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[Title Page]
A National Poem.
TO COMMEMORATE THE GLORIOUS VICTORY AT ALGIERS.
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Charlotte Payne
Copyright ©2009, University of California
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October 22, 2009
Charlotte Payne
-- ed.
[Title Page]
BY MRS. M'MULLAN,
Relict of W. M'Mullan, Esq. M. D. Royal Navy.
May untaught Minstrel, on advent'rous wing,
Invoke the Muse heroic deeds to sing?
Hail the blest Guardians of her native Isle,
And hope the honour of their cheering smile?—
Ere she could lisp a Father's valued name
His life was given in pursuit of Fame;—
Each loved protector of her infant years
Stern War transplanted to immortal spheres;—
A Husband blest!—she deem'd each joy her own,—
Alas! he fell beneath the torrid zone.—
But, rouse, vain Minstrel! close thy tale of griefs
And sound the Glory of Britannia's Chiefs.
While the decorations of Magnificence decay, and the splendour of Fetes are forgotten, the Munificent Acts of Sovereignty will be immortally recorded. National Glory inspires the humblest of Your Royal Highness's Subjects, for Britain has attained a pre-eminence in Arts and Arms which excites the Admiration of her happy People. The Widow will forget her sigh—the Orphan his tear—in the protecting halo of Your Royal Highness's Condescension, and I am proud that this little work becomes a medium to display that
I have the honour to subscribe myselfMRS. M'MULLAN is most gratefully sensible of the honour conferred on her by so many Copies of this Work having been ordered since the MS. was transmitted to the Printer. A desire to send it into the world with the least possible delay, will, she trusts, apologize to her Royal, Noble and Friendly Patrons, for their Orders not being prefixed, as they were to her first publication. She would, likewise, admit a hope that the severity of Criticism may not be exercised on a Composition which has been so rapidly accomplished, amidst the numerous avocations of a busy and very anxious life.
COME, Inspiration, from thy cloud-capt mount,
Behold I wait thee by Castalia's fount;
The lyre would strike, but want of skill deplore
To deck my minstrelsy with classic lore:—
Then bid me wake a wildly echoing tone,
To touch that string which Sweetness calls her own;
And though my lay be simple, and my verse
May vainly try of Valour to rehearse,
Some Bard the heroic Muse may yet inspire
To kindle Genius with Promethean fire:
And when that Bard shall soar on Eagle-wing
Fame's trump will tell, her hand the scroll will bring
Of valorous deeds, that every Muse reveres,
Of Britain's triumph at thy gates, Algiers!
The Poet's bays will crown such happy Bard
And Immortality his blest reward:—
But me, content to sing in simple strain,—
A wand'ring Minstrel from an humble plain;—
An humble plain? 'Tis EXMOUTH'S favorite coast,—
That gallant leader of a gallant host!
On Glory's list high stands brave MILNE'S name,
In Valour foremost, and beloved by Fame!
MILNE, thy country bred my valiant sires,
Thy Scotia's hills the Minstrel-bosom fires,
—I trace poetic visions as they rise,
Wild as the night-breeze through the aspen sighs;
Hear ærial whispers by the twilight gloom,
And charm lone shadows from their narrow home——
Come, Inspiration! fill my inmost soul,
Let martial legends Memory's hand unroll;
The Grecian cohorts, and the Trojan name,
The Spartan phalanx, and the Roman fame,
Ammon's proud son, and Cæsar's mighty arm,
Th' o'erwhelming Goths, the Vandals' rude alarm,
Trac'd on immortal tablets bright, were long
The Painter's subject, and the Poet's song;
While empires flourish'd, and while empires fell,
And age to age of slaughter'd millions tell.—
Europe emerged:—still hostile sceptres sway'd,
The jav'lin flew, the intrepid war-horse neigh'd;
Still clashing sabres cleft the helmet-plume;
Each life a warfare, and each mound a tomb.
Omniscient Powers beheld the endless strife,
As Mercy mourn'd the waste of human life:—
Her red cross waved—her thousand masts uprear'd—
Her commerce spread—her virgin Queen appear'd.
Her arm now thunder'd, and her voice gave laws,
To Honour true, and firm in Justice' cause.
Her naval champions fought, till every wave
Ensanguined, told the triumphs of the brave;
Opposing navies still their force display'd,
Often advancing,—but as oft dismay'd:
Batavia, Gallia, and Iberia frown'd,
Gave Cadmus' harvest to Columbia's ground:
Fierce were the contests, countless on the main
The shatter'd bulwarks, and the heroes slain.
Ever victorious Britain's flag unfurl'd
Her great defiance to an envious world.
Thy memory, Howe! to every tar is dear,
And gallant DUNCAN merits well the tear,
ST. VINCENT'S rock proclaims a glorious tale,
While NELSON'S deeds are known to ev'ry vale.
