“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? 40
  No such man of mark, and meet
  With his betters to compete! 
  But a simple Breton sailor pressed deg. by Tourville for the fleet, deg.43
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. deg. deg.44

And, “What mockery or malice have we here?” cries Herve Riel: 
  “Are you mad, you Malouins deg.?  Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? deg.46
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 Greve where the river disembogues? 
Are you bought by English gold?  Is it love the lying’s for? 50
    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?  That were worse than fifty Hogues! 
    Sirs, they know I speak the truth!  Sirs, believe me there’s 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, 60
  Right to Solidor past Greve,
    And there lay them safe and sound;
  And if one ship misbehave,
    —­Keel so much as grate the ground. 
Why, I’ve nothing but my life,—­here’s my head!” cries Herve Riel.

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. 70

Still the north-wind, by God’s grace! 
See the noble fellow’s 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 sea’s profound! 
  See, safe thro’ 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, 80
All are harboured to the last,
And just as Herve Kiel hollas “Anchor!”—­sure as fate
Up the English come, too late!

So, the storm subsides to calm: 
  They see the green trees wave
  On the heights o’erlooking Greve. 
Hearts that bled are staunched with balm. 
“Just our rapture to enhance,
  Let the English rake the bay,
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 90
  As they cannonade away! 
’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!”
How hope succeeds despair on each Captain’s