If, p.17
iF, page 17
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
An Incident of the French Camp
ROBERT BROWNING
1812–89
‘An Incident of the French Camp’ was inspired by Napoleon’s attack on the city of Ratisbon in Bavaria in 1809. The poem is narrated through a speaker who is one of Napoloeon’s aides, and uses repetition to emphasize Napoleon’s greatness, and the loyalty he inspired in his men. The boy who dies with a smile on his face at the close of this poem was proud to serve such a great man.
You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, ‘My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,’–
Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.
Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse’s mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect, –
(So tight he kept his lips compressed
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.
‘Well,’ cried he, ‘Emperor, by God’s grace
We’ve got you Ratisbon!
The Marshal’s in the market-place,
And you’ll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart’s desire,
Perched him!’ The chief’s eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire,
The chief’s eye flashed, but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle’s eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes,
‘You’re wounded!’ ‘Nay,’ the soldier’s pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
‘I’m killed, Sire!’ And his chief beside,
Smiling the boy fell dead.
The Charge of the Light Brigade
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
1809–92
Tennyson wrote this poem at lightning speed after reading a newspaper article about the devastating 1854 Battle of Balaclava in the Crimean War. Many of the 600 soldiers who charged into battle died as a result of a disastrous miscommunication of orders: ‘Someone had blunder’d.’ Tennyson’s poem reflects the passionate language of the reporter for The Times as well as a sombre echo from Psalm 23, with its reference to the ‘Valley of Death’. There is a sense of grim momentum underlying the poem: Tennyson’s use of alliteration and repetition conveys the proud onrush of the cavalry as well as the foolish haste that led to their death.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!’ he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Someone had blunder’d:
Their’s not to make reply,
Their’s not to reason why,
Their’s but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
The Battle of Blenheim
ROBERT SOUTHEY
1774–1843
Robert Southey’s poem recalls the Battle of Blenheim, which took place in 1704. The Duke of Marlborough used cunning tactics to ambush the Franco-Bavarian army in Vienna, seriously reducing Louis XIV’s army, which lost 30,000 soldiers. ‘’Twas a famous victory’ is repeated ironically throughout the poem: nobody really knows why the battle was fought, but it doesn’t matter, because the English were victorious. Southey later changed his mind about the battle, stating in 1820 that it was one of the greatest moments in English military history. The Duke of Marlborough was rewarded with a 16,000-acre estate and money to build the very grand Blenheim Palace, where his descendants (one of whom was Sir Winston Churchill) reside to this day.
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head
And with a natural sigh,
‘’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,’ said he,
‘Who fell in the great victory.
‘I find them in the garden,
For there’s many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men,’ said he,
‘Were slain in that great victory.’
‘Now tell us what ’twas all about,’
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
‘Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for.’
‘It was the English,’ Kaspar cried,
‘Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said,’ quoth he,
‘That ’twas a famous victory.’
‘My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
‘With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
‘They said it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
‘Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,
And our good Prince Eugene.’
‘Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!’
Said little Wilhelmine.
‘Nay . . . nay . . . my little girl,’ quoth he,
‘It was a famous victory.’
‘And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.”
‘But what good came of it at last?’
Quoth little Peterkin.
‘Why, that I cannot tell,’ said he,
‘But ’twas a famous victory.’
Jerusalem
WILLIAM BLAKE
1757–1827
This poem is thought to comment on the darkness of the Industrial Revolution. Modernisation brought with it the ‘dark satanic mills’ and poverty of England’s industrial towns, in contrast to the New Jerusalem promised in the Bible’s Book of Revelation. Sir Hubert Parry composed the music for Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’ in 1916 and the poem is now better known as a hymn. Although British people now associate it with the Last Night of the Proms and moods of optimistic celebration, it is far from a straightforward patriotic song.
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.
O Captain! My Captain!
WALT WHITMAN
1819–92
This poem is a lament for American President Abraham Lincoln, who was assassinated while at the theatre in 1865. The ‘ship’ represents America, which had just weathered the storm of a bloody civil war.
O Captain! my Captain! Our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! Rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up – for you the flag is flung – for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths – for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Old Ironsides
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
1809–94
‘Old Ironsides’ was the nickname given to the US navy ship USS Constitution, first launched in 1797. It earned its nickname after a battle with the British ship HMS Guerriere in 1812. Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote this poem in 1830 in protest over attempts to have Constitution decommissioned. She was a vessel that was hugely popular with the American people, and public opinion saved her from ‘the mighty deep’. The USS Constitution now serves as a naval museum in Boston, USA.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon’s roar;
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor’s tread,
Or know the conquered knee:
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave:
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
The Eve of Waterloo
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON
1788–1824
‘The Eve of Waterloo’ describes a ball held in Brussels three days before the battle of Waterloo of 18 June 1815. There was a seventy-two-hour gap between the ball and the battle, but Byron telescopes this timeframe to increase the dramatic tension. These verses are part of a long narrative poem, ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage’, which is about Byron’s world-weary wanderings around Europe and his reflections upon the societies of his time. The battle ended with the English army defeating the French under Napoleon.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium’s capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it? – No; ’twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet –
But hark! – that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is – it is – the cannon’s opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death’s prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness.
And there were sudden partings, such as press
