Nelson & His World

I am aware that my enthusiasm for poetry may not be to everyone's taste, so I have decided to put myself under close arrest on this thread whenever I talk about it so viewers can ignore it if they wish, safe in the knowledge that all poems are safely coralled here.

I do think it is interesting, though, that I continue to come across poems about Nelson, even when I'm not looking, such as one by Robert Browning, 'Here's To Nelson's memory', that I came across the other day. It was based on an anecdote told to him by Captain R.Crozier of the 'Ariadne'. I had hoped that Crozier had been a contemporary of Nelson's and had seen with his own eyes the characteristic pose of Nelson that the poem describes. However, Brian's information that Crozier's service was post-Nelson put paid to that. Another enquiry of a friend who is a Browning scholar confirmed that I was barking up the wrong tree. I had assumed Browning had adopted a Trafalgar sailor's voice in the poem - he was given to dramatic monologues when he wrote in the guise of another character - but I learn that The 'Ariadne' was a merchant ship on which Browning was sailing when he wrote 'Home Thoughts from the Sea', as well as the poem below, and it is his own voice speaking.

Nevertheless, I'll record it here, and other Nelson poems I come across, or am sent (Thank you, Agamemnon!).

Here's to Nelson's memory!
'Tis the second time that I, at sea
Right off Cape Trafalgar here,
Have drunk it deep in British beer.
Nelson for ever! Any time
Am I his to command in prose or rhyme!
Give me of Nelson only a touch,
And I save it - be it little or much.
Here's one our captain gives, and so
Down at the word, by Jove, it shall go!
He says that at Greenwich they point the beholder
To Nelson's coat, still with tar on the shoulder,
For he used to lean with one shoulder digging,
Jigging, as it were, and zig-zag-zigging
Up against the mizen-rigging.

Not so fast, Tycho!

The line is: 'He [Crozier] says that at Greenwich they [the pensioners] point the beholder...'

So Crozier doesn't need to be a contemporary - he needs to have been to Greenwich Hospital.

We are looking for a merchant captain, as the Ariadne was a merchant ship, but it is not impossible that Brian’s Richard Crozier was the man. He became an admiral, but only on the reserve list, so maybe he filled in some time in the merchant service. Richard Crozier lived at West Hill, Freshwater, Isle of Wight. The Ariadne sailed from London on Aug 12 1844, arrived St Helens Roads (Isle of Wight) Aug 17. On the 18th Browning was on shore before they sailed. Did Captain Crozier make a quick visit home? They passed Cape Trafalgar around 6/7 September.

The anecdote refers to Greenwich pensioners talking about Nelson’s coat at Greenwich, presumably his Battle of the Nile coat as the Trafalgar coat wasn’t donated to Greenwich until 1845 – after Browning’s voyage with Crozier. Crozier did have a connection with Greenwich – his mother was the daughter of Sir Richard Pearson, Lieutenant-Governor of Greenwich Hospital. Maybe the anecdote came from her!

The way I read it - obviously wrongly - was that Crozier was recalling that the pensioners pointed to Nelson's coat, still with tar on the shoulder, confirming what Crozier himself remembered seeing with his own eyes as a youngster, 'for he used to lean with one shoulder digging.....etc'

But your information - how do you do it??!!! - that the post-Nelson Crozier had a personal connection with Greenwich does make the hearsay more convincing. I feel better now.

An extract from Dr Thomas Trotter's Ode to Dr Jenner in praise of his work on vaccination against smallpox. (See Brian's post about smallpox on the Hospital Ships thread.)

'...there science, led by Jenner's art
From fell disease has plucked the dart
And lightens human woe.....

But oh! what meed shall crown the plan,
What mighty boon reward the man
Who taught the art to save;
Who bore the mandate of his God,
And Saviour-like, on sickness trod,
And trumph'd o'er the grave?

I came across by chance, the opening line, ‘O Nelly Giles, O Nelly Giles’,of a poem by the Northamptonshire poet, John Clare (1793-1864) and wondered whether he had written this is honour of ‘our’ Nelly Giles.

