HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA. NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-West died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; "Here and here did England help me how can I help England?"-say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. The former of these companion poems may have been written from Italy or the south of Spain, as would appear from the last line of it. Mr. E. C. Stedman, one of the severest of Browning's appreciative critics, commenting (in his "Victorian Poets") on the lines beginning "That's the wise thrush," says:-"Having in mind Shakespeare and Shelley, I nevertheless think these three lines the finest ever written touching the song of a bird." In the latter poem, the course is from the southern point of Portugal through the Straits. "Here and here "-the reference is to the battles of Cape St. Vincent (1796) and Trafalgar (1805), and perhaps to the defenc of Gibraltar (1782). "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX." [16–.] I. I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, II. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace 111. T was moonset at starting; but while we drew near IV. At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray : V. And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back VI. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! "Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, "We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, · As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. VII. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight!" VIII. 'How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight IX. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; X. And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; Was no more than his due who brought good news from The indefiniteness of the date at the head of this poem will be best explained by the following extract from a letter of Mr. Browning's, published in 1881 in the Boston Literary World :— "There is no sort of historical foundation about 'Good News From Ghent.' I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the African coast, after I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse 'York,' then in my stable at home." This poem, therefore, widely known and appreciated as one of the most stirring in the language, may be regarded as a living picture to illustrate the pages-no page in particular-of Motley. As parallels in American literature, reference may be made to "Paul Revere's Ride," by Longfellow, and " 'Sheridan's Ride," by T. B. Reade. ECHETLOS. HERE is a story, shall stir you! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone, Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed Persia rolling on, Did the deed and saved the world, since the day was Marathon! No man but did his manliest, kept rank and fought away In his tribe and file: up, back, out, down-was the speararm play : Like a wind-whipt branchy wood, all spear-arms a-swing that day! But one man kept no rank, and his sole arm plied no spear, As a flashing came and went, and a form i' the van, the rear, Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here. Nor helmed nor shielded, he! but, a goat-skin all his wear, Like a tiller of the soil, with a clown's limbs broad and bare, Went he ploughing on and on: he pushed with a ploughman's share. Did the weak mid-line give way, as tunnies on whom the shark Precipitates his bulk? Did the right-wing halt when, stark On his heap of slain, lay stretched Kallimachos Polemarch? Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need, The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed, As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede. |