William Lisle Bowles: “The Battle of the Nile”

Excerpt, “A Metrical History of the Life and Times of Napoleon Bonaparte: A Collection of Poems and Songs. Many from Obscure and Anonymous Sources, Selected and Arranged with Introductory Notes and Connective Narrative.” William J. Hillis. 1896.

In the midst of success and prosperity, and at the very dawn of the brightest day that had appeared to the Egyptians in centuries, Napoleon lost all.  Through the negligence of Admiral Brueys, in not obeying his instructions, the whole French fleet was destroyed in the bay of Aboukir, exactly ten days after the brilliant victory won at the Battle of the Pyramids.  Well might Nelson and the English nation shout for joy.  Well might Napoleon exclaim with undescribable emotion:  “Brueys, what have you done!”


The Battle of the Nile

Shout! for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously!
Upon the shores of that renowned land,
Where erst his mighty arm and outstretched hand
He lifted high,
And dashed, in pieces dashed the enemy;
Upon that ancient coast,
Where Pharoah’s chariot and his host
He cast into the deep,
Whilst o’er their silent pomp he bid the swollen sea to sweep;
Upon that eastern shore,
That saw his awful arm revealed of yore,
Again hath he arisen, and opposed
His foe’s defying vaunt:  o’er them the deep hath closed!

Shades of mighty chiefs of yore,
Who triumphed on the self-same shore:
Ammon, who first o’er ocean’s empire wide
Didst bid the bold bark stem the roaring tide;
Sesac, who from the east to farthest west
Didst rear thy pillars over realms subdued;
And thou, whose bones do rest
In the huge pyramid’s dim solitude,
Beneath the uncouth stone,
Thy name and deeds unknown;
And Philip’s glorious son,
With conquest flushed, for fields and cities won;
And thou, imperial Caesar, whose sole sway
The long-disputed world at length confessed,
When on these shores thy bleeding rival lay!

Oh, could ye, starting from your long, cold rest,
Burst Death’s oblivious trance,
And once again with plumed pride advance,
How would ye own your fame surpassed,
And on the sand your trophies cast,
When, the storm of conflict o’er,
And ceased the burning battle’s roar,
Beneath the morning’s orient light,
Ye saw, with sails all swelling white,
Britain’s proud fleet, to many a joyful cry,
Ride o’er the rolling surge in awful sovereignty!

Calm breathed the airs along the evening bay,
Where, all in warlike pride,
The Gallic squadron stretched its long array;
And o’er the tranquil tide
With beauteous bend the streamers waved on high.
But ah! how changed the scene ere night descends!
Hark to the shout that heaven’s high concave rends!
Hark to that dying cry!

Whilst louder yet the cannon’s roar
Resounds along the Nile’s affrighted shore,
Where from his oozy bed,
The cowering crocodile hath raised his head!
What bursting flame
Lightens the long track of the gleaming brine?
From yon proud ship it came,
That towered the leader of the hostile line!
Now loud explosion rends the midnight air!
Heard ye the last deep groaning of despair?
Heaven’s fiery cope unwonted thunders fill,
Then with one dreadful pause, earth, air, and seas are still!

But now the mingled fight
Begins its awful strife again!
Through the dun shades of night
Along the darkly heaving main
Is seen the frequent flash;
And many a towering mast with dreadful crash
Rings falling.  Is the scene of slaughter o’er?
Is the death-cry heard no more?
Lo!  where the east a glimmering freckle streaks,
Slow o’er the shadowy wave the gray dawn breaks.

Behold, O sun, the flood
Strewed with the dead, and dark with blood!
Behold, all scattered on the rocking tide,
The wrecks of haughty Gallia’s pride!
But Britain’s floating bulwarks, with serene
And silent pomp, amid the deathful scene
Move glorious, and more beautiful display
Their ensigns streaming to thy orient ray.

Awful Genius of the land!
Who (thy reign of glory closed)
By marble wrecks, half hid the sand,
Hast mournfully reposed;
Who long amid the wasteful desert wide,
Hast loved with deathlike stillness to abide;
Or wrapped in tenfold gloom,
From noise of human things for ages hid,
Hast sat upon the shapeless tomb
In the forlorn and dripping pyramid;
Awake!  Arise!

Though thou behold the day no more
That saw thy pride and pomp of yore;
Though, like the sounds that in the morning ray
Trembled and died away
From Memnon’s statue; though, like these, the voice
That bade thy vernal plains rejoice,
The voice of Science, is no longer heard;
And all thy gorgeous state hath disappeared:
Yet hear, with triumph, and with hope again,
The shouts of joy that swell from thy forsaken main!