Exhausted nations panted now for Peace,—
Britannia bade her conq'ring thunders cease:
The war-whoop silenced 'mong the sons of men,
No savage sound disturb'd the tranquil glen;
The soldier told of Waterloo and Fame,
His scarr'd cheek glowing at the WELLESLEY name;
O'er Neptune's world the sailor ceased to roam,
And hail'd the breezes of his native home.
Love tuned his lyre upon the mountain-side,
And Concord's echoes cheer'd the new-made bride;
Though old the tale, yet in the classic page
'Tis read by all, and prais'd by every age,
That when Æneas from the flames of Troy
Snatch'd old Anchises and his infant boy,
Pursued by Fate he wander'd—driven from Tyre—
In Carthage landed—and of Rome the sire.
But Time's broad scythe has long swept every trace
Of Tyrian name and Carthaginian race:
Those halls forsaken by the Trojan chief,
Those fanes that echo'd Royal Dido's grief,
That splendid commerce, and those warlike towers
Which long opposed the fiercest conqueror's powers,
Now sunk and desolate have left her land
The lonely refuge of a Pirate-band!
All-conquering legions, from ambitious Rome,
Drove the weak shepherds from their fenceless home;
Their Eagles pounced on each Numidian side,
And spread the wing o'er Mauritania's pride.
Lo! savage tribes have rung the Roman knell,
At Faction's voice the struggling victim fell.
Famed Belisarius fix'd a standard here,
Arabs and Caliphs in their turns appear;
At length divided, timorous and poor,
These petty states were subject to the Moor.
The Lesbian¹
brothers scorn'd their humble state,
And desperate sallied to amend their fate;
Fortune befriended the adventurous pair,
And each in turn became a chief Corsair.
The Barbarossa name spread wide and far,
Red Conquest yoked her dragons to their car;
But Barbary warfare as of olden time,
Rapine and Murder, Slavery and Crime,
The Muses turn from, with unfeign'd disdain,
Loathing both Muley's and Alraschid's chain;
Inspire no laureate for a proud Seignior,—
Though BYRON wooed them to the Turkish shore.
First in the train of Freedom's joys they wait,
But distant fly from each despotic state,
Disown each fetter, scorn Oppression's blow,
Nor bless the ear that shuns another's woe.
Rather within some low-roof'd British cell,
Or where the simple train of Erin dwell,
Rather attune the Cambrian harper's theme,
And sweetly modulate the Minstrel's dream,
Rather inspire the peasant at the plough,
Than let sweet Poesy to tyrants bow!
O Britain! loved by all the sacred Nine,
Where Virtues flourish, where the Graces shine,
Health on each hill, and Plenty in each vale;—
When Misery's moan came on the tepid gale,
Thy patriot Prince, thy Senate heard the cry,
While neighbouring nations heed not slavery's sigh.
Long time had captives shed their hopeless tears,
And fill'd with prayers the prisons of Algiers;—
Long had they wept and long had vainly pray'd,
"Till Britain sent her bulwarks to their aid.
Vainly had nature to the despot given
A land of fragrance and the breath of Heaven;
The vine, the citron, the luxuriant palm,
Refreshing zephyrs and spontaneous balm:
No generous culture aids the blossoms here,
But listless indolence and servile fear
When roused to action steel'd is Corsair-heart,
And Wrath and Carnage all their stings impart;
The crouded xebeque and the galley's crew
Ne'er spared a prow, nor one blest feeling knew.
Their pilot Rapine, and their compass Gain,—
The dread, the scourge of traders on the main:
Freighted with Plunder, wet with Christian blood,
Unawed they roamed, secure their turrets stood:
Beneath the Crescent bow'd the Christian slave,
Till torture quench'd the spirit of the brave.
'Twas thus unransom'd, and in fetters brought,
From country torn, by every friend unsought,
Iberia's son received the slavish yoke²
With pulse wild throbbing and his heart unbroke:
The Sun retired—the Ocean-wave was calm—
The Night advanced—but shed no opiate balm,
Of life's best treasure thus completely shorn
Can the sad Captive bless returning Morn?—
Sweetly the day illumes the humblest cell
Where Peace and Freedom with the peasant dwell—
Unblest the beam that gilds a despot's crown,
Unwish'd the morn that wakes a gaoler's frown.
The day broke hopeless on Castilia's son,
And ere it rose he wish'd that day were done:
When day was finish'd and the stars shone bright,
Again he cursed the loneliness of night.
The same proud feelings, though with weaker sway,
Clouded the morning of Enrico's day.
Link'd by the bitter chain of common grief,
The one would speak of freedom and relief,
Would take his wretched fare and try to smile,—
But vainly tried his fellow to beguile
One hour with Fancy's visionary themes,
Or chase the midnight darkness of his dreams.
From Venice-isle the junior sufferer came,
His state was humble and obscure his name.
