Poetry Corner

Casabianca

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 child-like form.

The flames rolled on–he would not go

  Without his Father's 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 chieftain 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 stay?'

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

  The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

  They caught the flag on high,

And streamed 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 that 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.

Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile), after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.