Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CAPTAIN ORTIS' BOOTY, by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CAPTAIN ORTIS' BOOTY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Captain ortis (the tale I tell)
Last Line: Well -- half a hero was captain ortis!
Alternate Author Name(s): Duclaux, Madame Emile; Darmesteter, Mary; Robinson, A. Mary F.
Subject(s): Sailing & Sailors


CAPTAIN ORTIS (the tale I tell
Petit told in his chronicle)
Gained from Alva, for service and duty
At Antwerp's capture, the strangest booty.

Then each captain chose, as I hear,
That for guerdon he held most dear,
Craved what in chief he set heart of his on:
Out strode Ortis, and claimed ... the prison!

Such a tumult! for, be assured,
Greatly the judges and priests demurred;
No mere criminals alone in that Stygian
Darkness died, but the foes of religion.

There lay heretics by the score,
Anabaptists, and many more,
Hard to catch! To let loose, when caught, your
Timid hares, to forego the torture --

Folly! Suddenly sank the noise.
Alva spoke in his steely voice:
"He's my soldier, sans flaw or blemish;
Let him burn as he likes these Flemish."

"Sire, as you please," the governor said,
"Only King Philip's edict read -- "
"Alva spoke! What is king or Cortes?
Open the portals," cried Captain Ortis.

"Loose the prisoners, set them free.
Only -- each pays a ransom-fee!"
Out, be sure, poured the gold in buckets,
Piles on piles of broad Flanders ducats.

Ay, there followed not gold alone;
Men and women and children, thrown
In chains to perish, came out forgiven --
Saw light, friends' faces, and thought it heaven.

Out they staggered, so halt and blind
From rack and darkness, they scarce could find
The blessed gate where daughter and mother,
Father and brother, all found each other.

"Freedom! Our darlings! Let God be praised!"
So cried all; then said one, amazed,
"Who is he, under Heaven, that gave us
Thought and pity? who cared to save us?"

"Captain Ortis" (the answer ran),
"The Spanish Lancer; here's the man.
Ay, but don't kill him with too much caressing;
Death's a sour salad with sweetest dressing."

Danger, indeed; for never hath been
In brave old Antwerp such a scene.
Boldest patriot, fairest woman,
Blessing him, knelt to the Spanish foeman.

Ortis looted his prize of gold,
And yet, I think, if the truth be told,
He found, when the ducats were gone with the pleasure,
That heretic blessing a lasting treasure.

Yet my captain, to certain eyes,
Seems war-hardened and worldly-wise.
"'Twere, for a hero," you say, "more handsome
To give the freedom, nor take the ransom."

True: but think of this hero's lot.
No Quixote he, nor Sir Launcelot,
But a needy soldier, half-starved, remember,
With cold and hunger that northern December;

Just such an one as Parma meant
When he wrote to Philip in discontent --
"Antwerp must yield to our men ere much longer,
Unless you leave us to die of hunger.

"Wages, clothing, they do without,
Wine, fire even; they'll learn, no doubt,
To live without meat for their mouths -- they're zealous;
Only they die first as yet, poor fellows."

Yes, and I praise him, for my part,
This man war-beaten and tough of heart,
Who, scheming a booty, no doubt, yet planned it
More like a hero, I think, than a bandit.

What! My friend is too coarse for you?
Will nought less than a Galahad do?...
Rough and ready this soldier-sort is;
Well -- half a hero was Captain Ortis!





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