A day of more than common toil had past,
The woe-worn Spaniard pray'd it were his last,—
Lightning still play'd along the murky skies,—
The younger Captive spoke in broken sighs.
"Think'st thou, Castilian, I have patient borne
"The evening fetter and the lash of morn;
"Although thou heard not lost Enrico's groan,
"Yet have his griefs to every saint been known.
"This hour of terror and this night of gloom
"Seem fraught with Death,—to us a welcome doom.
"My mind forgets its strength in abject tears,
"And grows insensible to hopes and fears.
That high-wrought sympathy the generous feel
In human suffering and for human weal
Swell'd in the Spaniard's breast,—he deeply sigh'd—
And such a sigh foretold that Hope had died.
"Speak on, Enrico, let thy memory roam,—
"Speak of thy country, speak the bliss of home;
"If for thy loss a Mother's grief is heard,
"If on the beach a drooping Sire appear'd;
"Did love fraternal cheer thy early life?
"Or mourns for thee that more than all—a Wife?
"Hope shuns Charybdis and can smile at Truth,
"Then like a Scylla wreck the bliss of youth.
"For me ascends not the maternal prayer,
"I know not brother's smile, nor father's care:
"In other orbs those faithful kindred dwell,—
"Yet lives there One I cannot bid farewell!
"For though an orphan boy 'twas mine to prove
"The Sun of Friendship and the Star of Love.
"The bounteous guardians of my early years
"With sweet Compassion dried Misfortune's tears;
"Saw me an Orphan and of birth obscure;
"Unostentatious—tempted by no lure
"Received and rear'd me with a liberal hand,
"And none smiled happier in Venetian land.
"Fortune proved faithless as Ixion's wheel,—
"'Twas theirs to suffer—and 'twas mine to feel:
"Vivani sunk beneath a weight of woe,—
"Yet those who blest when high, I loved when low.
"The Mother lived her Daughter to protect,—
"Their virtues flourish'd—but their fortunes wreck'd.
"Affection, Duty, kept me ever near,
"As friend, as servant, and as gondolier.
"My fond heart danced to many a silvery tone,
"For Love and Lais made that heart their own:
"Circassia boasts not, nor could Titian trace
"Superior beauty, nor more finish'd grace,
"Than the lorn hope of the Vivani pride,—
"For whom my bosom long in secret sigh'd.
"Yes, Spaniard, yes, I love,—I madly love—
"Dearer than Earth, more dear than Heaven above.
"Noble Castilian! hast thou ever wept?
"Or in thy heart the form of beauty kept?
"Dwells on thy memory Love's impassion'd tone?
"Does woman live thou e'er hast call'd thine own?
"Rests her sweet accent on thy faithful ear?
"Breath'st thou her name to every list'ning sphere?
"Hast thou e'er known that agonizing smart,
"That arrow'd anguish to the human heart,
"That soulless, lifeless, sad, sepulchral knell
"All bliss entombing in a last farewell?
"To mend my fortunes, to exalt my state
"Love nobly struggled 'gainst opposing Fate.
"The winds may listen and the wave may spare—
"But when did Mercy dwell with the Corsair?
"When wounded—bleeding—I survived the strife,
"I pray'd the Pirate to extinguish life:
"Envied each victim from the xebeque tost,
"Abhorr'd existence when each hope was lost,—
"Invited madness to my fever'd brain,—
"Wooed Death's suspension to the throbbing vein.—
"Oh! my loved Lais, may'st thou e'er suppose
"That waves ingulph'd thy lover and his woes:
"Mourn him thy blest Affection could not save,—
"But give thy tear-drop to the Sailor's grave:
"Let not my gentle Lais ever know
"Enrico fell beneath a Pirate's blow!"—
Mid rudest regions, or refinement's court,
Where misery moans, or where the pleasures sport,
The generous heart its earliest spring recals,
In freedom glows, nor dies in prison-walls.
This was a truth the brave Castilian felt,—
His brow relax'd, his firmer pulses melt
Into that softest luxury of woe
Obdurate Apathy can never know.
Though Hope's sweet form had flown to other spheres,
And Joy ne'er bloom'd for Captive in Algiers,
Yet throbb'd his soul, and, had the eye-lid moved,
Perchance a falling tear that soul had proved.
When dimly closes Life's aspiring morn,
When, ere the bud expands, protrudes the thorn,
When keenly suffering, when adversely tried,
A faithful heart is Nature's only pride.
Castilia's son now raised his glist'ning eye,
And to Enrico made no brief reply.
"What but the past can tortured minds employ
"Of fetter'd captives robb'd of every joy?
"Torn from all ties of Nature and of Love,
"The Soul's lost sun-beam soars to realms above.
"O beings etherial! must I no more view
"My native hills which charm'd when life was new?
"No longer hear Spain's artless numbers sung?
