And when our darling went to meet
Trafalgar's Judgment Day,

The people knelt down in the street
To bless him on his way.

He felt the country of his love
Watching him from afar;

It saw him through the battle move:
His heaven was in that star.

Magnificently glorious sight

It was in that great dawn!
Like one vast sapphire flashing light,
The sea, just breathing, shone.
Their ships, fresh painted, stood up tall
And stately ours were grim
And weatherworn, but one and all
In rare good fighting trim.

Our spirits all were flying light,
And into battle sped,

Straining for it on wings of might,

With feet of springy tread; The battle light on every face;

Its fire in every eye;

Our sailor blood at swiftest pace
To catch the victory nigh.

His proudly wasted face, wave-worn,
Was loftily serene;

I felt the brave, bright spirit burn.

There, all too plainly seen;

As though the sword this time was drawn
For ever from the sheath;

And when its work to-day was done,
All would be dark in death.

Mast-high the famous signal ran;
Breathless we caught each word:
"England expects that every man
Will do his duty." Lord,

You should have seen our faces! heard
Us cheering, row on row;

Like men before some furnace stirred
To a fiery fearful glow!

We grimly kept our vanward path;
Over us hummed their shot;
But, silently, we reined our wrath,
Held on, and answered not,
Till we could grip them face to face,
And pound them for our own,

Or hug them in a war embrace,
Till they or we went down.

How calm he was! when first he felt
The sharp edge of that fight,
Cabined with God alone he knelt;
The prayer still lay in light
Upon his face, that used to shine

In battle flash with life,

As though the glorious blood ran wine.
Dancing with that wild strife.

And four hours after, he had done
With winds and troubled foam.
The Reaper was borne dead upon
Our load of harvest home.
Not till he knew the old flag flew
Alone on all the deep;

Then said he, "Hardy, is that you?
Kiss me." And fell asleep.

Well, 'twas his chosen death, below
The deck in triumph trod;

'Tis well. A sailor's soul should go
From his good ship to God.
He would have chosen death aboard,
From all the crowns of rest;
And burial with the patriot's sword
Upon the victor's breast.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

THOMAS CAMPBELL

THE victory of Trafalgar destroyed the French and Spanish fleets and secured to Britain the mastery of the seas. There was no further fear of invasion for the island kingdom. Her only rival, the United States, was three thousand miles distant.

Ye Mariners of England

That guard our native seas.

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe:

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.

II

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

III

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

IV

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

AT CORUÑA

ROBERT SOUTHEY

THE nations of Europe had one by one yielded to Napoleon until his conquest of the Continent seemed as complete as England's control of the sea. The first opportunity to meet the great antagonist on land came when (1808) the Spanish people rose in revolt against his tyranny. An English army, under Sir Arthur Wellesley, later Duke of Wellington, was immediately sent to their aid. The French were driven from Portugal, but the attempt to shake their hold on Spain was at first unsuccessful. Sir John Moore, with an army of twenty thousand men, advanced to Salamanca, but learning that Napoleon was marching to meet him with a force twice his own, the English commander beat a hasty retreat to Coruña. Here he expected to find transports to convey his shattered troops back to England. The vessels were late, however, and Moore found himself obliged to fight (January 6, 1809). The French were beaten off at every point, but in the moment of victory, Sir John fell, mortally wounded. The English were embarked the same night.

When from these shores the British army first
Boldly advanced into the heart of Spain,