I have had a most interesting correspondence with Dr Sam Ward, via the John Clare Society. According to Clare’s editors, Nelly Giles has not been identified so we were not able to confirm that the Nelly of Clare’s poem and Nelly of the Bellerophon were one and the same. Nevertheless, Dr Ward continues:

‘If there was anywhere Clare could have read about Nelly of the Nile prior to writing the poem, then it’s still possible it was the same person. Despite being labelled ‘the Northamptonshire Peasant Poet’ he was a surprisingly well-read and literate man, and the poems from this period of his life [c.1845] in particular draw on a very strange and wide-ranging selection of influences.’

John Clare suffered greatly in his life, a victim both of extreme poverty and mental instability, which meant that he spent many years in lunatic asylums.

Dr Ward continues:

‘Clare was very interested in Nelson. Indeed, during the asylum years, he even claimed on occasion to be him, or to have fought with him. A friend of Mary Russell Mitford's who visited Clare in the asylum, reported to her that, his 'delusions were at that time very singular in their character ... he would relate the battle of the Nile and the death of Lord Nelson with the same perfect keeping, especially as to seamanship fancying himself one of the sailors who had been in the action, and dealing out nautical phrases with admirable exactness and accuracy, although it is doubtful if he ever saw the sea in his life'.

In case it's of interest, I've also copied out an earlier poem by Clare which shows his lifelong admiration for Nelson. This was published in the Stamford Champion in 1830, but this is a manuscript version:

Nelson & the Nile

Great Nelsons glory near the nile
Set fames bright scroll on fire
& raised a flame in englands isle
That never shall expire
His empire was the ocean-world
The heart of war his throne
Where ever Englands flag unfurled
He riegned & ruled alone
Wherever he wars vengeance hurled
There victory was his own

With heart of fire that burnt the mind
& found its peace in strife
With thoughts that did outspeed the wind
& met from terror life
Upon the sea his element
In danger he grew strong
To battle as a feast he went
Its thunder loud & long
Was music & his hearts assent
Beat welcome to the song


The stubborn storms whose fury rends
Full many a gallant mast
His valour won them into friends
They worshiped as he passed
He led his fleet along the sea
The flying foe to hail
His daring filled with merry glee
The spirit of the gale
Who deemed him neptunes self to be
& spread his every sail

Yet long he sought till fortunes day
The first of august came
When Nelson bore into the bay
That deified his name
But day when dared & year when won
My pen need not defile
For victory wrote it while the sun
Did hold his light & smile
To see how Nelson fought & won
The battle of the Nile

The taunting foe of safety vain
Their anchors cast aground
Untill the mighty of the main
Like a tempest gathered round
& they that did the world deride
Now trembled at his name
While rocks & shores & seas defied
& danger dared his fame
To all in thunder he replied
& terror shrunk in shame

Full soon their colours & their fleet
Did ruins throne bedeck
Till weary ocean at his feet
Seemed sinking with the wreck
Their pompous ships were hurled on high
& on their wings of flame
Told to the wondering blushing sky
His glory & their shame
While mars in ecchoes made reply
& marvelled at his name

The elements supprised & won
To view so grand a fight
Drew nights black curtains from the sun
Who smiled upon the sight
The sea forgot its waves & lay
Quite still the sight to see
& neptune from his caves that day
Looked out amazedly
& threw his coral crown away
For Nelson ruled the sea

[Text from ‘Poems of the Middle Period: 1822-1837, ed Eric Robinson, David Powell and P.M.S. Dawson (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1998,4,pp.100-104]

In addition, Dr Ward tells me that he is involved in a project:

http://www.nottingham.ac.uk/crc/robert- ... /index-php

to publish on line the first collected edition of Robert Southey’s correspondence, which contains many references to Nelson. This will be of interest to many of us here, and I have asked him to let me know when it appears so that I can post details here.

Forum member Agamemnon kindly sent me two poems about Nelson. One is still in copyright so I shall keep that for private pleasure. The other, entitled 'Nelson', is from a sonnet sequence 'Sonnets of Empire' by Archibald Thomas Strong (1876-1930.)

I wonder when this was written exactly. The closing lines echo the sentiments of numerous poems written during the First World War when Nelson was invoked as an inspiration, symbolising the hope of survival and victory.


