Page:Once a Week Volume 8.djvu/185

. 7, 1863.] “Profane it not, this holy haunt of glory, Where England’s blood once dyed the azure sea; Where many a hero dear to England’s story In ocean-grave now rests, immortally;

“Where Albion’s Titan sons once bled for honour,— Lions in battle! and by Triumph crown’d! Bow to the fame that Albion’s children won her, Pause at the spot where so much fame was found!

“See here around those glorious chiefs in battle, Whose laurels hide the sparkling of the waves— For England’s sake rejoicing in war’s rattle, For England’s sake now summon’d from their graves—

“See here, the ‘Victory’! by morning’s glory Illumined, streaming still with England’s blood! And see ye not, ?—Nelson! now before ye! And by my side, my comrade, Collingwood?

“The whole world’s cause was ours, in those achievements— The world was with us, proud of our renown— When England’s weal was bought by dread bereavements, And with our death we paid her deathless crown!

“We all have left the grave where we were sleeping; While midnight reigns, we break the fatal spell; And like good seamen still our watch are keeping On the blue sea, where we so gladly fell.

“You know that England always hath expected That every man his duty should fulfil; In hearts, alas! so lowly now dejected— Ye will scarce fight as brave men always will!

“Oh, have ye lost the sailor’s soul of daring, That none will venture now the deck to tread? Oh, were ye born in England? Thus self-caring,— Is that old England’s banner overhead?”

Still onward goes the iron giant, wheeling; No sound is heard, no voice speaks in reply; And, far removed from aught of envious feeling, The ghostly voice of Nelson echoed high.

“Ye are no more the sons of Albion’s rearing, Thus barricaded behind sheathèd wall: For you the warrior-music hath no cheering With which we, erst, so often led the ball!

“Lies England’s lion sick, and old and weary? Where is the spirit that in ye was born? Have our old sailor-songs no power to cheer ye? Is ‘Rule Britannia’ now a thing to scorn?

“You speak not—shame, I ween, your souls possessing Of that huge bulk which doth your lives invest— Shame seizes you,—in inmost hearts confessing That e’en the name of ‘Warrior’ is a jest.

“Strange doves are ye of peace,—with shame bespatter’d,— Dead olive branch ye bear unto the earth— For with your armour all belief is shatter’d In manly truth, and nobleness, and worth.

“Call you it combat,—thus, all metal-plated,— Like scaly dragon—thus the bullet’s hail To meet? By your own valour not elated, But fortified by your safe coat of mail!

“It is no combat when, like furious cattle, Men dash the horned front in monstrous gloom; It is no combat where in ocean battle No palm of glory waves above the tomb.

“Oh, call ye combat, dark extermination Where foes smite foemen whom they cannot see! A man was born for nobler aspiration, And as a victim will not daring be.

“For ye prepare but sacrificial ravage Of human hecatombs, for ocean’s roar— Combat is honour, slaughter is but savage: Murder is yours—ye combat now no more!

“And still your soul strives on, to make perfected New means to shiver and destroy the earth: Yet this task shall ye never find effected— This He alone can do, who gave it birth.

“Yet shall such warfare—with the aid of sages— (Seeking alone to shatter and undo)— Found, at the end, that peace of future ages Which in Atlantis dreamers did foreshow.

“And men will love more warmly then each other When Hate no further triumph can invent; And men shall find the love as of a brother The best device Hate’s schemings to prevent.

“And men shall love:—he who shall love most dearly Shall be the victor in the world’s new strife; And to a rainbow then shall change all clearly This sulphurous smoke with which the air is rife.

“Then go your ways! Ye shall be victors truly; Your iron prows point to man’s fairer lot; Yet neither ‘Warriors’ nor ‘Conquerors,’ duly, Can ye be named,—since ye combat not!

“The time is near—wherefore should we conceal it?— When war shall live alone in poet-lore, And for our fame each story shall reveal it, Speaking as of the Mastodons of yore.

“As monsters of the past shall we live ever— As giants with war’s madness half-sublime; In picture, fable, song,—all shall endeavour To paint us thus, unto the after-time.

“A pigmy ‘after-time,’ we must proclaim ye! As war-ships? No! we know ye, heed ye not! For where men fight, they risk—the truth should shame ye— To fight with visors ever closely shut!

“Yours is, at best, a base lot, and untoward— To be the founders of a lesser age; Swallows of peace, and welcomed by the coward! Peace, based on dread of battle’s noblest rage!”

So spake the hero of the Nile, whose valour Made red the waves of glorious Trafalgar; While o’er the sea the dawn’s pure radiant pallor Made faint the brightness of the morning star.

Then onward stole the daylight’s flowing motion, Driving to shade the forms of that weird fleet: Nought but the “Warrior’s” weight upon the ocean Is seen ahead, the watcher’s eye to greet.

And then from out its sides there rises, slowly, A cloud of smoke that hides the ship of mail: Ashamed that heroes thus should prize her lowly— The flag of England droops behind a veil.

have all heard of the tricks of our American cousins—of their wooden hams, fictitious nutmegs, and contract boots with the soles pasted on, and many of us have come to the belief that all the rascality is to be found on the other side of the herring-pond. This doctrine is comfortable, but unhappily it is not true. We have before us now a parliamentary report on Trade Marks and Merchandise Marks, two subjects on which our own Government lawyers are essaying to legislate.