For him no words, the best were only weakAnd could not say what love desires to speak;For him no praise, no prizes did he ask,To serve his Queen was a sufficient task;For him no show, no idle tears be shed,No fading laurels on that lowly head.He fought for England, and for her he fellAnd did his duty then—and it is well.
He deemed it but a little act, to giveHis life and all, if Freedom thus might live;And though he found the shock of battle rough,He might not flinch—the glory was enough.What if he broke, who would not tamely bend?He strove for us, and craved no other end.Nor should we ring too long his dying knell,He has a soldier's crown—and it is well.
For him the tomb that is a nation's heart,And doth endure when crumbling stones depart;To him the honour, like the brave to stand,With those who were in danger our right hand;For him no empty epitaph of dust,But that he kept for England safe her trust.He is not dead; but, over war's loud swell,Heard he his Captain's call—and it is well.
All over for meThe struggle and possible glory!All swept past,In the rush of my own brigade.Will charges instead,And fills up my place in the story;Well,—'tis well,By the merry old games we played.
There's a fellow asleep, the lout! in the shade of the hillockyonder;What a dog it must be to drowse in the midst of a time like this!Why, the horses might neigh contempt at him; what is he like, Iwonder?If the smoke would but clear away, I have strength in me yet to hiss.
Will, comrade and friend,We parted in hurry of battle;All I heardWas your sonorous, "Up, my men!"Soon conquering pæansShall cover the cannonade's rattle;Then, home bells,Will you think of me sometimes, then?
How that rascal enjoys his snooze! Would he wake to the touch ofpowder?A réveille of broken bones, or a prick of a sword might do."Hai, man! the general wants you;" if I could but for once calllouder:There is something infectious here, for my eyelids are dropping too.
Will, can you recallThe time we were lost on the Bright Down?Coming home late in the day,As Susie was kneeling to pray,Little blue eyes and white night-gown,Saying, "Our Father, who art,—Art what?" so she stayed with a start."In Heaven," your mother said softly.And Susie sighed, "So far away!"—'Tis nearer, Will, now, to us all.
It is strange how that fellow sleeps! stranger still that his sleepshould haunt me;If I could but command his face, to make sure of the lesser ill:I will crawl to his side and see, for what should there be to dauntme?What there! what there! Holy Father in Heaven, not Will!
Will, dead Will!Lying here, I could not feel you!Will, brave Will!Oh, alas, for the noble end!Will, dear Will!Since no love nor remorse could heal you,Will, good Will!Let me die on your breast, old friend!
[It was the practice of Florence Nightingale to pay a last visit to the wards of the military hospital in the Crimea after the doctors and the other nurses had retired for the night. Bearing a light in her hand she passed from bed to bed and from ward to ward, until she became known as "the Lady with the Lamp."]
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts, in glad surprise,To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper soulsInto our inmost being rolls,And lifts us unawares,Out of all meaner cares.
Honour to those whose words or deedsThus help us in our daily needs,And by their overflow,Raise us from what is low!
Thus thought I, as by night I readOf the great army of the dead,The trenches cold and damp,The starved and frozen camp,—
The wounded from the battle-plain,In dreary hospitals of pain,The cheerless corridors,The cold and stony floors.
Lo! in that house of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloomAnd flit from room to room.
And slow as in a dream of blissThe speechless sufferer turns to kissHer shadow, as it fallsUpon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should beOpened and then closed suddenly,The vision came and went,The light shone and was spent.
On England's annals, through the longHereafter of her speech and song,That light its rays shall castFrom portals of the past.
A lady with a lamp shall standIn the great history of the land,A noble type of good,Heroic womanhood.
Nor even shall be wanting hereThe palm, the lily, and the spear,The symbols that of yoreSt. Filomena bore.
Mrs. Caruthers had left her infant prodigy, Clarence, in our care for a little while that she might not be distracted by his innocent prattle while selecting the material for a new gown.
He was a bright, intelligent boy, of five summers, with a commendable thirst for knowledge, and a praiseworthy desire to understand what was said to him.
We had described many deep and mysterious things to him, and to escape the possibility of still more puzzling questions, offered to tell him a story—thestory—the story of George Washington and his little hatchet. After a few necessary preliminaries we proceeded.
"Well, one day, George's father—"
"George who?" asked Clarence.
