"Oh, help me, Hercules!" cried he; This burly planet bore, T.'s prayer gone up, from out a cloud there broke To see what hindrance can be found; And pry me up that stone, or break; Hast done it?" "Yes," the man replied. Take up thy whip." "I have . . . but, how? I thank thee, Hercules." "Thy team," rejoined the voice, "has light ado; So help thyself, and Heaven will help thee too." THE WEASEL, THE RABBIT, AND THE CAT. John Rabbit's palace underground Intent upon his usual sport, - Home Johnny came to take his drowse, All snug within his cellar house. The weasel's nose he chanced to see, Exclaimed the creature, vexèd sore, I'll call the rats to pay their grudge!" The sharp-nosed lady made reply "The cause of war was surely small- Said she, "I'd like to know what will Whereby the house, from sire to son, From Peter came at length to John. "Now," said the dame, "let's drop dispute, And go before Raminagrobis, Who'll judge not only in this suit, But tell us truly whose the globe is." This person was a hermit cat, A cat that played the hypocrite; A saintly mouser, sleek and fat, An arbiter of keenest wit. John Rabbit in the judge concurred, And off went both their case to broach Before his Majesty, the furred. Said Clapperclaw, "My kits, approach, And put your noses to my ears; The good apostle Clapperclaw This fable brings to mind the fate 66 HERVÉ RIEL BY ROBERT BROWNING. [ROBERT BROWNING, English poet, was born in London, May 7, 1812; mar. ried Elizabeth Barrett in 1846, and lived in Italy the greater part of his life afterward. His first considerable poem was "Pauline" (1833, anonymous). There followed, among others, "Paracelsus" (1835); "Strafford" (1837); "Sordello" (1840); "Bells and Pomegranates" (a collection including "Pippa Passes," 'King Victor and King Charles," "Colombe's Birthday," "The Return of the Druses," "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon," "Luria," and "A Soul's Tragedy") (1841-46); " Men and Women" and "Dramatis Personæ," collections of minor poems, in 1855 and 1864; "The Ring and the Book" (1868); "Balaustion's Adventure" and "Prince Hohenstiel Schwangau " (1871); " Fifine at the Fair" (1872); "Red Cotton Night-Cap Country" (1873); "The Inn-Album " (1876); "Dramatic Idylls" (1879); "Asolando" (1889). He died in Venice, December 12, 1889.] I. ON THE sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue, II. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signaled to the place, "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick—or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" III. Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; 66 'Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the 'Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Not a ship will leave the bay!" IV. Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? "Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these. With his betters to compete ! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. VI. And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: "Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Why, I've nothing but my life,-here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel, VII. Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, All are harbored to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!". Up the English come, too late! sure as fate VIII. So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glance askance 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" |