No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. VI And, 'What mockery or malice have we here?' cries Hervé Riel: Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! 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 Grève, 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. VII 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 seas profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harboured to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas Anchor!'-sure as fate VIII So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. 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!' 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, IX Then said Dam freville, 'My friend, Though I find the speaking hard. You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfre ville.' X Then a beam of fun out broke 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 Belle Aurore!' That he asked and that he got,-nothing more. XI 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 Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! R. Browning. BARBARA FRIETCHIE * UP from the meadows rich with corn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand * By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. Round about them orchards sweep, Fair as a garden of the Lord, To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic-window the staff she set, Up the street came the rebel tread, Under his slouched hat left and right 'Halt!'-the dust-brown ranks stood fast; 'Fire!'-out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; |