"George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his father—"
"Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest.
"George Washington's; this great man we are telling you of. One dayGeorge Washington's father gave him a little hatchet for a—"
"Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn't. We know how to talk to children. So we went on.
"George Washington."
"Who gave him the little hatchet?"
"His father. And his father—"
"Whose father?"
"George Washington's."
"Oh!"
"Yes, George Washington's. And his father told him—"
"Told who?"
"Told George."
"Oh, yes, George."
And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said:
"And he was told—"
"George told him?" queried Clarence.
"No, his father told George—"
"Oh!"
"Yes, told him he must be careful with the hatchet—"
"Who must be careful?"
"George must."
"Oh!"
"Yes, must be careful with his hatchet—"
"What hatchet?"
"Why, George's."
"Oh!"
"Careful with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out of doors all night. So George went around cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. At last he came to a splendid apple tree, his father's favourite apple tree, and cut it down—"
"Who cut it down?"
"George did."
"Oh!"
"But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and—"
"Saw the hatchet?"
"No, saw the apple tree. And he said, 'Who has cut down my favourite apple tree?'"
"What apple tree?"
"George's father's. And everybody said they didn't know anything about it, and—"
"Anything about what?"
"The apple tree."
"Oh!"
"And George came up and heard them talking about it—"
"Heard who talking about it?"
"Heard his father and the men."
"What were they talking about?"
"About the apple tree."
"What apple tree?"
"The favourite tree that George had cut down."
"George who?"
"George Washington."
"Oh!"
"So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he—"
"What did he cut it down for?"
"Just to try his little hatchet."
"Whose little hatchet?"
"Why, his own, the one his father gave him—"
"Gave who?"
"Why, George Washington."
"Oh!"
"So George came up, and he said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I—"
"Who couldn't tell a lie?"
"George couldn't."
"Oh, George; oh, yes."
"It was I who cut down your apple tree; I did—"
"His father did?"
"No, no; it was George said this."
"Said he cut his father?"
"No, no, no; said he cut down his apple tree."
"George's apple tree?"
"No, no; his father's."
"Oh!"
"He said—"
"His father said?"
"No, no, no; George said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet.' And his father said, 'Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand apple trees than have you tell a lie.'"
"George did?"
"No, his father said that."
"Said he'd rather have a thousand apple trees?"
"No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple trees than—"
"Said he'd rather George would?"
"No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie."
"Oh, George would rather have his father lie?"
We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of the snarl.
And as Clarence Alençon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an apple tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple tree.
(February 25, 1852.)
[TheBirkenheadwas lost off the coast of Africa by striking on a hidden rock, when the soldiers on board sacrificed themselves, in order that the boats might be left free for the women and children.]
Right on our flank the sun was dropping down;The deep sea heaved around in bright repose;When, like the wild shriek from some captured town,A cry of women rose.
The stout shipBirkenheadlay hard and fast,Caught without hope upon a hidden rock;Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when thro' them passedThe spirit of that shock.
And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranksIn danger's hour, before the rush of steel,Drifted away, disorderly, the planksFrom underneath her keel.
So calm the air—so calm and still the flood,That low down in its blue translucent glassWe saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood,Pass slowly, then repass.
They tarried, the waves tarried, for their prey!The sea turned one clear smile! Like things asleepThose dark shapes in the azure silence lay,As quiet as the deep.
Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush, and wreck,Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply,Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deckForm'd us in line to die.
To die!—'twas hard, while the sleek ocean glow'dBeneath a sky as fair as summer flowers:"All to the Boats!" cried one—he was, thank God,No officer of ours.
Our English hearts beat true—we would not stir:That base appeal we heard, but heeded not:On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir,To keep without a spot.
They shall not say in England, that we foughtWith shameful strength, unhonour'd life to seek;Into mean safety, mean deserters, broughtBy trampling down the weak.
So we made the women with their children go,The oars ply back again, and yet again;Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low,Still, under steadfast men.
——What follows, why recall?—The brave who died,Died without flinching in the bloody surf,They sleep as well beneath that purple tideAs others under turf.
They sleep as well! and, roused from their wild grave,Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again,Joint heirs with Christ, because they bled to saveHis weak ones, not in vain.
