Arms and the Man

VIII.

THE LINES AROUND YORKTOWN.

  Troops late by Williamsburg's brave palace walls,
    With trump and drum had marched down Glo'ster street,
  And some with throb of oars, and loud sea-calls
        Had landed from the fleet.

  And well our leader had befooled his foes—
    Left them like archers blundering in the dark
  To draw against the empty space their bows,
        While here was their true mark.

  Brave Lincoln on the right with kindling eye
    Smiles 'mid the cares of grave command immersed,
  To see dramatic retribution nigh
    And Charleston's fate reversed!

  The Light Troops stood upon the curved right flank,
    New Hampshire, Massachusetts Bay were there,
  Connecticut marched with them, rank on rank,
    And gallant Delaware.

  There, too, Virginia's sturdy yeomen stood,
    Led on by Nelson of the open hand,
  As thick and stubborn as a living wood
    In some enchanted land.

  Next came the steady Continental Line,
    Rhode Island, and New Jersey, breast to breast,
  Ready to tread the hot and smoking wine
    From War's red clusters pressed.

  New York and Pennsylvania on these plains
    Closed boldly in on the embattled town,
  Nor feared they threatened penalties and pains
    Of Parliament, or Crown.

  And Maryland, the gay and gallant came,
    As always ready for the battle's brunt;
  And here again Virginia faced the flame
    Along the deadly front.

IX.

THE FRENCH IN THE TRENCHES.

  And as the allied hosts advance
  All the left wing is given to France,
      Is given to France and—Fame!
  Yes, these together always ride
  The Dioscouroi of the tide
      Where War plays out the game!
  And that broad front 'tis her's to hold
  With hand of iron, heart of gold
      And helmet plumed with flame.
  Across the river broad she sends
  DeChoisy and Lauzun where ends
      The leaguer far and wide,
  While Weedon seconds as he may
  The gallant Frenchmen in array
      Upon the Gloucester side.

  As waves hurled on a stranded keel
  Make all the oaken timbers reel
      With many a pond'rous blow,
  So day by day, and night by night
  The French like billows foaming white
      Thunder against the foe.

X.

NELSON AND THE GUNNERS.

  O'er town, and works, and waves amain
  Far fell grim Ruin's furious rain,
    O'er parapet and mast,
  And riding on the thunder-swell
  Far flew the shot, far flew the shell
    Red Havoc on the blast!
  Then as the flashing cannon sowed
  Their iron crop brave Nelson rode,
    His bridle bit all foam,
  Up to the gunners, and said he:
  "Batter yon mansion down for me"—
    "Basement, and walls, and dome!"
  And better to sharpen those gunners' wits,
  "Five guineas," he cried, "for each shot that hits!"—
    That mansion was his home!

XI.

THE BELEAGUERED TOWN.

  Behind the town the sun sinks down
    Gilding the vane upon the spire,
  While many a wall reels to its fall
    Beneath the fell artillery fire.

  As sinks that sun mortar and gun
    Like living things leap grim and hot,
  And far and wide across the tide
    Spray-furrows show the flying shot.

  White smoke in clouds yon earthwork shrouds
    Where, steeped in battle to the lips,
  The French amain pour fiery rain
    On town, and walls, and English ships.

  That deadly sleet smites lines and fleet,
    As closes in the Autumn night,
  And Aboville from head to heel
    Thrills with the battle's wild delight.

  At every flash oak timbers crash—
    A sudden glare yon frigate dyes!
  Then flames up-gush, and roar, and rush,
    From deck to where her pennon flies!

  Those flames on high crimson the sky
    And paint their signals overhead,
  And every fold of smoke is rolled
    And woven in Plutonian red.

  All radiant now taffrail and prow,
    And hull, and cordage, beams and spars,
  Thus lit she sails on fiery gales
    To purple seas where float the stars.

  Ages ago just such a glow
    Woke Agamemnon's house to joy,
  Its red and gold to Argos told
    The long-expected fate of Troy.

  So, on these heights, that flame delights
    The Allies thundering at the wall,
  Forewrit they see the land set free
    And Albion's short-lived Ilium fall!

  Then as the Lilies turn to red
    Dipped in the battles' wine
  Another picture is outspread
    Where still the figures shine—
      The picture of a deadly fray
      Worthy the pencil of Vernet!

(Extract)