSo deem’st thou – so each mortal deems,Of that which is from that which seems: -  But other harvest hereThan that which peasant’s scythe demands,Was gathered in by sterner hands,  With bayonet, blade, and spear.No vulgar crop was theirs to reap,No stinted harvest thin and cheap!Heroes before each fatal sweep  Fell thick as ripened grain;And ere the darkening of the day,Piled high as autumn shocks, there layThe ghastly harvest of the fray,  The corpses of the slain.VIAy, look again – that line, so blackAnd trampled, marks the bivouac,Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery’s track,  So often lost and won;And close beside, the hardened mudStill shows where, fetlock-deep in blood,The fierce dragoon, through battle’s flood,  Dashed the hot war-horse on.These spots of excavation tellThe ravage of the bursting shell -And feel’st thou not the tainted steam,That reeks against the sultry beam,  From yonder trenchéd mound?The pestilential fumes declareThat Carnage has replenished there  Her garner-house profound.VIIFar other harvest-home and feast,Than claims the boor from scythe released,  On these scorched fields were known!Death hovered o’er the maddening rout,And, in the thrilling battle-shout,Sent for the bloody banquet out  A summons of his own.Through rolling smoke the Demon’s eyeCould well each destined guest espy,Well could his ear in ecstasy  Distinguish every toneThat filled the chorus of the fray -From cannon-roar and trumpet-bray,From charging squadrons’ wild hurra,From the wild clang that marked their way, -  Down to the dying groan,And the last sob of life’s decay,  When breath was all but flown.VIIIFeast on, stern foe of mortal life,Feast on! – but think not that a strife,With such promiscuous carnage rife,  Protracted space may last;The deadly tug of war at lengthMust limits find in human strength,  And cease when these are past.Vain hope! – that morn’s o’erclouded sunHeard the wild shout of fight begun  Ere he attained his height,And through the war-smoke, volumed high,Still peals that unremitted cry,  Though now he stoops to night.For ten long hours of doubt and dread,Fresh succours from the extended headOf either hill the contest fed;  Still down the slope they drew,The charge of columns pauséd not,Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot;  For all that war could doOf skill and force was proved that day,And turned not yet the doubtful fray  On bloody Waterloo.IXPale Brussels! then what thoughts were thine,When ceaseless from the distant line  Continued thunders came!Each burgher held his breath, to hearThese forerunners of havoc near,  Of rapine and of flame.What ghastly sights were thine to meet,When rolling through thy stately street,The wounded showed their mangled plightIn token of the unfinished fight,And from each anguish-laden wainThe blood-drops laid thy dust like rain!How often in the distant drumHeard’st thou the fell Invader come,While Ruin, shouting to his band,Shook high her torch and gory brand! -Cheer thee, fair City!  From yon stand,Impatient, still his outstretched hand  Points to his prey in vain,While maddening in his eager mood,And all unwont to be withstood,  He fires the fight again.X“On! On!” was still his stern exclaim;“Confront the battery’s jaws of flame!  Rush on the levelled gun!My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance!Each Hulan forward with his lance,My Guard – my Chosen – charge for France,  France and Napoleon!”Loud answered their acclaiming shout,Greeting the mandate which sent outTheir bravest and their best to dareThe fate their leader shunned to share.But HE, his country’s sword and shield,Still in the battle-front revealed,Where danger fiercest swept the field,  Came like a beam of light,In action prompt, in sentence brief -“Soldiers, stand firm!” exclaimed the Chief,  “England shall tell the fight!”XIOn came the whirlwind – like the lastBut fiercest sweep of tempest-blast -On came the whirlwind – steel-gleams brokeLike lightning through the rolling smoke;  The war was waked anew,Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,And from their throats, with flash and cloud,  Their showers of iron threw.Beneath their fire, in full career,Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier,The lancer couched his ruthless spear,And hurrying as to havoc near,  The cohorts’ eagles flew.In one dark torrent, broad and strong,The advancing onset rolled along,Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,That, from the shroud of smoke and flame,Pealed wildly the imperial name.XIIBut on the British heart were lostThe terrors of the charging host;For not an eye the storm that viewedChanged its proud glance of fortitude,Nor was one forward footstep stayed,As dropped the dying and the dead.Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,Fast they renewed each serried square;And on the wounded and the slainClosed their diminished files again,Till from their line scarce spears’-lengths three,Emerging from the smoke they seeHelmet, and plume, and panoply, -  Then waked their fire at once!Each musketeer’s revolving knell,As fast, as regularly fell,As when they practise to displayTheir discipline on festal day.  Then down went helm and lance,Down were the eagle banners sent,Down reeling steeds and riders went,Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent;  And, to augment the fray,Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,The English horsemen’s foaming ranks  Forced their resistless way.Then to the musket-knell succeedsThe clash of swords – the neigh of steeds -As plies the smith his clanging trade,Against the cuirass rang the blade;And while amid their close arrayThe well-served cannon rent their way,And while amid their scattered bandRaged the fierce rider’s bloody brand,Recoiled in common rout and fear,Lancer and guard and cuirassier,Horsemen and foot, – a mingled hostTheir leaders fall’n, their standards lost.XIIIThen, WELLINGTON! thy piercing eyeThis crisis caught of destiny -  The British host had stoodThat morn ’gainst charge of sword and lanceAs their own ocean-rocks hold stance,But when thy voice had said, “Advance!”  They were their ocean’s flood. -O Thou, whose inauspicious aimHath wrought thy host this hour of shame,Think’st thou thy broken bands will bideThe terrors of yon rushing tide?Or will thy chosen brook to feelThe British shock of levelled steel,  Or dost thou turn thine eyeWhere coming squadrons gleam afar,And fresher thunders wake the war,  And other standards fly? -Think not that in yon columns, fileThy conquering troops from distant Dyle -  Is Blucher yet unknown?Or dwells not in thy memory still(Heard frequent in thine hour of ill),What notes of hate and vengeance thrill  In Prussia’s trumpet-tone? -What yet remains? – shall it be thineTo head the relics of thy line  In one dread effort more? -The Roman lore thy leisure loved,And than canst tell what fortune proved  That Chieftain, who, of yore,Ambition’s dizzy paths essayedAnd with the gladiators’ aid  For empire enterprised -He stood the cast his rashness played,Left not the victims he had made,Dug his red grave with his own blade,And on the field he lost was laid,  Abhorred – but not despised.XIVBut if revolves thy fainter thoughtOn safety – howsoever bought, -Then turn thy fearful rein and ride,Though twice ten thousand men have died  On this eventful dayTo gild the military fameWhich thou, for life, in traffic tame  Wilt barter thus away.Shall future ages tell this taleOf inconsistence faint and frail?And art thou He of Lodi’s bridge,Marengo’s field, and Wagram’s ridge!Or is thy soul like mountain-tide,That, swelled by winter storm and shower,Rolls down in turbulence of power,  A torrent fierce and wide;Reft of these aids, a rill obscure,Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor,  Whose channel shows displayedThe wrecks of its impetuous course,But not one symptom of the force  By which these wrecks were made!XVSpur on thy way! – since now thine earHas brooked thy veterans’ wish to hear,  Who, as thy flight they eyedExclaimed, – while tears of anguish came,Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and shame,  “O that he had but died!”But yet, to sum this hour of ill,Look, ere thou leav’st the fatal hill,  Back on yon broken ranks -Upon whose wild confusion gleamsThe moon, as on the troubled streams  When rivers break their banks,And, to the ruined peasant’s eye,Objects half seen roll swiftly by,  Down the dread current hurled -So mingle banner, wain, and gun,Where the tumultuous flight rolls onOf warriors, who, when morn begun,  Defied a banded world.XVIList – frequent to the hurrying rout,The stern pursuers’ vengeful shoutTells, that upon their broken rearRages the Prussian’s bloody spear.  