"Nor list the cadence of the mountain-tongue?
"Sweet was each flowret on that mountain-side,
"Paulina gentle as the halcyon tide.
"With her I fled when law a sanction gave,
"With her I crost o'er many a boisterous wave:
"At length the power we dreaded was no more,—
"And Love impell'd us to our native shore.
"We found that glen where Echo loves to dwell,
"We found each blessing in Castilian cell;
"And Memory still those happy scenes will trace,
"Which not e'en Death shall totally efface.
"Invading War mock'd Pyrenean bounds,
"Wild Desolation mark'd our ruin'd grounds;
"Balm of the sleepless! let me ne'er forget
"Those forms so dear, through
life's last star be set.
"When my assistance the Guerilla sought,
"When darkest terrors fill'd Paulina's thought,
"Her anxious look, her quick-inquiring eye,
"Her trembling tear-drop and her bursting sigh
"Bound her still closer to a Husband's heart—
"Then is it thus eternally we part!
"The British arms had bade Spain's mis'ries cease,
"And War's rude tumults yield to gentle Peace.
"My anxious wishes form'd a train of thought
"To waft me quickest to the home I sought;
"A vessel waited near Andero's strand,
"In fatal hour I join'd her luckless band:
"The breeze sprung fairly, and on Fancy's ear
"Breathed every sound to human feeling dear.
"But ere the eve had on the ocean slept
"How many an eye the wreck of Joy had wept!
"A galley boarded—and the Pirate crew
"Insatiate plunder'd—and insatiate slew:—
"A Christian remnant left to curse their spoil,
"In chains to linger, and in Slavery toil!
"Can this for ever unrevenged proceed?
"Will no strong arm e'er make these monsters bleed?
"For Britain's isle, profuse of Freedom's gifts,
"The voice of prayer each sable Negro lifts;—
"Oh! could her noble sons behold this den,
"And see these fetters on their fellow-men,
"Would they not hasten o'er their subject-waves,
"And give blest rescue to the Barbary slaves?
"Their thunders humble this detested power,
"And strike the Crescent from the prison-tower?
"Might but such hope, though distant, visit here,
"I still could live to see the Lion rear,
"To see base tyrants crouch beneath his sway,
"And Pirate carcases bestrew the way!—
"Observe, Enrico, yonder summer's sun,—
"Would he but tell us, ere his course be run,
A form more manly, or more deck'd with grace,
Apelles' self would vainly wish to trace,
Than that within a dungeon-keep immured,
From all but sense of Misery secured,
Counted the dreary watches of the night,
Till stripes and toil return'd with morning light.
Revenge and Hate provoked by every sense
Of wanton Cruelty, and rude Offence,
Indignant roused the young Venetian slave
To look contempt—at one who ne'er forgave.
Thy mountain, Etna, fears not man's controul,
The lava torrents from Vesuvius roll,
The rending earthquake and the bursting storm
Can shake all Nature, and all Art deform,—
Sicilian peasants shudder in dismay,
And Naples trembles at her darken'd day;—
But storm, and earthquake, and Vesuvian shower,
The ravaged city, and the rocking tower,
Fade, when compared to the Castilian's look
At lost Enrico on the impaling hook!
He raised his fetter'd arm,—one tyrant died,—
Had but success attended what he tried
Enrico's sufferings and Paulina's tears,
Had made a mausoleum of Algiers.
The hopeless Captive knows not how to dread
He wooes his death, nor envies—but the dead!—
O'erpower'd by numbers the Castilian fell;—
"Hope withering fled—and Mercy sighed Farewell*
!"
The yielding Spaniard blest the final thrust
Which laid him prostrate on the crimson'd dust—
"Pirates! Barbarians! now ye set me free!
"Now, my Paulina! now I come to Thee:—
"Now shall my ransom'd Spirit seek that God
"Who gives to Justice an avenging rod!"
Lord Byron.
END OF CANTO FIRST.
FROM the antarctic to the arctic pole,
Where'er the winds may breathe, the waters roll,
Since female voice was first in Eden heard,
Since female form to lordly Man appear'd,
Is there a bliss dispensed to Earth below?
Is there a balm to lessen every woe?
Is there a voice to cheer, a form to bless?
To perfect happiness, to soothe distress?—
The pensive Mariner his night-watch kept—
The moon had risen—and Echo almost slept,—
To wand'ring Minstrel—on the noiseless breeze—
Came accents broken—wild—and lorn as these.—
"Shall Memory ever harrow up my soul?4
"Will Recollection yield to no controul?
"What are the visions of Italian morn
"To her whose only pillow is a thorn?
Yet vibrate still on mournful Fancy's ear
Ye sounds of joy, Armide was wont to hear.—
The Spaniard's prayer and the Venetian's groan,
Had both ascended to the heavenly throne:
The sacred Muses, on their rainbow sphere,
Heard Armide's sigh, and saw her pearly tear;—
To Feeling's melody attuned their songs,
And Britain listen'd to the Captives' wrongs.
