[nukkad] Casabianca

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Birth, life and death. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Coincidence? 
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Casabianca
Felicia Hemans (1793 - 1835)


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.


Also known as The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck Hemans
poem relates the tragedy about Commodore Louis
Casabianca who commanded the 120-gun, 2,000 ton
l'Orient, Napoleon's flagship and one of the largest
fighting vessels of its time. Struck by a cannon ball,
he was blown nearly in half at about the same time the
ship caught fire. Louis's 10-year old son, Giacomo,
refused to leave the body of his father and was killed
in the explosion of the ship. The ship was on fire and
all hands had abandoned their posts. Casabianca's son
perished when the fire reached the gunpowder on board
and exploded. A French boy's futile call to his dead
father for release from his post is no "simple,
chivalrous" poetry, but a grim meditation on patriotic
and patriarchal obligations. 





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