Heroism in the Shade

I.

The Million smiles; the taverns ring with toasts;
A thousand journals teem with good report
And plauditory paragraph; with hosts
Of thankful deputations swarm the streets;
His native city of her hero boasts;
The minister who chose him, in the choice
Exults; and prompted to its part, the court
The echo of the country's praise repeats,
And by the popular pitchpipe tunes its voice.

II.

But where is he whose genius led the way
To all this triumph? Elliot, where is he?
—When first that Monster of the Eastern sea,
That hugest empire which for ages lay
Becalm'd beneath the sun, with strange see-saws
Convulsively unsheath'd its quivering claws,
'Twas he that watch'd its motions many a day,
Foreseeing and foretelling that the sleep
For those unnumber'd centuries so deep
Would pass; and when its rage and fear at length
Shook off the numbness from its labouring strength,
'Twas he whose skill and courage gagg'd its gaping jaws.

III.

Justice, Truth, Mercy, — these his weapons were;
And if the sword, 'twas wielded but to spare
Through timely terror worse event. With rare
And excellent contemperature he knew
How best on martial ardour to confer
The honours that are then alone its due
When patience, prudence, ruth are honour'd too.
When to relent he saw, and when to dare,
Sudden to strike, magnanimous to forbear:
Prone lay the second city of that land,
Third of the world, a suppliant at the feet
Of him whom erst she gloried to maltreat!
But then a great heart to itself was true —
On the rash soldier's bridle was the hand
Of Elliot laid, with calm but firm command.

IV.

Thou mighty city with thy million souls!
To England, through that rescue, art thou made
A treasure-house of tribute and of trade!
To England, whose street-statesmen, blind as moles,
Scribe-taught, and ravening like wolves for blood,
Spared not his wisdom's temperance to upbraid
Who thus thy ruin righteously withstood.
Thou mighty city, for thy ruler's faults,
Not thine, how many an innocent had bled,
How many a wife and mother hung her head
In agony above thy funeral vaults,
What horrors had been thine, what shame were ours,
If he, by popular impulses betray'd,
Or of rash judgments selfishly afraid,
Had render'd up thy wealth and blood to feast
That hunger of the many-headed beast
Which its own seed-corn tramples and devours.

V.

But service such as his, to virtue vow'd,
Ne'er tax'd for noise the weasand of the crowd,
Most thankless in their ignorance and spleen.
His glory blossoms in the shade, unseen
Save by the few and wise; to them alone
His daring, prudence, fortitude are known.
— In the beginning had his portion been,
Even as a pilot's in a sea unplough'd
By cursive keel before, when winds pipe loud
And all is undiscover'd and untried,
To take the difficult soundings in the dark,
And then with tentative and wary course,
And changing oft with change of wind and tide,
The shoals to pass, evade the current's force,
And keep unhurt his unappointed bark; —
A tentative and wary course to steer,
But ever with a gay and gallant cheer.
This task perform'd, when now the way was clear,
The armament provided, and the mark,
Though hard to be attain'd, was full in sight,
Upon his prosperous path there fell a blight,
Distrust arrested him in mid-career.

VI.

Another reap'd where he had sown: success,
Doubtless well-won, attended him to whom
The harvesting was given: his honours bloom
Brightly, and many a rapturous caress
The populace bestows — what could they less?
Far be from me malignly to assume
Such praise, how oft soe'er it may have swerved
From a just mark, must needs be undeserved:
But knowing by whom the burthen and the heat
Was borne, — with what intrepid zeal, what skill,
Care, enterprise, and scope of politic thought, —
Through labours, dangers, obloquy, ill-will,
Battle, captivities, and shipwreck, still,
With means or wanting means, alert to meet
In all conjunctures all events, — if aught
Could make a wise man wonder at the ways
Of Fortune, and the world's awards of praise,
'Twould be, whilst taverns ring and tankards foam
Healths to this hero of the harvest-home,
To think what welcome had been his whose toil
Had fell'd the forest and prepared the soil.

VII.

What makes a hero? Not success, not fame,
Inebriate merchants and the loud acclaim
Of glutted avarice, caps toss'd up in the air,
Or pen of journalist with flourish fair,
Bells peal'd, stars, ribands, and a titular name, —
These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare;
His rightful tribute, not his end or aim,
Or true reward; for never yet did these
Refresh the soul or set the heart at ease.
— What makes a hero? An heroic mind
Express'd in action, in endurance proved:
And if there be pre-eminence of right,
Derived through pain well suffer'd, to the height
Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved,
Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind,
Not the brute fury of barbarians blind,
But worse, — ingratitude and poisonous darts,
Launch'd by the country he had served and loved
This with a free unclouded spirit pure,
This in the strength of silence to endure,
A dignity to noble deeds imparts
Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown:
This is the hero's complement and crown;
This miss'd, one struggle had been wanting still,
One glorious triumph of the heroic will,
One self-approval in his heart of hearts.