Wild war had raged o'er Europe's whole domain,
Till numbers fail'd to calculate the slain:
Each country sent the flower of its land,
Each country mourn'd War's desolating hand.
Britain had bled profusely at each pore,
And Peace had scarcely landed on her shore;—
Her Lion couchant, but not slumb'ring, lay,
When roused to action by a tyrant Dey.
The groan of suffering echoes o'er the deep,
Can Europe's thunders in their caverns sleep?
Britannia heard it, pitied and deplored
With hand still resting on her conq'ring sword.
Her ensign waved,—her Lion reared and breathed,—
Her fleet was ready, and her sword unsheathed.
She held the glitt'ring messenger of Fate,—
She blest the blooming laurels of her state,—
Display'd the triumphs of her chariot-wheels,
And call'd on Neptune to produce the seals
Britannia pointed to the Afric sea,
And bade her champions "set the suff'ring free*
''
Call'd on illustrious EXMOUTH to prepare,—
What deed in arms would not her EXMOUTH dare?[4]
Ask other days when mad, rebellious France
Bade her proud squadrons to our shores advance;
Whose hand first laid their varied standard low—
And oft repeated the destructive blow?—
Vide a Poem on the Algerine Expedition in "The Naiad's Wreath."
Braved Biscay's thunder in December's blast—
And nail'd the red-cross to the shatter'd mast?—
Each honest heart, to Britain's glory true,
Thinks of those days, and shouts "Long live PELLEW!"
The Tritons' shell still threw glad echoes round,
Brave MILNE 5
hasted at th' inspiring sound,
—As erst when plunging, fearless, on the wave,
His hand secured the Conquest Victory gave;
Ere ceased the fight no boat was left to launch,
But MILNE swam from the subduing Blanche,
Taught the contending humble foes to seek,
Then fix'd the colours on the vanquish'd Pique—
Admiring Gods still blest the heroic pair,
And mark'd the Crescent of the dark Corsair.
Gallia, debased, lives not in Freedom's songs,
She never felt a proud Oppressor's wrongs!!!
Spain heard unmoved, unfeeling and supine,
All, save Batavia 6
, Britain's call decline:
Near Calpe's heights behold the banner spread,
Behold the fleet by noble EXMOUTH led,
Behold each rank, behold their ardent zeal,—
Nobly they'll conquer, for they nobly feel!
Is it decision of a common cause?
Some slight infringement of a nation's laws?
Seek they a hostile squadron on the main?
Are those insulted Monarchs who complain?—
No! 'tis the cry of wretched Christian slaves
By Pity borne across the southern waves.
Such an appeal would gallant Britons hear,
Fancy a chain, or helpless Woman's tear,
And not embark with soul, with heart, with hand,
To hurl Destruction on the Pirate-band?
The arduous duty, the incessant care,
Each hand employs, and all delight to share;
With anxious nerve, with animated heart,
Attend each signal, view th' extended chart,
Spread every sail and woo the unsteady breeze
To waft them quickly to the Barbary seas.
Come, Inspiration, strike the sounding lyre,
Let thy bright ray the simple Muse inspire,
Give to each chord the Minstrel's happiest lays,
For she would sing the British Sailors' praise!
Bid Tyrants tremble, bid the world rejoice,
And hail the Captives with fair Freedom's voice!
When Time remote this glorious Crusade hears,
And points to ruin'd Crescents of Algiers;
If then be ask'd the Sailor's high reward,
And what sarcophagi their ashes guard,
In all the beauteous lustre of his rise,
Sol now illumed his drapery of skies;
No hanging mist, no aqueous meteor here,
But all shone lucid, unobscured and clear;
Not scorching, fiery, came the god of day,
But, round his beams the genial zephyrs play:
The mildness, softness, of his morning reign
Refresh'd the vigour of the arid plain.—
Yet ere his beam attain meridian force,
Ere his proud chariot mark a western course,
To many an eye that hail'd the morning-beam,
Life will have faded like a transient dream:
"Shall Britain strike, or may she learn to spare?"
An awful moment for the proud Corsair.
"Call the Divan;—the Gallic Engineers!"
Woe to their councils and thy hosts, Algiers!
"Ready?" said EXMOUTH to his gallant fleet,
The answer, "Ready, every toil to meet."
Now British bowsprits touch the Pirate's walls,—
The British Lion on the Pirate falls,—
Resistless vollies pour from every side,—
Sunk are his galleys in th' ensanguined tide;—
Thrice are his ramparts cover'd with the slain,
And thrice his ramparts are re-mann'd again.
The ponderous shot each British tube propels,
Fast, fierce, destructive, fly the ignited shells.
