English Poetry and Prose of the Romantic Movement

The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more than a public calamity: men started at the intelligence, and turned pale, as if they had heard of the loss of a dear friend. An object of our admiration and affection, of our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us; and it seemed as if we had never, till then, known how deeply we loved and reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero-the greatest of our own, and of all former times-was scarcely taken into the account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part, that the maritime war, after the battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an end; the fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated, but destroyed; new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen reared for them, before the possibility of their invading our 20 shores could again be contemplated. It was not, therefore, from any selfish reflection upon the magnitude of our loss that we mourned for him: the general sorrow was of a higher character. The people of England grieved that funeral ceremonies, public monuments, and posthumous rewards, were all which they could now bestow upon him, whom the king, the legislature, and the nation, would alike have delighted to honor; whom every tongue would have blessed; whose presence in every village through which he might have passed would have wakened the church bells, have given school-boys a holiday, have drawn' children from their sports to gaze upon him, and "old men from the chimney corner, to look upon Nelson ere they died. The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the usual forms of rejoicing, but they were without joy; for such already was the glory of the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing genius, that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition from the most signal victory that ever was achieved upon the seas; and the destruction of this mighty fleet, by which all the maritime schemes of France were totally frustrated, hardly appeared to add to our security or strength; for while Nelson was living, to watch the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves as secure as now, when they were no longer in existence.

There was reason to suppose, from the appearances upon opening the body, that in the course of nature he might have attained, like his father, to a good old age.

1 Sidney, The Defense of Poesy, 23, 27 (Ath. Press ed.).

Yet he cannot be said to have fallen prematurely whose work was done, nor ought he to be lamented who died so full of honors and at the height of human fame. The most triumphant death is that of the martyr; the most awful that of the martyred patriot; the most splendid that of the hero in the hour of victory; and if the chariot and the horses of fire had been vouchsafed for Nelson's translation,1 he could scarcely have departed in a brighter blaze of glory. He has left us, not indeed his mantle of inspiration,2 but a name and an example which are at this hour inspiring thousands of the youth of England-a name which is our pride, and an example which will continue to be our shield and our strength. Thus it is that the spirits of the great and the wise continue to live and to act after them, verifying in this sense the language of the old mythologist:

Τοί μεν δαίμονες εἰσί, Διός μεγάλου διὰ βουλὰς Εσθλοὶ, ἐπιχθόνιοι, φύλακες θνητῶν ἀνθρώπων.3

And asks the image back that Heaven
bestow'd!

Fierce in his eye the fire of valor burns,
And, as the slave departs, the man returns.
Oh! sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased
a while,

350 And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,

When leagued Oppression1 pour'd to
Northern wars

Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce
hussars,2

Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,

Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn;

355 Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,

Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man! Warsaw's last champion3 from her height survey'd,

Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,"Oh! Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding

country save!—

360 Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?

Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven 365

again;

All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, 40 But Hope, the charmer, linger'd still behind.1

Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam,

340 Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home;

Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines,

From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary

mines,

Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd darkness there,

And light the dreadful features of Despair.

345 Hark! the stern captive spurns his heavy load,

1 See the story of Pandora, from whose box all the blessings but hope escaped; also the story of the Iron Age, in which the vices took possession of the earth after the virtues had departed.

Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,

Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!

By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!

And swear for her to live!-with her to die!"

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd

His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,

Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;

Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,

70 Revenge, or death, -the watchword and reply;

Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,

And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew:

375 Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 1 In 1792 and 1794 when Russia, Prussia, and Austria united in wars for the partition of Poland.

2 The pandoors were members of a regiment in the Austrian army, noted for its courage and cruelty. The hussars were light cavalrymen. Thaddeus Kosciusko: he was defeated and taken prisoner, Oct. 10, 1794.

Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the
shatter'd spear,

380 Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career;

Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,

And Freedom shriek'd as Kosciusko fell! The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there,

Tumultuous Murder shook the midnight air

385 On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,

His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below;

The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way,

Bursts the wild ery of horror and dismay! Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,

390 A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook-red meteors flash'd along the sky,

And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry!
Oh! righteous Heaven; ere Freedom

found a grave,

Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save? 295 Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod,

That smote the foes of Zion and of God;1
That crush'd proud Ammon, when his

Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host

400 Of blood-stain 'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast;

Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below ?s

Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! 405 Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,

Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return 410 The patriot Tell-the Bruce of Bannockburn!

Yes! thy proud lords, unpitied land, shall see