Ballads of Bravery 10
And cried in thraldrom to that furious wind,
Blow on! This is the land of liberty!
[Illustration]
THE FISHERMEN.
Hurrah! the seaward breezes
Sweep down the bay amain.
Heave up, my lads, the anchor!
Run up the sail again!
Leave to the lubber landsmen
The rail-car and the steed;
The stars of heaven shall guide us,
The breath of heaven shall speed.
From the hill-top looks the steeple,
And the lighthouse from the sand;
And the scattered pines are waving
Their farewell from the land.
One glance, my lads, behind us,
For the homes we leave one sigh,
Ere we take the change and chances
Of the ocean and the sky.
Now, brothers, for the icebergs
Of frozen Labrador,
Floating spectral in the moonshine,
Along the low, black shore!
Where like snow the gannet’s feathers
On Brador’s rocks are shed,
And the noisy murr are flying,
Like black scuds, overhead;
Where in mist the rock is hiding,
And the sharp reef lurks below,
And the white squall smites in summer,
And the autumn tempests blow;
Where, through gray and rolling vapor,
From evening unto morn,
A thousand boats are hailing,
Horn answering unto horn.
Hurrah for the Red Island,
With the white cross on its crown!
Hurrah for Meccatina,
And its mountains bare and brown!
Where the caribou’s tall antlers
O’er the dwarf-wood freely toss,
And the footstep of the mickmack
Has no sound upon the moss.
There we’ll drop our lines, and gather
Old Ocean’s treasures in,
Where’er the mottled mackerel
Turns up a steel-dark fin.
The sea’s our field of harvest,
Its scaly tribes our grain;
We’ll reap the teeming waters
As at home they reap the plain!
Our wet hands spread the carpet,
And light the hearth of home;
From our fish, as in the old time,
The silver coin shall come.
As the demon fled the chamber
Where the fish of Tobit lay,
So ours from all our dwellings
Shall frighten Want away.
[Illustration]
Though the mist upon our jackets
In the bitter air congeals,
And our lines wind stiff and slowly
From off the frozen reels,
Though the fog be dark around us,
And the storm blow high and loud,
We will whistle down the wild wind,
And laugh beneath the cloud!
In the darkness as in daylight,
On the water as on land,
God’s eye is looking on us,
And beneath us is his hand!
Death will find us soon or later,
On the deck or in the cot;
And we cannot meet him better
Than in working out our lot.
Hurrah! hurrah! The west wind
Comes freshening down the bay,
The rising sails are filling,--
Give way, my lads, give way!
Leave the coward landsman clinging
To the dull earth, like a weed.
The stars of heaven shall guide us,
The breath of heaven shall speed!
EXCELSIOR.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice,
A banner, with the strange device,
Excelsior!
His brow was sad; his eye, beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright.
Above, the spectral glaciers shone;
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!
“Try not the pass!” the old man said;
“Dark lowers the tempest overhead!
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!”
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!
[Illustration]
“Oh! stay,” the maiden said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!”
A tear stood in his bright blue eye;
But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior!
“Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!”
This was the peasant’s last good-night.
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of St. Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried, through the startled air,
Excelsior!
A traveller by the faithful hound,
Half buried in the snow, was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
The banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!
There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,--
Excelsior!
THE SOLDIER.
For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the soldier’s prize,
The soldier’s wealth is honor.
The brave poor soldier ne’er despise;
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember, he’s his country’s stay
In day and hour o’ danger.
[Illustration]
JOHN MAYNARD.
’Twas on Lake Erie’s broad expanse,
One bright midsummer day,
The gallant steamer, Ocean Queen,
Swept proudly on her way.
Bright faces clustered on the deck,
Or, leaning o’er the side,
Watched carelessly the feathery foam
That flecked the rippling tide.
A seaman sought the captain’s side,
A moment whispered low:
The captain’s swarthy face grew pale;
He hurried down below.
Alas, too late! Though quick and sharp
And clear his orders came,
No human efforts could avail
To quench th’ insidious flame.
The bad news quickly reached the deck,
It sped from lip to lip,
And ghastly faces everywhere
Looked from the doomed ship.
“Is there no hope, no chance of life?”
A hundred lips implore.
“But one,” the captain made reply;
“To run the ship on shore.”
A sailor whose heroic soul
That hour should yet reveal,
By name John Maynard, Eastern born,
Stood calmly at the wheel.
“Head her southeast!” the captain shouts,
Above the smothered roar,--
“Head her southeast without delay!
Make for the nearest shore!”
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