As when beyond Dongola the lion, whom hunters attack, Plagued by their darts from afar, leaps in, dividing them back; So between Spaniard and Frenchman the _Victory_ wedged with a shout, Gun against gun; a cloud from her decks and lightning went out; Iron hailing of pitiless death from the sulphury smoke; Voices hoarse and parch’d, and blood from invisible stroke. Each man stood to his work, though his mates fell smitten around, As an oak of the wood, while his fellow, flame-shatter’d, besplinters the ground:-- Gluttons of danger for England, but sparing the foe as he lay; For the spirit of Nelson was on them, and each was Nelson that day.
‘She has struck!’--he shouted--‘She burns, the _Redoubtable_! Save whom we can; ‘Silence our guns:’--for in him the woman was great in the man, In that heroic heart each drop girl-gentle and pure, Dying by those he spared;--and now Death’s triumph was sure! From the deck the smoke-wreath clear’d, and the foe set his rifle in rest, Dastardly aiming, where Nelson stood forth, with the stars on his breast,-- ‘In honour I gained them, in honour I die with them!’ ... Then, in his place, Fell ... ‘Hardy! ’tis over; but let them not know:’ and he cover’d his face. Silent the whole fleet’s darling they bore to the twilight below: And above the war-thunder came shouting, as foe struck his flag after foe.
To his heart death rose: and for Hardy, the faithful, he cried in his pain,-- ‘How goes the day with us, Hardy?’... ‘’Tis ours’:-- Then he knew, not in vain Not in vain for his comrades and England he bled: how he left her secure, Queen of her own blue seas, while his name and example endure. O, like a lover he loved her! for her as water he pours Life-blood and life and love, lavish’d all for her sake, and for ours! --‘Kiss me, Hardy!--Thank God!--I have done my duty!’--and then Fled that heroic soul, and left not his like among men.
_Hear ye the heart of a Nation Groan, for her saviour is gone; Gallant and true and tender, Child and chieftain in one? Such another day never England will weep for again, When the triumph darkened the triumph, And the hero of heroes was slain._
‘How many?’ said our good captain, ‘Twenty sail and more!’ We were homeward bound, Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the Nore;-- Right athwart our tack, The foe came thick and black, Like hell-birds and foul weather--you might count them by the score!