Nelson

WHITE soul of England’s glory, sovereign star!
Ne’er shall disaster beat her down, nor shame,
While still she sees thee by the leaping flame
That kindled o’er Aboukir, near and far,
Or feels thee quivering through the onset’s jar
That filled the North with fear of England’s name,
Or trembles with the joy of all the fame
That died and cast out death at Trafalgar.

Thy name was lightning, and like lightning ay
Thine onset shivered, far and swift and fell:
Ever thy watchword holds us, and whene’er
The fierce Dawn breaks, and far along the sky
Roars the last battle, yet with us ’tis well—
We keep the touch, thy hand and soul are there.

Not one of Browning's better poems, it has to be said. However, about the stain on the shoulder: in the catalogue of the National Maritime Museum's uniform collection (1748-1857), Dressed to Kill, Amy Miller writes that 'the back of the collar and shoulders [of the uniform Nelson wore at the Nile] are stained with pomatum (pig-tail grease)'. A less romantic interpretation than Browning's, or his informant.

Nigel:

Welcome to the forum and thank you for your post.

Your comment sent me rummaging on my bookshelves to find a comment I recalled on this very subject. E. Hallam Moorhouse, in ‘Nelson in England’ tells the story of Mrs Damer who had made a bust of Nelson.

‘He asked what he could give her for the high honour she had conferred on him and for all the trouble she had taken on the occasion.. She answered ‘One of your old coats’; on which he replied, ‘You shall immediately have one and it shall be the one which I value most highly – the one I wore during the whole day of the Battle of the Nile, and which I have never worn, or even allowed to be brushed, since, in order that my Naval as well as other friends may know, from the streaks of perspiration and hair-powder which are to be seen on it, the exertions which I made, and the anxiety which I felt on that day to deserve the approbation of my King and Country.’

The reference given in Moorhouse’s book is ‘Dispatches and Letters, Vol VII, and the story is indeed there, but on a different page, 348, from the one give in the index. Nicolas said he ‘was indebted to the Rt Honourable Sir Alexander Johnston’ for the account.

So: pig-tail grease, sweat, hair-powder, tar…….?

Yes: not one of Browning’s finest, I agree. But his work is, shall we say, somewhat uneven in quality. On re-reading one of his youthful poems, Browning said: ‘When I wrote that poem only God and Robert Browning knew what it meant, and now only God knows.’

I have had a most charming letter from Anna Tribe, the direct descendant (not sure how many 'greats') of Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton, thanking me for the copy I sent her of the anthology marking Nelson's 250th anniversary last year.

She enclosed a poem which her father had translated from the original French. 'He was so surprised that Nelson was mentioned - and of course, he was a generation closer to the great man.' It was written by a Frenchman in London while sheltering from the bombing during World War II. As I commented in the anthology, Nelson was invoked as an inspiration in both World Wars of the last century when invasion threatened. It is surprising, as Mrs Tribe observes, but also touching, that a Frenchman should see Nelson as the personification of resistance and survival.

Mrs Tribe suggested I use the poem for 'my next edition'! In the meantime, (a very long time), I thought it might be a fitting tribute to Nelson to post it here:

Hell is quiet for a breath
Folded are the wings of death.
Fire and flame have had their will
And the rumbling earth is still.
Strangely, I begin to dream
Just how fair this life can seem,
And to think of fresh, new things:
Dawns to be, and unborn springs.
Land of Nelson, loyal land,
I have faith in you that stand
Proudly o'er your ruined town.
And while friendly stars look down
Slow and steady comes to me,
Your heart's beat eternally
Echoed by your ageless sea.'

I meant to post this to mark the Battle of St Vincent on St Valentine’s Day, the 14th February – better late than never.

It is well known that Nelson wrote to his wife on 15 June 1797, ‘I send you the last three verses of a poem, I know not the author.’

These were the lines penned by ‘an old sailor’ to mark the victory:

True British valour has appalled
The proud insulting foe
What late was Nelson’s Olio called
Has laid the Dons full low.

This hero brave old England’s boast
Grapples two ships along
Forced them to strike on their own coast
And lasting laurels won.

Long will the fact in history shine
Give me the fair sex say
A Nelson for my Valentine
On this auspicious day.

In the little booklet, ‘Notices of Nelson’ published by the Nelson Society in 1989, there are copies of two unpublished letters from Nelson, owned by Miss Eleanor Howman of Norfolk. In a postscript to her letter to the editor, she adds, ‘PS: I have never seen a copy of the verses mentioned in Nelson’s first letter. I suppose they were not considered worth preserving.’

In the letter, Nelson comments, ‘I send you a few verses, written, it is said, by an old sailor, but I am afraid the girls will think me too old to select for a valentine.’

So Our Hero, never one to hide his light under a bushel, sent the verses not only to his wife, but also to another correspondent, a Mr C. Williams. I love the ‘Aw, shucks’ self-deprecating tone of his comment about his not making it as a valentine. I note with some amusement that this letter also is dated 15 June 1797, the same date as the one on his letter to Fanny, sending the same verses. I wonder how many more lucky recipients received these verses?

I was incredulous when a fellow poetry lover said he was sure the poet Swinburne (1837-1909) had mentioned Nelson in one of his poems. Swinburne was an aesthete, friend of the pre-Raphaelites, almost an archetype of the dreamy poet 'with a medieval lily in his medieval hand', despite avidly cultivating a reputation for decadence.

I must confess I find Swinburne almost unreadable, despite the high regard in which he is held by critics. However, we found the poem - a very long one entitled 'Ode to England', but I will quote only the verse that mentions Nelson.

All our past acclaims out future: Shakespeare's voice and Nelson's hand,
Milton's faith and Wordworth's trust in our chosen and chainless land,
Bear us witness: come the world against her, England yet shall stand.'

How strange that he should mention Nelson together with three poets; his father was a naval officer, though - Admiral Charles Henry Swinburne - so perhaps that had something to do with it.

Does anyone read this thread? Just wondering.

As promised on the Collingwood and the Plum Cake thread, here is a tribute to him and the men of Northumberland, a rum-ti-tum poem by Sir Henry Newbolt, the Victorian rhymster and the Chief of Rum-ti-Tum.

It's interesting to note that the rhythm indicates that 'Trafalgar' was pronounced 'TrafalGAR', with the emphasis on the last syllable. There are numerous other examples of this in earlier poems. I wonder when TrafalGAR became TraFALgar in common speech.

The Old and Bold


When England sets her banner forth
And bids her armour shine,
She'll not forget the famous North,
The lads of moor and Tyne;
And when the loving-cup's in hand
And Honour leads the cry,
They know not old Northumberland
Who'll pass her memory by.

When Nelson sailed for Trafalgar
With all his country's best,
He held them dear as brothers are,
But one beyond the rest.
For when the fleet with heroes manned
To clear the decks began,
The boast of old Northumberland
He sent to lead the van.

Himself by Victory's bulwark stood
And cheered to see the sight;
"That noble fellow Collingwood,
How bold he goes to fight!"
Love, that the league of Ocean spanned,
Heard him face to face;
"What would he give, Northumberland,
To share our pride of place?"

The flag that goes the world around
And flaps on every breeze
Has never gladdened fairer ground
Or kinder hearts than these.
So when the loving-cup's in hand
And Honour leads the cry,
They know not old Northumberland
Who'll pass her memory by.

Nearly everyone knows the first two lines of this poem, but few (except Nelson enthusiasts such as we!) know that it refers to an actual event at the battle of the Nile so it is fitting to post it here on the anniversary of the battle.



The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the Storm;
A creature of heroic blood;
A proud, though childlike form.

The flames roll'd on..he would not go
Without his fathers word;
That father faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud...''Say,father,say
if yet my task is done!''
He knew not that the chieftan lay Unconscious of his son

''Speak father!'' Once again he cried
''If I may yet be gone!''
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,
''My father, must I say?''
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud
The wreathing fires made way,

They wrap the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound...
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds of far around
With fragments strewed the sea.

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.

Author Mrs Felicia Dorothea Hemans

When I was researching poems for the little anthology I put together for Nelson's 250th anniversary last year, I discovered many poems celebrating the battle of the Nile. Many are written in the grandiose, overblown 18th century style. This one, however, is a simple ballad in unrepentant, triumphalist mode, written by an unknown sailor and kindly supplied by Philonauticus:

Lines written by a sailor on board His Majesty's ship 'Vanguard' off the Nile, on the occasion of the Glorious Victory of the First of August 1798

Ye landsmen so simple, and landsmen so wise
To my ditty come listen awhile;
I sing, and indeed 'tis with joy and surprise,
I sing of a battle, as witness these eyes,
Which was fought at the mouth of the Nile.

Of August the First (and such a proud day,
Old England's bright annals shall boast),
Brave NELSON, who never knew fear or dismay,
He came and he saw and he conquered, Huzza!
Of France, the Republican host.

Old Neptune amazed at the dangers he brav'd,
Beholding the slayers and slain,
Exultingly cried as his trident he waved,
'The Britons, bold Britons shall ne'er be enslaved,
So long as they're Lords of the Main.'

Of St Vincent and Nelson and Warren and Howe,
And so many such heroes as those,
With victorious wreaths shall be cirlcled the brow,
While dismay and defeat and contempt, all allow,
Attend our Republican foes.


Published in the Naval Chronicle, Vol 9. page 147

I don't know the title of this poem and can't remember where I first read it, but, thanks be to Google, I've managed to trace it. There are many reports of French sailors treating captured British sailors very unkindly, but here is the other side of the coin. It's doggerel, I know, but it has the ring of truth.


When George the Third was reigning, a hundred years ago,
He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe,
"You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're not afraid of wreck,
So cruise about the west of France in the frigate called _Quebec_.

"Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty years ago
King George the Second sent a man called General Wolfe, you know,
To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec,
As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on the deck.

"If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then, so you can beat them now.
Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow.
But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name,
And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you shall do the same."

Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer bowed so low
That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow.
George gave him his commission, and that it might be safer,
Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and sealed it with a wafer.

Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his own,
And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon his throne.
He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten,
And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten-score men.

And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen brace of dogs,
With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs.
From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to Belleisle,
She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on her keel.

The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with melting tar,
The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar;
The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from out the Breton bay,
And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and reefers yell "Hooray!"

The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could pronounce;
A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from bounce,
One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine
For honour and the fleur-de-lys, and Antoinette the Queen.

The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George,
Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths could forge;
And both were simple seamen, but both could understand
How each was bound to win or die for flag and native land.

The French ship was _La Surveillante_, which means the watchful maid;
She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade.
Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to spread more sail.
On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came like hail.

Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside,
And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried.
A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing gun;
We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the Frenchman won.

Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all aglow;
Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth to go;
Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not quit his chair.
He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him bleeding there.

The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen lowered boats,
They flung us planks and hen-coops, and everything that floats.
They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their rivals aid.
Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely made.

_La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest;
They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of Brest.
And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship went slower,
In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to tow her.

They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead;
And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed the head.
Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "Twas fire that won, not we.
You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to England free."

Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred seventy-nine,
A year when nations ventured against us to combine,
_Quebec_ was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not;
But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.

Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind
Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest,
And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.

[edit]

Here are two short quotations, epigrams rather, about Lady Hamilton. The first appears as a preliminary to Walter Sichel's acclaimed biography of Emma, published in 1905, the second to E. Hallam Moorhouse's 'Nelson's Lady Hamilton' (1906). I can't discover whether either quotation is from a longer poem. I'd be grateful for any information.

'Ah, Emma, who'd ever be wise
If madness were loving of thee!'

(Lord Bristol, Bishop of Derry)

'Gone are the sirens from their sunny shore,
The Muses afterwards were heard no more,
But of the Graces there remains but one -
God named her Emma, mortals, Hamilton.'

(Walter Savage Landor)

I've also mentioned on another thread, the long poem quoted at the end of Sichel's biography. He claims it is by Dr Beatty, Victory's surgeon, written after a visit to Emma's grave in France, but I suspect it is by another Dr Beattie, a well-known medico-poet of the period. Here are the closing lines:

'I've seen thee as a gem in royal halls
Stoop, like presiding angel, from the walls,
And only less than worshipped! yet 'tis come
To this! When all but slander's voice is dumb,
And they who gazed upon thy living face,
Can hardly find thy mortal resting place.'