The turbann'd host no cowardice disgraced,
Their Crescents humbled, but again replaced,
With tiger aspect, with determined hate
They call on Alla, and accuse their fate;
Infuriate level and incessant ply,
And rear the blood-red standard to the sky:
Hear unappall'd the British cannon roar,
Nor heed the drowning wretches on their shore,
See, undismay'd, their swarthy Chieftains' fall,—
For yet unshaken stood their massy wall:
Oh! for the skill of the Mæonian lyre,
Or would the Mantuan Bard the verse inspire,
Would Tasso dictate, or would Milton teach,
Or might the muse to Ossian grandeur reach,
Give to the line the dignity of song,
And bid pleased Echo every note prolong;
Call veteran warriors to attend the tale,
Sound Glory's trump in every humble vale,
Wake the first pulse with Triumph and with Truth,
And charm the soul of every warlike youth.
Too vain such wish! yet minstrelsy may try,
Without the phrenzy of the Poet's eye,
To strike the harp, as Druids did of yore,
And fill the page with plain unvarnish'd lore.—
Hark! the explosion takes its dire effect,—
Splendid the blaze, by Earth, by Sea uncheck'd.
The Crescent fades—the Janissaries fall—
A breach! a breach within the embattled wall!
The raging Dey, each crimson-stain'd Corsair
Apply their arts this ruin to repair,
From port to battlement despairing haste,
While every moment lays their turrets waste.
If he who wore the Macedonian crown,
If Agamemnon's arm, if Hector's frown,
If fierce Achilles, if the Roman glance,
If Pallas' self had thrown the deadly lance,
If bolts from Heaven, or Satan's scorching flame
Had hurl'd Destruction on the Pirate name,
So from the British bulwarks pour'd their doom,—
See! Ruin stalks o'er fetter'd Slavery's tomb.
Volumes of smoke anticipate the night,
Lo! 'tis dispell'd by more than noon-day light;
Igneous fury o'er the horizon gleams,
More deadly far than forked lightning streams,—
Each orb is pale! behold the mighty void—
Their fleet in flames—and Piracy destroy'd!
Confusion reigns! unquench'd the spreading fire
When EXMOUTH bids his bleeding host retire.
The thunders crash—the vivid lightnings play—
Evening most fit for such tremendous day!
The burning scene, the sinking towers implied
That Man was rescued, and that Slavery died!
Her masts disabled, her exertions crost,
Spring, heavenly breezes! or, Leander's lost.
She drifts!—'tis calm!—again the Arab drew,8
And on her corse strewn deck her heroes slew.
Aurora's beam beheld the vanquish'd train
Mute with despair, amid their countless slain;
The furious Dey beheading the Divan,
Cursing the moment when the fight began,
Raging, yet ruin'd,—impotent, yet loud,—
A frantic Tyrant 'mong a conquer'd croud.
Aurora's beam beheld the red-cross wave,
That blissful banner to th' enfranchised Slave!
Hear their glad voices on the ambient air,
Near their loud cheerings and their grateful prayer!
Unequal, simple Minstrelsy! art thou
To sing the glories of each British prow,
Unequal all thy fervour, all thy zeal
To speak the triumph British heroes feel,—
Yet make th' attempt that moment to record
Which mark'd the glorious, th' inspiring word
"Infallible"—the electric rapture ran
From ship to ship, from officer to man—
They braved the cannon's mouth, the rocket hurl'd,—
Their arm had humbled a contending world.
Like monarch-lions of the ravaged wood,
The British squadron still determined stood
Ready, Infallible,—and nobly bent
Still to attack, and never to relent
Till every Captive from base shackles freed,
Complete the matchless triumph of the deed;
Oh! might the Muse all sad lament decline,
Nor bid dark cypress with the laurel twine,—
Oh! that no tear bedew'd Britannia's wreath,
Nor voice of mourning linger'd o'er her heath,
No drooping Widow sought the lonely shed,
Nor Orphan wept each infant comfort fled,
No heart-wrung Parent in a hermit-cell,
Nor Love's sweet promise sigh'd a last Farewell!
In Victory's arms the skilful Veteran died,
With youths just springing to the Hero's pride;
The battle's rage was spent;—one duty more,
Then spread the trophied sail for Europe's shore,—
And that sad duty to a Sailor's heart
Was fraught with feelings words can ne'er impart.
Morning had smiled, when every eye elate,
Ne'er sought the dictates of impending Fate,
But hoped Distinction, and like brothers greet,
When near the Crescents of the Pirate fleet;
The friendly hand each faithful messmate prest,
And each to memory kind mementos trust:
Then to the tops—the boats—the guns—the deck—
With zeal, with ardour—only Death could check.
The evening dew wept numbers of the brave,
No hand could sooth, no healing care could save.
