Potiphar's Wife and Other Poems/The Topsail of the Victory
THE TOPSAIL OF THE VICTORY
("On the wall is suspended the foretopsail of Lord Nelson's flagship Victory." Vide "Catalogue of Naval Exhibition, Chelsea, 1891")
Oh, Wings of Victory!
Proud battle-plumage, torn with shot and ball,
Draped in wide tattered glory on this wall!
Come hither! Come and see!
Lord Nelson's canvas here!
The topsail of his Flagship, when he sailed
To win Trafalgar for us,—and prevailed
'Mid thunder, flame, and fear.
The cloths she sheeted home
Shining and white that day! halliards and clew,
Cringle and tack and bolt-rope—clean and new—
Close to the foe to come:
Now faded, ragged, frayed:
As yellow as King George's guineas! rent
From bunt to ear-ring: yet magnificent!
Yet in royal state arrayed!
For, dear and dauntless ship,
Built of the British Oak, and manned with hearts
Stanch as the heart of oak! What pulse but starts?
What pride leaps to the lip
Thinking how each clout heard
The boatswain pipe: "Hoist the fore topsail, Lads!
Haul home! Haul home!" And then it soars and spreads
Like pinion of sea-bird;
Amongst the clouds a cloud:
And then it sees from foretop—while it holds
The Spanish breeze, and mightily unfolds—
Down on the decks that crowd
Of Nelson's lions stand,
Stripped to the waist at stations: every man
Alight with the great signal-words which ran
Joyous, and good, and grand—
"England expects
That every man this day"—"Ay! ay!" we hear!
Our duty we shall do: have ye no fear"
The very cannons' necks
Lean hungry o'er the swell,
Craving for battle-food: and, leading all,
Nelson's Three-decker goes, majestical!
Beautiful! terrible!
Oh, Wings of Victory!
Flew ye indeed that forenoon, white and great,
Wafting our hero to his glorious fate
Over the dancing sea?
Marked ye, indeed,
The haughty foemen's challenge-flags unfold
From ship to ship, along the rippled gold?
And, ever true at need
Collingwood close? And Lake?
And Nelson, from his knees, come brave and gay
To give his bright blood for us? and the array
Of liners, in his wake?
Gods! how we see
Bullets and round-shot rend thy bellying white!
And scarlet smoke-wreaths from the rattling fight
Enwrap thee, weather and lee!
And how, below,
'Mid blast of such red thunders, rife with death,
Such terror as no tempest witnesseth,
Our British Jacks, aglow,
Fight on for Britain's Crown
As if each man were not King's man, but King!
And what cheers split the sky, when fluttering,
Flag after flag comes down!
And then—there! there!
While thy scorched folds flap triumph—that 'curst ball!
The mortal wound! our matchless Champion's fall!
Loss that made all gain dear.
Foretopsail old!
Under your foot he fell—splendid in death:
Under your shade breathed forth his patriot breath!
Ah! wove with valor's gold,
Heroic Rags!
Flaunt to the world, as once to France and Spain,
Token of England's might upon the main,
Better than blazoned flags.
Flaunt!—for ye may—
Tatters which make it boast enough to be
Of Nelson's blood! Torn Wings of Victory
From dread Trafalgar's day!