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[Illustration: [_To face the Title._]





CAPTAIN SWORD AND CAPTAIN PEN.

=A Poem.=

BY LEIGH HUNT.

WITH SOME REMARKS ON

WAR AND MILITARY STATESMEN.

          --If there be in glory aught of good,
          It may by means far different be attained,
          Without ambition, war, or violence.--MILTON.


          LONDON:

          CHARLES KNIGHT, LUDGATE STREET.

          1835.




          TO

          THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE

          LORD BROUGHAM AND VAUX,

          WITH WHOM THE WRITER HUMBLY DIFFERS ON SOME POINTS,

          BUT DEEPLY RESPECTS FOR HIS MOTIVES ON ALL;

          GREAT IN OFFICE FOR WHAT HE DID FOR THE WORLD,

          GREATER OUT OF IT IN CALMLY AWAITING HIS TIME TO DO MORE;

          THE PROMOTER OF EDUCATION; THE EXPEDITER OF JUSTICE;

          THE LIBERATOR FROM SLAVERY;

          AND (WHAT IS THE RAREST VIRTUE IN A STATESMAN)

          ALWAYS A DENOUNCER OF WAR,

          =These Pages are Inscribed=

          BY HIS EVER AFFECTIONATE SERVANT,

          Jan. 30, 1835.                 LEIGH HUNT.




ADVERTISEMENT.


This Poem is the result of a sense of duty, which has taken the Author
from quieter studies during a great public crisis. He obeyed the impulse
with joy, because it took the shape of verse; but with more pain, on
some accounts, than he chooses to express. However, he has done what he
conceived himself bound to do; and if every zealous lover of his species
were to express his feelings in like manner, to the best of his ability,
individual opinions, little in themselves, would soon amount to an
overwhelming authority, and hasten the day of reason and beneficence.

The measure is regular with an irregular aspect,--four accents in a
verse,--like that of Christabel, or some of the poems of Sir Walter
Scott:

          Captain Sword got up one day--
          And the flag full of honour, as though it could feel--

He mentions this, not, of course, for readers in general, but for the
sake of those daily acceders to the list of the reading public, whose
knowledge of books is not yet equal to their love of them.

[Illustration:

          STEPPING IN MUSIC AND THUNDER SWEET,
          WHICH HIS DRUMS SENT BEFORE HIM INTO THE STREET.
                                      _Canto_ I. _p._ 1.]




CAPTAIN SWORD AND CAPTAIN PEN.


I.

HOW CAPTAIN SWORD MARCHED TO WAR.

            Captain Sword got up one day,
          Over the hills to march away,
          Over the hills and through the towns,
          They heard him coming across the downs,
          Stepping in music and thunder sweet,
          Which his drums sent before him into the street.
          And lo! 'twas a beautiful sight in the sun;
          For first came his foot, all marching like one,
          With tranquil faces, and bristling steel,
          And the flag full of honour as though it could feel,
          And the officers gentle, the sword that hold
          'Gainst the shoulder heavy with trembling gold,
          And the massy tread, that in passing is heard,
          Though the drums and the music say never a word.

            And then came his horse, a clustering sound
          Of shapely potency, forward bound,
          Glossy black steeds, and riders tall,
          Rank after rank, each looking like all,
          Midst moving repose and a threatening charm,
          With mortal sharpness at each right arm,
          And hues that painters and ladies love,
          And ever the small flag blush'd above.

            And ever and anon the kettle-drums beat
          Hasty power midst order meet;
          And ever and anon the drums and fifes
          Came like motion's voice, and life's;
          Or into the golden grandeurs fell
          Of deeper instruments, mingling well,
          Burdens of beauty for winds to bear;
          And the cymbals kiss'd in the shining air,
          And the trumpets their visible voices rear'd,
          Each looking forth with its tapestried beard,
          Bidding the heavens and earth make way
          For Captain Sword and his battle-array.