Funereal pomp will not adorn the verse,
No lofty plumes, nor slowly-moving hearse,
No stately train assembled in the hall,
No tapers beaming on the escutcheon'd wall,
No costly vault, no organ's requiem here,
No feign'd regret, nor Fashion's ready tear.
The manly form, where smiling graces play'd,
By faithful shipmates on the grating laid;—
The solemn service, the impressive close,—
No scene so awful through the battle rose:
And not an hero there forbears to weep
To see the brave committed to the deep.
Haply, some future, melancholy day,
When busy Fancy to the past may stray,
The Minstrel's harp along the cliff's rude verge,
May tune its numbers to a mournful dirge;
While pensive Nereids may assemble round,
And lend their voices to the liquid sound;
Weave the lone sea-flowers, gemm'd by Feeling's tear,
Call soft-eyed Pity from her starry sphere,
Bring plaintive Nænia to the echoing grot,
Where sailor's monody was ne'er forgot;
Strike the sad lyre beside the briny wave,
And hail the passing shadows of the brave.
Ever remember'd by the good, the wise,
Are those whom Glory beckons to the skies,
Who crown'd by Victory in the arms of Death,
Bless their loved Country with their latest breath.
The brave are pious, and the hero kneels,
His heart ascends, his noble bosom feels
That human wisdom may be often foil'd,
That human courage may be over-toil'd,
That Victory comes not on the wings of chance:
Nor human strength ensure the host's advance.
To that all-gracious and Omniscient Power,
Known in the tempest and the battle-hour,
The hymns of praise admiring cherubs bear,
And waft the grateful, heart-dictated prayer.
"Great God of battles! hear our thankful voice,
"Thy Mercy spares us and we still rejoice;
"Thy smile our safety, and thy care our guide,
"When chafed by tempests, or a Despot's pride.
"By thee was sent the Victory we sing,
"Oh! may we then this humble tribute bring;—
"Praise to that God who saw our struggling band,
"Praise to that Saviour whose redeeming hand
The ruin'd batteries in the horizon fade,—
The breeze still freshens,—Calpe's heights are made:—
And now again refulgent morning broke,
When those who dreamt the pipe's shrill clarion woke.—
"Up with the helm, be quick, lads! homeward steer,"—
A welcome sound to wand'ring sailor's ear.
They watch the wave that round the white cliffs curl'd—
They near,—they anchor—every sail is furl'd!
How blest the welcome faithful sailors meet!
List! cheering thousands hail the British Fleet!
When roams the native of our lovely isle,
Where dwell his boast, his triumph, and his smile?
If the Antipodes contain his form,
'Tis thoughts of Britain bid his bosom warm?
He hears her prowess in remotest land,
Her name revered by every human band,
Her martial spirit, and her arts, her arms,
Her manly guardians, and her female charms,
Her naval trophies, and her warlike train,
Her hills, her rivers, and her fruitful plain:—
Exalt the lay, let every minstrel sing
Her Ocean-girdle and her PATRIOT KING!
"The Lesbian brothers scorn'd their humble state."
According to Robertson's History, Horuc and Hayradin were the sons of a potter in the Isle of Lesbos. Commencing Corsairs and distinguished by the appellation of Barbarossa, they extended their piracies from the Straits of the Dardanelles to those of Gibraltar. A Crusade was proposed, and the command of the Christian fleet given to Andrew Doria a celebrated Genoese. After a long and destructive war the Christian arms had the advantage. In the year 1516, the Barbarossa took possession of Algiers.
According to Robertson's History, Horuc and Hayradin were the sons of a potter in the Isle of Lesbos. Commencing Corsairs and distinguished by the appellation of Barbarossa, they extended their piracies from the Straits of the Dardanelles to those of Gibraltar. A Crusade was proposed, and the command of the Christian fleet given to Andrew Doria a celebrated Genoese. After a long and destructive war the Christian arms had the advantage. In the year 1516, the Barbarossa took possession of Algiers.
"Iberia' s son received the slavish yoke."
Fiction is not used to display the horrors of Barbary Captivity. By consulting the publications of various African travellers, such
Fiction is not used to display the horrors of Barbary Captivity. By consulting the publications of various African travellers, such as Ogilby, Bruce, Robertson, Lempiere, Adams, Shaw, Jackson, &c. it will be seen that there existed but too much reality in scenes similar to these I have attempted to draw.
"Till Woman knelt on abject Barbary's shore."
The religious prejudices of the Algerines, in common with all Mahometans, degrade women into mere automatons for their gratification. It cannot, therefore, be presumed that female Captives could hope mercy from any cause but the most shocking alternative. Blaquiere's Letters fully support the Episode I have introduced.
The religious prejudices of the Algerines, in common with all Mahometans, degrade women into mere automatons for their gratification. It cannot, therefore, be presumed that female Captives could hope mercy from any cause but the most shocking alternative. Blaquiere's Letters fully support the Episode I have introduced.
"What deed in arms would not her Exmouth dare."
