NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

I love contemplating--apart From all his homicidal glory-- The traits that soften to our heart Napoleon's story.

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne, Armed in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman.

They suffered him,--I know not how, Unprisoned on the sh.o.r.e to roam; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain, half-way over, With envy--_they_ could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover.

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 sh.o.r.eward floating.

He hid it in a cave, and wrought The livelong 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, uncompa.s.sed, and unkeeled,-- No sail--no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipped he would have pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude, Addressed the stranger.

"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pa.s.s On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned, Thy heart with some sweet British la.s.s Must be impa.s.sioned."

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

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, "You've both my favour fairly won, A n.o.ble 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 Buonaparte.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

(January 16, 1809.)

BY REV. CHARLES WOLFE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampant 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 hollow'd 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!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our weary task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We Carved not a line and we raised not a stone.

But left him alone in _his_ glory.

AT TRAFALGAR.

(October 21, 1805.)

_AN OLD MAN-O'-WARSMAN'S YARN_.

BY GERALD Ma.s.sEY.

Ay, ay, good neighbours, I have seen Him! sure as G.o.d's my life; One of his chosen crew I've been, Haven't I, old good wife?

G.o.d bless your dear eyes! didn't you vow To marry me any weather, If I came back with limbs enow To keep my soul together?

Brave as a lion was our Nel And gentle as a lamb: It warms my blood once more to tell The tale--gray as I am-- It makes the old life in me climb, It sets my soul aswim; I live twice over every time That I can talk of him.

You should have seen him as he trod The deck, our joy, and pride; You should have seen him, like a G.o.d Of storm, his war-horse ride!

You should have seen him as he stood Fighting for our good land, With all the iron of soul and blood Turned to a sword in hand.

Our best beloved of all the brave That ever for freedom fought; And all his wonders of the wave For Fatherland were wrought!

He was the manner of man to show How victories may be won; So swift you scarcely saw the blow; You looked--the deed was done.

He sailed his ships for work; he bore His sword for battle-wear; His creed was "Best man to the fore"; And he was always there.

Up any peak of peril where There was but room for one; The only thing he did not dare Was any death to shun.

The Nelson touch his men he taught, And his great stride to keep; His faithful fellows round him fought Ten thousand heroes deep.

With a red pride of life, and hot For him, their blood ran free; They "minded not the showers of shot No more than peas," said he.

Napoleon saw our Sea-king thwart His landing on our Isle; He gnashed his teeth, he gnawed his heart At Nelson of the Nile, Who set his fleet in flames, to light The Lion to his prey, And lead Destruction through the night Upon his dreadful way.