            He, nevertheless, rode indifferent-eyed,
          As if pomp were a toy to his manly pride,
          Whilst the ladies lov'd him the more for his scorn,
          And thought him the noblest man ever was born,
          And tears came into the bravest eyes,
          And hearts swell'd after him double their size,
          And all that was weak, and all that was strong,
          Seem'd to think wrong's self in him could not be wrong;
          Such love, though with bosom about to be gored,
          Did sympathy get for brave Captain Sword.

            So, half that night, as he stopp'd in the town,
          'Twas all one dance, going merrily down,
          With lights in windows and love in eyes,
          And a constant feeling of sweet surprise;
          But all the next morning 'twas tears and sighs;
          For the sound of his drums grew less and less,
          Walking like carelessness off from distress;
          And Captain Sword went whistling gay,
          "Over the hills and far away."




II.

HOW CAPTAIN SWORD WON A GREAT VICTORY.


            Through fair and through foul went Captain Sword,
          Pacer of highway and piercer of ford,
          Steady of face in rain or sun,
          He and his merry men, all as one;
          Till they came to a place, where in battle-array
          Stood thousands of faces, firm as they,
          Waiting to see which could best maintain
          Bloody argument, lords of pain;
          And down the throats of their fellow-men
          Thrust the draught never drunk again.

            It was a spot of rural peace,
          Ripening with the year's increase
          And singing in the sun with birds,
          Like a maiden with happy words--
          With happy words which she scarcely hears
          In her own contented ears,
          Such abundance feeleth she
          Of all comfort carelessly,
          Throwing round her, as she goes,
          Sweet half-thoughts on lily and rose,
          Nor guesseth what will soon arouse
          All ears--that murder's in the house;
          And that, in some strange wrong of brain,
          Her father hath her mother slain.

            Steady! steady! The masses of men
          Wheel, and fall in, and wheel again,
          Softly as circles drawn with pen.

            Then a gaze there was, and valour, and fear,
          And the jest that died in the jester's ear,
          And preparation, noble to see,
          Of all-accepting mortality;
          Tranquil Necessity gracing Force;
          And the trumpets danc'd with the stirring horse;
          And lordly voices, here and there,
          Call'd to war through the gentle air;
          When suddenly, with its voice of doom,
          Spoke the cannon 'twixt glare and gloom,
          Making wider the dreadful room:
          On the faces of nations round
          Fell the shadow of that sound.

            Death for death! The storm begins;
          Rush the drums in a torrent of dins;
          Crash the muskets, gash the swords;
          Shoes grow red in a thousand fords;
          Now for the flint, and the cartridge bite;
          Darkly gathers the breath of the fight,
          Salt to the palate and stinging to sight;
          Muskets are pointed they scarce know where,
          No matter: Murder is cluttering there.
          Reel the hollows: close up! close up!
          Death feeds thick, and his food is his cup.
          Down go bodies, snap burst eyes;
          Trod on the ground are tender cries;
          Brains are dash'd against plashing ears;
          Hah! no time has battle for tears;
          Cursing helps better--cursing, that goes
          Slipping through friends' blood, athirst for foes'.
          What have soldiers with tears to do?--
          We, who this mad-house must now go through,
          This twenty-fold Bedlam, let loose with knives--
          To murder, and stab, and grow liquid with lives--
          Gasping, staring, treading red mud,
          Till the drunkenness' self makes us steady of blood?

[Illustration:

          DOWN GO BODIES--SNAP BURST EYES--
          TROD ON THE GROUND ARE TENDER CRIES.
                                  _Canto_ II. _p. 8._]

            [Oh! shrink not thou, reader! Thy part's in it too;
          Has not thy praise made the thing they go through
          Shocking to read of, but noble to do?]

            No time to be "breather of thoughtful breath"
          Has the giver and taker of dreadful death.
          See where comes the horse-tempest again,
          Visible earthquake, bloody of mane!
          Part are upon us, with edges of pain;
          Part burst, riderless, over the plain,
          Crashing their spurs, and twice slaying the slain.
          See, by the