But though the red be given,
Have we not more to do?

These were not stirred by anger,
Nor yet by lust made bold;
Renown they thought above them,
Nor did they look for gold.
To them their leader's signal
Was as the voice of God:
Unmoved, and uncomplaining,
The path it showed they trod.
As, without sound or struggle,
The stars unhurrying march,
Where Allah's finger guides them,
Through yonder purple arch,
These Franks, sublimely silent,
Without a quickened breath,
Went in the strength of duty
Straight to their goal of death.

'If I were now to ask you

To name our bravest man, Ye all at once would answer,

They called him Mehrab Khan. He sleeps among his fathers, Dear to our native land,

With the bright mark he bled for
Firm round his faithful hand.

"The songs they sing of Rustum
Fill all the past with light;
If truth be in their music,

He was a noble knight.

But were those heroes living
And strong for battle still,
Would Mehrad Khan or Rustum

Have climbed, like these, the hill?'

And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave,
As chief, he chose himself what risks to run;
Prince Rustum lied, his forfeit life to save,
Which these had never done.'

'Enough!' he shouted fiercely;
Doomed though they be to hell,
Bind fast the crimson trophy

Round BOTH wrists-bind it well.
Who knows but that great Allah
May grudge such matchless men,
With none so decked in heaven,
To the fiends' flaming den?'

Then all those gallant robbers
Shouted a stern 'Amen!'
They raised the slaughtered sergeant,
They raised his mangled ten.
And when we found their bodies

Left bleaching in the wind,

Around BOTH wrists in glory

That crimson thread was twined.

Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core, Rung, like an echo, to that knightly deed,

He bade its memory live for evermore,

That those who run may read.

XCVIII

HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA

NOBLY, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-west

died away;

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;

Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar

lay;

In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;

'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'—say,

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,

While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

XCIX

HERVÉ RIEL

ON the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,

Did the English fight the French,-woe to

France!

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the

blue,

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of

sharks pursue,

Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,

With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor

in full chase;

First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;

Close on him fled, great and small,

Twenty-two good ships in all;

And they signalled to the place

'Help the winners of a race!

Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quickor, quicker still,

Here's the English can and will!'

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;

'Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?' laughed they:

'Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,

Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and eighty guns

Think to make the river-mouth by the single

narrow way,

Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty

tons,

And with flow at full beside?

Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.
Reach the mooring? Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay!'

Then was called a council straight.
Brief and bitter the debate:

'Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow

All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,

For a prize to Plymouth Sound?
Better run the ships aground!'
(Ended Damfreville his speech).
Not a minute more to wait!

'Let the Captains all and each

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!

France must undergo her fate.

Give the word!'

But no such word

Was ever spoke or heard;

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these

-A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate-first, second, third?

No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete!

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,

A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.

And, 'What mockery or malice have we here?' cries Hervé Riel:

'Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards,

fools, or rogues?

Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell

On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell