Napoleon and the British Sailor

I love contemplating—apart From all his homicidal glory— The traits that soften to our heart Napoleon's story.

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne, Armed in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman.

They suffered him,—I know not how, Unprisoned on the shore to roam; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain, half-way over, With envy—they could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer.

At last, when care had banished sleep, He saw one morning, dreaming, doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating.

He hid it in a cave, and wrought The livelong day, laborious, lurking, Until he launched a tiny boat, By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond Description wretched: such a wherry, Perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond, Or crossed a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt-sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,— No sail—no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipped he would have passed The foaming billows.

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo sorely jeering. Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger, And, in his wonted attitude, Addressed the stranger.

"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned, Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad; "But,—absent years from one another,— Great was the longing that I had To see my mother."

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, "You've both my favour fairly won, A noble mother must have bred So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty, But never changed the coin and gift Of Buonaparte.