If that day's work no clasp or medal mark,If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press,Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower or Park,This feel we none the less:
That those whom God's high grace there saved from ill,Those also left His martyrs in the bay,Though not by siege, though not in battle, stillFull well had earned their pay.
"O sailor, tell me, tell me true,Is my little lad—my Elihu—A-sailing in your ship?"The sailor's eyes were dimmed with dew."Your little lad? Your Elihu?"He said with trembling lip;"What little lad—what ship?"
What little lad?—as if there could beAnother such a one as he!"What little lad, do you say?Why, Elihu, that took to the seaThe moment I put him off my knee.It was just the other dayTheGrey Swansailed away."
The other day? The sailor's eyesStood wide open with surprise."The other day?—theSwan?"His heart began in his throat to rise."Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard liesThe jacket he had on.""And so your lad is gone!"
"Gone with theSwan." "And did she standWith her anchor clutching hold of the sandFor a month, and never stir?""Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land,Like a lover kissing his lady's hand,The wild sea kissing her—A sight to remember, sir."
"But, my good mother, do you know,All this was twenty years ago?I stood on theGrey Swan'sdeck,And to that lad I saw you throw—Taking it off, as it might be so—The kerchief from your neck;""Ay, and he'll bring it back."
"And did the little lawless lad,That has made you sick and made you sad,Sail with theGrey Swan'screw?""Lawless! the man is going mad;The best boy ever mother had;Be sure, he sailed with the crew—What would you have him do?"
"And he has never written line,Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,To say he was alive?""Hold—if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine;Besides, he may be in the brine;And could he write from the grave?Tut, man! what would you have?"
"Gone twenty years! a long, long cruise;'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;But if the lad still live,And come back home, think you you canForgive him?" "Miserable man!You're mad as the sea; you rave—What have I to forgive?"
The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,And from within his bosom drewThe kerchief. She was wild:"My God!—my Father!—is it true?My little lad—my Elihu?And is it?—is it?—is it you?My blessed boy—my child—My dead—my living child!"
(Sunday, March 24, 1878.)
The training shipEurydicé—As tight a craft, I ween,As ever bore brave men who lovedTheir country and their queen—Built when a ship, sir,wasa ship,And not a steam-machine.
Six months or more she had been out,Cruising the Indian Sea;And now, with all her canvas bent—A fresh breeze blowing free—Up Channel in her pride she came,The braveEurydicé.
On Saturday it was we sawThe English cliffs appear,And fore and aft from man and boyUprang one mighty cheer;While many a rough-and-ready handDashed off the gathering tear.
We saw the heads of Dorset riseFair in the Sabbath sun.We marked each hamlet gleaming white,The church spires one by one.We thought we heard the church bells ringTo hail our voyage done!
"Only an hour from Spithead, lads:Only an hour from home!"So sang the captain's cheery voiceAs we spurned the ebbing foam;And each young sea-dog's heart sang back,"Only an hour from home!"
No warning ripple crisped the wave,To tell of danger nigh;Nor looming rack, nor driving scud;From out a smiling sky,With sound as of the tramp of doom,The squall broke suddenly,
A hurricane of wind and snowFrom off the Shanklin shore.It caught us in its blinding whirlOne instant, and no more;—For ere we dreamt of trouble near,All earthly hope was o'er.
No time to shorten sail—no timeTo change the vessel's course;The storm had caught her crowded mastsWith swift, resistless force.Only one shrill, despairing cryRose o'er the tumult hoarse,
And broadside the great ship went downAmid the swirling foam;And with her nigh four hundred menWent down in sight of home(Fletcher and I alone were saved)Only an hour from home!
(September 13, 1852.)
A mist was driving down the British Channel,The day was just begun,And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,Streamed the red autumn sun.
It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,And the white sails of ships;And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannonHailed it with feverish lips.
Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover,Were all alert that day,To see the French war-steamers speeding over,When the fog cleared away.
Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,Their cannon through the night,Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance,The sea-coast opposite.
And now they roared at drum-beat from their stationsOn every citadel;Each answering each, with morning salutations,That all was well.
And down the coast, all taking up the burden,Replied the distant forts,As if to summon from his sleep the WardenAnd Lord of the Cinque Ports.
Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,No drum-beat from the wall,No morning gun from the black fort's embrasureAwaken with its call!
