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.
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
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!
Your 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.
CAMPBELL.
[Notes: _Blake_. Robert Blake (1598-1657), an English admiral under
Cromwell, chiefly distinguished for his victories over the Dutch.]
* * * * *
A SHIPWRECK.
One morning I can remember well, how we watched from the Hartland Cliffs
a great barque, which came drifting and rolling in before the western
gale, while we followed her up the coast, parsons and sportsmen, farmers
and Preventive men, with the Manby's mortar lumbering behind us in a
cart, through stone gaps and track-ways, from headland to headland. The
maddening excitement of expectation as she ran wildly towards the cliffs
at our feet, and then sheered off again inexplicably;--her foremast and
bowsprit, I recollect, were gone short off by the deck; a few rags of
sail fluttered from her main and mizen. But with all straining of eyes
and glasses, we could discern no sign of man on board. Well I recollect
the mingled disappointment and admiration of the Preventive men, as a
fresh set of salvors appeared in view, in the form of a boat's crew of
Clovelly fishermen; how we watched breathlessly the little black speck
crawling and struggling up in the teeth of the gale, under the shelter
of the land, till, when the ship had rounded a point into smoother
water, she seized on her like some tiny spider on a huge unwieldy
fly; and then how one still smaller black speck showed aloft on the
main-yard, and another--and then the desperate efforts to get the
topsail set--and how we saw it tear out of their hands again, and again,
and again, and almost fancied we could hear the thunder of its flappings
above the roar of the gale, and the mountains of surf which made the
rocks ring beneath our feet;--and how we stood silent, shuddering,
expecting every moment to see whirled into the sea from the plunging
yards one of those same tiny black specks, in each one of which was a
living human soul, with sad women praying for him at home! And then how
they tried to get her head round to the wind, and disappeared instantly
in a cloud of white spray--and let her head fall back again--and jammed