Herv Riel

Browning contributed the money he earned by this poem to the people of Paris suffering from the Franco-Prussian War. Herv Riel appeared in the Cornhill Magazine for March, 1871, and the publisher, Mr. George Smith, paid one hundred pounds for the poem. I     On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,     Did the English fight the French, woe to France!     And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,     Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,     Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance,     With the English fleet in view. 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 signalled to the place     Help the winners of a race!     Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick, or, quicker still,     Heres the English can and will! III     Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;     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.     Reach the mooring? Rather say,     While rock stands or water runs,     Not a ship will leave the bay! IV     Then was called a council straight.     Brief and bitter the debate:     Heres the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow     All thats left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,     For a prize to Plymouth Sound?     Better run the ships aground!     (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 must undergo her fate. V     Give the word! But no such word     Was ever spoke or heard;     For up stood, for out stepped, 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 pressed by Tourville for the fleet,     A poor coasting-pilot, be, Herv Riel the Croisickese. VI     And What mockery or malice have we here? cries Herv Riel:     Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?     Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell     On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell     Twixt the offing here and Grve where the river disembogues?     Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lyings 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? There were worse than fifty Hogues!     Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me theres a way!     Only let me lead the line,     Have the biggest ship to steer,     Get this Formidable clear,     Make the others follow mine,     And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,     Right to Solidor past Grve,     And there lay them safe and sound;     And if one ship misbehave,     Keel so much as grate the ground,     Why, Ive nothing but my life, heres my head! cries Herv 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 Gods grace!     See the noble fellows 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 seas profound!     See, safe through shoal and rock,     How they follow in a flock,     Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,     Not a spar that comes to grief!     The peril, see, is past,     All are harbored to the last,     And just as Herv Riel hollas Anchor! sure as fate,     Up the Fnglish come, too late! VIII     So, the storm subsides to calm:     They see the green trees wave     On the heights oerlooking Grve.     Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.     Just our rapture to enhance,     Let the English rake the bay,     Gnash their teeth and glare askance     As they cannonade away!     Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!     How hope succeeds despair on each Captains countenance!     Out burst all with one accord,     This is Paradise for Hell!     Let France, let Frances King     Thank the man that did the thing!     What a shout. and all one word,     Herv Riel!     As he stepped in front once more,     Not a symptom of surprise     In the frank blue Breton eyes,     Just the same man as before. IX     Then said Damfreville, My friend,     I must speak out at the end,     Though I find the speaking hard.     Praise is deeper than the lips:     You have saved the King his ships,     You must name your own reward.     Faith, our sun was near eclipse!     Demand whateer you will,     France remains your debtor still.     Ask to hearts content and have! or my names not Damfreville. X     Then a beam of fun outbroke     On the bearded mouth that spoke,     As the honest heart laughed through     Those frank eyes of Breton blue:     Since I needs must say my say,     Since on board the dutys done,     And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?     Since tis ask and have, I may,     Since the others go ashore,     Come! A good whole holiday!     Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!     That he asked and that he got, nothing more. XI     Name and deed alike are lost:     Not a pillar nor a post     In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;     Not a head in white and black     On a single fishing-smack,     In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack     All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.     Go to Paris: rank on rank     Search the heroes flung pell-mell     On the Louvre, face and flank!     You shall look long enough ere you come to Herv Riel.     So, for better and for worse,     Herv Riel, accept my verse!     In my verse, Herv Riel, do thou once more     Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!