Part 47 (1/2)

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board: ”Why, what hope or chance have shi+ps like these to pass?”

laugh'd they: ”Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarr'd and scored, Shall the _Foruns Think to le narroay, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside?

Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide

Reach the ? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a shi+p will leave the bay!”

Then was call'd a council straight

Brief and bitter the debate: ”Here's the English at our heels; would you have theether stern and bow, For a prize to Plyround!”

(Ended Damfreville his speech) Not a minute more to wait!

”Let the captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!

France o her fate

”Give the word!” But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepp'd, for in struck, amid all these,-- A captain? a lieutenant? a mate,--first, second, third?

No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete!

But a simple Breton sailor press'd by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he,--Herve Riel, the Croisickese

And ”What mockery or malice have we here?” cries Herve Riel: ”Are you ues?

Talk to s, tell On ers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river diseold? Is it love the lying's for?

Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Enter'd free and anchor'd fast at the foot of Solidor

Burn the fleet and ruin France? That orse than fifty Hogues!

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!

Only let est shi+p to steer, Get this _Formidable_ clear, Make the others follow e I knoell, Right to Solidor past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one shi+p round,-- Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!” cries Herve Riel

Not a reat!

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief

Captains, give the sailor place!

He is adrace!

See the noble fellow's face As the big shi+p, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of ere the wide sea's profound!

See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock!

Not a shi+p that round, Not a spar that corief!

The peril, see, is past!

All are harbor'd to the last!

And just as Herve Riel hollas ”Anchor!”--sure as fate Up the English come,--too late!

So, the storhts o'erlooking Greve

Hearts that bled are stanch'd with ballish rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away!

'Neath ra on the Rance!”