So fell a shriek was none,When Beresina’s icy floodReddened and thawed with flame and blood,And, pressing on thy desperate way,Raised oft and long their wild hurra,  The children of the Don.Thine ear no yell of horror cleftSo ominous, when, all bereftOf aid, the valiant Polack left -Ay, left by thee – found soldiers graveIn Leipsic’s corpse-encumbered wave.Fate, in those various perils past,Reserved thee still some future cast;On the dread die thou now hast thrownHangs not a single field alone,Nor one campaign – thy martial fame,Thy empire, dynasty, and name  Have felt the final stroke;And now, o’er thy devoted headThe last stern vial’s wrath is shed,  The last dread seal is broke.XVIISince live thou wilt – refuse not nowBefore these demagogues to bow,Late objects of thy scorn and hate,Who shall thy once imperial fateMake wordy theme of vain debate. -Or shall we say, thou stoop’st less lowIn seeking refuge from the foe,Against whose heart, in prosperous life,Thine hand hath ever held the knife?  Such homage hath been paidBy Roman and by Grecian voice,And there were honour in the choice,  If it were freely made.Then safely come – in one so low, -So lost, – we cannot own a foe;Though dear experience bid us end,In thee we ne’er can hail a friend. -Come, howsoe’er – but do not hideClose in thy heart that germ of pride,Erewhile, by gifted bard espied,  That “yet imperial hope;”Think not that for a fresh rebound,To raise ambition from the ground,  We yield thee means or scope.In safety come – but ne’er againHold type of independent reign;  No islet calls thee lord,We leave thee no confederate band,No symbol of thy lost command,To be a dagger in the hand  From which we wrenched the sword.XVIIIYet, even in yon sequestered spot,May worthier conquest be thy lot  Than yet thy life has known;Conquest, unbought by blood or harm,That needs nor foreign aid nor arm,  A triumph all thine own.Such waits thee when thou shalt controlThose passions wild, that stubborn soul,  That marred thy prosperous scene: -Hear this – from no unmovéd heart,Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART  With what thou MIGHT’ST HAVE BEEN!XIXThou, too, whose deeds of fame renewedBankrupt a nation’s gratitude,To thine own noble heart must oweMore than the meed she can bestow.For not a people’s just acclaim,Not the full hail of Europe’s fame,Thy Prince’s smiles, the State’s decree,The ducal rank, the gartered knee,Not these such pure delight affordAs that, when hanging up thy sword,Well may’st thou think, “This honest steelWas ever drawn for public weal;And, such was rightful Heaven’s decree,Ne’er sheathed unless with victory!”XXLook forth, once more, with softened heart,Ere from the field of fame we part;Triumph and Sorrow border near,And joy oft melts into a tear.Alas! what links of love that mornHas War’s rude hand asunder torn!For ne’er was field so sternly fought,And ne’er was conquest dearer bought,Here piled in common slaughter sleepThose whom affection long shall weepHere rests the sire, that ne’er shall strainHis orphans to his heart again;The son, whom, on his native shore,The parent’s voice shall bless no more;The bridegroom, who has hardly pressedHis blushing consort to his breast;The husband, whom through many a yearLong love and mutual faith endear.Thou canst not name one tender tie,But here dissolved its relics lie!Oh! when thou see’st some mourner’s veilShroud her thin form and visage pale,Or mark’st the Matron’s bursting tearsStream when the stricken drum she hears;Or see’st how manlier grief, suppressed,Is labouring in a father’s breast, -With no inquiry vain pursueThe cause, but think on Waterloo!XXIPeriod of honour as of woes,What bright careers ’twas thine to close! -Marked on thy roll of blood what namesTo Britain’s memory, and to Fame’s,Laid there their last immortal claims!Thou saw’st in seas of gore expireRedoubted PICTON’S soul of fire -Saw’st in the mingled carnage lieAll that of PONSONBY could die -DE LANCEY change Love’s bridal-wreathFor laurels from the hand of Death -Saw’st gallant MILLER’S failing eyeStill bent where Albion’s banners fly,And CAMERON, in the shock of steel,Die like the offspring of Lochiel;And generous GORDON, ’mid the strife,Fall while he watched his leader’s life. -Ah! though her guardian angel’s shieldFenced Britain’s hero through the field.Fate not the less her power made known,Through his friends’ hearts to pierce his own!XXIIForgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay!Who may your names, your numbers, say?What high-strung harp, what lofty line,To each the dear-earned praise assign,From high-born chiefs of martial fameTo the poor soldier’s lowlier name?Lightly ye rose that dawning day,From your cold couch of swamp and clay,To fill, before the sun was low,The bed that morning cannot know. -Oft may the tear the green sod steep,And sacred be the heroes’ sleep,  Till time shall cease to run;And ne’er beside their noble grave,May Briton pass and fail to craveA blessing on the fallen brave  Who fought with Wellington!XXIIIFarewell, sad Field! whose blighted faceWears desolation’s withering trace;  Long shall my memory retainThy shattered huts and trampled grain,With every mark of martial wrong,That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont!Yet though thy garden’s green arcadeThe marksman’s fatal post was made,Though on thy shattered beeches fellThe blended rage of shot and shell,Though from thy blackened portals torn,Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn,Has not such havoc bought a nameImmortal in the rolls of fame?Yes – Agincourt may be forgot,And Cressy be an unknown spot,  And Blenheim’s name be new;But still in story and in song,For many an age remembered long,Shall live the towers of Hougomont  And Field of Waterloo!

CONCLUSION

Stern tide of human Time! that know’st not rest,  But, sweeping from the cradle to the tomb,  Bear’st ever downward on thy dusky breast  Successive generations to their doom;  While thy capacious stream has equal room  For the gay bark where Pleasure’s steamers sport,  And for the prison-ship of guilt and gloom,  The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a court,Still wafting onward all to one dark silent port; -  Stern tide of Time! through what mysterious change  Of hope and fear have our frail barks been driven!  For ne’er, before, vicissitude so strange  Was to one race of Adam’s offspring given.  And sure such varied change of sea and heaven,  Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe,  Such fearful strife as that where we have striven,  Succeeding ages ne’er again shall know,Until the awful term when Thou shalt cease to flow.  Well hast thou stood, my Country! – the brave fight  Hast well maintained through good report and ill;  In thy just cause and in thy native might,  And in Heaven’s grace and justice constant still;  Whether the banded prowess, strength, and skill  Of half the world against thee stood arrayed,  Or when, with better views and freer will,  Beside thee Europe’s noblest drew the blade,Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen to aid.  Well art thou now repaid – though slowly rose,  And struggled long with mists thy blaze of fame,  While like the dawn that in the orient glows  On the broad wave its earlier lustre came;  Then eastern Egypt saw the growing flame,  And Maida’s myrtles gleamed beneath its ray,  Where first the soldier, stung with generous shame,  Rivalled the heroes of the watery way,And washed in foemen’s gore unjust reproach away.  Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest on high,  And bid the banner of thy Patron flow,  Gallant Saint George, the flower of Chivalry,  For thou halt faced, like him, a dragon foe,  And rescued innocence from overthrow,  And trampled down, like him, tyrannic might,  And to the gazing world may’st proudly show  The chosen emblem of thy sainted Knight,Who quelled devouring pride and vindicated right.  Yet ’mid the confidence of just renown,  Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus acquired,  Write, Britain, write the moral lesson down:  ’Tis not alone the heart with valour fired,  The discipline so dreaded and admired,  In many a field of bloody conquest known,   – Such may by fame be lured, by gold be hired:  ’Tis constancy in the good cause aloneBest justifies the meed thy valiant sons have won.
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