On the commencement of the war with revolutionary France, Viscount Exmouth, then Captain Pellew, was appointed to command a Frigate on the Western Station, and had the triumph of being the first to hoist the British Ensign over the tri-color Flag. The Noble Viscount continuing to serve, and continuing to conquer, has most meritoriously risen to the honours of exalted rank, and must be immortalized as an Ornament to his Country and to his Profession.
On the commencement of the war with revolutionary France, Viscount Exmouth, then Captain Pellew, was appointed to command a Frigate on the Western Station, and had the triumph of being the first to hoist the British Ensign over the tri-color Flag. The Noble Viscount continuing to serve, and continuing to conquer, has most meritoriously risen to the honours of exalted rank, and must be immortalized as an Ornament to his Country and to his Profession.
"Brave Milne hasted at th' inspiring sound."
To the resplendent services of this brave and excellent Officer the Naval History of Britain furnishes ample testimony. The circumstance mentioned in the succeeding lines to that noted, occurred when the worthy Admiral was a Lieutenant in the Blanche. He successively commanded La Pique—captured the Seine—commanded her, and captured the Vengeance, of such superior force that she had beaten off the largest American Frigate, Commodore Truxton, six months before. Sir David Milne retired during the short interval of peace, and his conspicuous services received no distinction. It was reserved for the 27th of August, 1816, to place this meritorious Officer in such a glorious station as does honour to the selection of the present liberal and enlightened Board of Admiralty.
To the resplendent services of this brave and excellent Officer the Naval History of Britain furnishes ample testimony. The circumstance mentioned in the succeeding lines to that noted, occurred when the worthy Admiral was a Lieutenant in the Blanche. He successively commanded La Pique—captured the Seine—commanded her, and captured the Vengeance, of such superior force that she had beaten off the largest American Frigate, Commodore Truxton, six months before. Sir David Milne retired during the short interval of peace, and his conspicuous services received no distinction. It was reserved for the 27th of August, 1816, to place this meritorious Officer in such a glorious station as does honour to the selection of the present liberal and enlightened Board of Admiralty.
"All, save Batavia, Britain's call decline."
The Dryads of the Oak seemed to have inspired the Melampus and Diana; these two ships were given by England to Batavia, and suffered more than any of the rest of the Dutch squadron.
The Dryads of the Oak seemed to have inspired the Melampus and Diana; these two ships were given by England to Batavia, and suffered more than any of the rest of the Dutch squadron.
"Leander's station and brave Chetham's name."
I extract, as follows, from Leander's log:—
Captain Edward Chetham was an elevè of Lord Nelson's in the Agamemnon, and was First Lieutenant with Rear-Admiral Sir David Milne in the action between the Seine and Vengeance. He also distinguished himself in the Baltic when commanding an armed ship, and was made Post Captain in 1807, for his gallant services. On the institution of the Companions of the Bath, Captain Chetham was included in that honorary distinction, and we may reasonably anticipate some further mark of the Royal Notice for his Services at Algiers. The Commander-in-Chief sent an Officer, in the middle of the action, to
I extract, as follows, from Leander's log:— "At ten exercised at quarters, and loaded the guns: hoisted out all the boats and prepared them for service. Bore up Leander within her own length of the Commander-in- Chief, standing in for the Mole. At 2, 47. Leander anchored in her station, in five fathoms water. At 4, 10. the enemy's frigate burning with great rapidity, and, drifting near us, we were ordered to haul out clear of her. At 4, 30. boats ordered to assist the Leander, her masts, yards, sails, and rigging, at this period entirely cut to pieces—hauled on our spring fast to Severn, but found it shot away; made it fast again, and cut the small bower to haul out of the way of the ships on fire. Our exertions for that purpose long ineffectual. At 10, 30. cut the stern cables, some boats towing us also, a hawser fast to Severn enabled us to move out slowly." —Vide Morning Post.
Captain Edward Chetham was an elevè of Lord Nelson's in the Agamemnon, and was First Lieutenant with Rear-Admiral Sir David Milne in the action between the Seine and Vengeance. He also distinguished himself in the Baltic when commanding an armed ship, and was made Post Captain in 1807, for his gallant services. On the institution of the Companions of the Bath, Captain Chetham was included in that honorary distinction, and we may reasonably anticipate some further mark of the Royal Notice for his Services at Algiers. The Commander-in-Chief sent an Officer, in the middle of the action, to thank Captain Chetham for his support. "Tell him," said his Lordship, that I shall never forget that the Leander was the first ship to volunteer to second me, and had I chosen throughout the Navy, I could not have had a more zealous and able supporter."—Vide Hampshire Telegraph.
——"Again the Arab drew."
The Leander lost several Officers and Men while towing out, after the fury of the battle had abated.
The Leander lost several Officers and Men while towing out, after the fury of the battle had abated.