Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this Formidable clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, -Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life, here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past. All are harbored to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!”—sure as fate, Up the English come,-too late! So, the storm subsides to calm: Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Then said Damfreville, "My friend, You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?— Since 'tis ask and have, I may Since the others go ashore Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,-nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar or a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell: Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! Robert Browning "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX” I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near chime, So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris "Stay spur! And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looze and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight! "How they'll greet us!"-and all in a roan moment his Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is,-friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; Ghent. Robert Browning |