A stormy midnight watch, he thought,

Than this sojourn would have been dearer,

If but the storm his vessel brought

To England nearer.

At last, when care had banished sleep,

He saw one morning-dreaming—doating,

An empty hogshead from the deep

Come shoreward floating;

He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The live-long day laborious; lurking
Until he launched a tiny boat

By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond
Description, wretched: such a wherry
Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or crossed a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt-sea field,

It would have made the boldest shudder;
Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,
No sail-no rudder.

From neighb'ring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipped he would have passed
The foaming billows-

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,
His little Argo sorely jeering;

Till tidings of him chanced to reach

Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger;
And, in his wonted attitude,
Addressed the stranger:—

'Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned;
Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassioned.'

'I have no sweetheart,' said the lad;
'But-absent long from one another—
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother.'

'And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said,
'Ye've both my favour fairly won;
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son.'

He gave the tar a piece of gold,

And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England Old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift

To find a dinner, plain and hearty; But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparté.

LXVI

'YE MARINERS'

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.

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.

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.

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.

LXVII

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

OF Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;

While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each

gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane,

To our cheering sent us back ;—

Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—

Then cease-and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail;

Or, in conflagration pale

Light the gloom.

Now joy, Old England, raise

For the tidings of thy might,

By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;