No more, surveying with an eye impartialThe long line of the coast,Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-MarshalBe seen upon his post!
For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,In sombre harness mailed,Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer,The rampart wall has scaled.
He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,The dark and silent room,And as he entered, darker grew and deeperThe silence and the gloom.
He did not pause to parley or dissemble,But smote the Warden hoar;Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble,And groan from shore to shore.
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,The sun rose bright o'erhead:Nothing in Nature's aspect intimatedThat a great man was dead.
Son of the ocean isle!Where sleep your mighty dead?Show me what high and stately pileIs reared o'er Glory's bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep,Free, free, the white sail spread!Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,By the pyramid o'erswayed,With fearful power the noon-day reigns,And the palm-trees yield no shade.
But let the angry sunFrom Heaven look fiercely red,Unfelt by those whose task is done!Thereslumber England's dead.
The hurricane hath mightAlong the Indian shore,And far, by Ganges' banks at night,Is heard the tiger's roar.
But let the sound roll on!It hath no tone of dreadFor those that from their toils are gone;—Thereslumber England's dead.
Loud rush the torrent-floodsThe western wilds among,And free, in green Columbia's woods,The hunter's bow is strung.
But let the floods rush on!Let the arrow's flight be sped!Why shouldtheyreck whose task is done?Thereslumber England's dead.
The mountain-storms rise highIn the snowy Pyrenees,And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,Like rose-leaves on the breeze.
But let the storms rage on!Let the forest-wreaths be shed:For the Roncesvalles' field is won,—Thereslumber England's dead.
On the frozen deep's repose'Tis a dark and dreadful hourWhen round the ship the ice-fields close,And the northern-night-clouds lour;
But let the ice drift on!Let the cold-blue desert spread!Theircourse with mast and flag is done,Eventheresleep England's dead.
The warlike of the isles,The men of field and wave!Are not the rocks their funeral piles?The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep,Free, free the white sail spread!Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,Where rest not England's dead.
["Mehrab Khan died, as he said he would, sword in hand, at the door of his own Zenana."—Capture of Kelat.]
(1839.)
With all his fearless chiefs aroundThe Moslem leader stood forlorn,And heard at intervals the soundOf drums athwart the desert borne.To him a sign of fate, they toldThat Britain in her wrath was nigh,And his great heart its powers unrolledIn steadiness of will to die.
"Ye come, in your mechanic force,A soulless mass of strength and skill—Ye come, resistless in your course,What matters it?—'Tis but to kill.A serpent in the bath, a gustOf venomed breezes through the door,Have power to give us back to dust—Has all your grasping empire more?
"Your thousand ships upon the sea,Your guns and bristling squares by land,Are means of death—and so may beA dagger in a damsel's hand.Put forth the might you boast, and tryIf it can shake my seated will;By knowing when and how to die,I can escape, and scorn you still.
"The noble heart, as from a tower,Looks down on life that wears a stain;He lives too long who lives an hourBeneath the clanking of a chain.I breathe my spirit on my sword,I leave a name to honour known,And perish, to the last the lordOf all that man can call his own."
Such was the mountain leader's speech;Say ye, who tell the bloody tale,When havoc smote the howling breach,Then did the noble savage quail?No—when through dust, and steel, and flame,Hot streams of blood, and smothering smoke,True as an arrow to its aim,The meteor-flag of England broke;
And volley after volley threwA storm of ruin, crushing all,Still cheering on a faithful few,He would not yield his father's hall.At his yet unpolluted doorHe stood, a lion-hearted man,And died, A FREEMAN STILL, beforeThe merchant thieves of Frangistan.
[Told to the author by the late Sir Charles James Napier.]
Eleven men of EnglandA breast-work charged in vain;Eleven men of EnglandLie stripped, and gashed, and slain.Slain; but of foes that guardedTheir rock-built fortress well,Some twenty had been mastered,When the last soldier fell.
Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous wayAcross the sand-waves of the desert sea,Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay,Lord of their wild Truckee.
These missed the glen to which their steps were bent,Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard,And, in that glorious error, calmly wentTo death without a word.
The robber chief mused deeply,Above those daring dead,"Bring here," at length he shouted,"Bring quick, the battle thread.Let Eblis blast for everTheir souls, if Allah will:But we must keep unbrokenThe old rules of the Hill.
