Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's a way! 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 Greve, 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 sea's profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock. Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the And just as Hervé Riel halloos "Anchor!"-sure as fate, Up the English come, too late. So the storm subsides to calm; They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Greve: 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 counte nance! Outburst 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, In the frank blue Breton eyes, Then said Damfreville, "My friend, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville. Then a beam of fun outbroke 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 Bello Aurore!" That he asked and that he got-nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost; Not a pillar nor 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 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. JAMIE. ROBERT BROWNING. I HARDLY know how to begin what I've started out to tell, Without saying many things that have nothing at all to do With the thing I ought to say-for, friends, as you know well, A woman can't say right out what she means, and I'm all a woman, you know. I'm not very good at dates, and it was-let me see, let me see It was let me think how long! Ah, well, 'twas years ago, When I was only forty and John was forty-three, And the winter was in, and for many years there had not been such a snow. You see the evening had come; I put a log on the fire, The flames danced up and shone on the tins, hanging all scoured bright, While the room in the corners was dusky, like a day in the woods when higher Than shadows reach the tall trees spread their hands to keep out the light, I took up my knitting, a warm blue sock for John, and rounded the heel, As I sat in the pleasant firelight, my needles busy and stout, Shining like thoughts of young days when we're old— for I love to feel That the heart has room forever for the days the world wore out. John he was resting before me, his face turned opposite mine, And every once in a while I'd look and find him deep in thought, Till I grew thoughtful too-you know a thought on one soul can't shine Unless it reflects on another the light its memory's caught. I looked and looked, and saw him frown; and what did I do instead? Why a big tear rolled down my cheek and hid away in the soft blue yarn; For I knew that I thought as he did, of Jamie, our boy, who fled Five years ago from father and me, and took that box from the barn, And ran away with a wild, wild set of cronies from the town Ah, when John knew it he cursed him deep, Saying, "Martha, hear! He is no son of mine, and if I meet him I'll strike him down!" |