. . O not for death, but glory! her smile would welcome him home!
--Louder and thicker the thunderbolts fall:--and silent they come.
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 gain'd 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.
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