"Before the Ghiznee tigerLeapt forth to burn and slay;Before the holy ProphetTaught our grim tribes to pray;Before Secunder's lancesPierced through each Indian glen;The mountain laws of honourWere framed for fearless men.
"Still when a chief dies bravely,We bind with green one wrist—Green for the brave, for heroesOne crimson thread we twist.Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen,For these, whose life has fled,Which is the fitting colour,The green one, or the red?"
"Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wearTheir green reward," each noble savage said;"To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear,Who dares deny the red?"
Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right,Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came;Beneath a waning moon, each spectral heightRolled back its loud acclaim.
Once more the chief gazed keenlyDown on those daring dead;From his good sword their heart's bloodCrept to that crimson thread.Once more he cried, "The judgment,Good friends, is wise and true,But though the red be given,Have we not more to do?
"These were not stirred by anger,Nor yet by lust made bold;Renown they thought above them,Nor did they look for gold.To them their leader's signalWas as the voice of God:Unmoved, and uncomplaining,The path it showed they trod.
"As, without sound or struggle,The stars unhurrying march,Where Allah's finger guides them,Through yonder purple arch.These Franks, sublimely silent,Without a quickened breath,Went, in the strength of duty,Straight to their goal of death.
"If I were now to ask youTo name our bravest man,Ye all at once would answer,They called him Mehrab Khan.He sleeps among his fathers,Dear to our native land,With the bright mark he bled forFirm round his faithful hand.
"The songs they sing of RoostrumFill all the past with light;If truth be in their music,He was a noble knight.But were those heroes living,And strong for battle still,Would Mehrab Khan or RoostrumHave climbed, like these, the Hill?"
And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was braveAs chief, he chose himself what risks to run;Prince Roostrum lied, his forfeit life to save,Which these had never done."
"Enough!" he shouted fiercely;"Doomed though they be to hell,Bind fast the crimson trophyRoundbothwrists—bind it well.Who knows but that great AllahMay grudge such matchless men,With none so decked in heaven,To the fiends' flaming den?"
Then all those gallant robbersShouted a stern "Amen!".They raised the slaughtered sergeant,They raised his mangled ten.And when we found their bodiesLeft bleaching in the wind,Aroundbothwrists in gloryThat crimson thread was twined.
Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core,Rung like an echo to that knightly deed;He bade its memory live for evermore,That those who run may read.
["Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform theKotow. The Sikhs obeyed, but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill."—Times.]
Last nightamong his fellow roughs,He jested, quaffed, and swore;A drunken private of the BuffsWho never looked before.To-daybeneath the foeman's frownHe stands in Elgin's placeAmbassador from Britain's crown,And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,Bewildered, and alone,A heart with English instinct fraught,He yet can call his own.Ay, tear his body limb from limb,Bring cord or axe or flame;He only knows that not through himShall England come to shame.
For Kentish hop-fields round him seem'dLike dreams, to come and go;Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleam'dOne sheet of living snow;The smoke above his father's door,In grey, soft eddyings hung:Must he then watch it rise no moreDoom'd by himself, so young?
Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steelHe put the vision by.Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;An English lad must die.And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,With knee to man unbent,Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;Vain, those all-shattering guns;Unless proud England keep, untamed,The strong heart of her sons.So, let his name through Europe ring—A man of mean estate,Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,Because his soul was great.
Hurrah! the craft is dashingAthwart the briny sea;Hurrah! the wind is lashingThe white sails merrily;The sun is shining overhead,The rough sea heaves below;We sail with every canvas spread,Yo ho! my lads, yo ho!
Simple is our vocation,We seek no hostile strife;But 'mid the storm's vexationWe succour human life;O, simple are our pleasures,We crave no miser's hoard,But haul the great sea's treasuresTo spread a frugal board.
But if at usurpationWe needs must strike a blow,Our hardy avocationShall fit us for the foe;Then let the despot's strength competeUpon the open sea,And on the proudest of his fleetOur flag shall flutter free.
Stop!—for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?Nor column trophied for triumphal show?None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so.As the ground was before, thus let it be;How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!And is this all the world has gained by thee,Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?…
There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium's capital had gathered thenHer Beauty and her Chivalry; and brightThe lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose, with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage bell;—But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the windOr the car rattling o'er the stony street:On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing Hours with flying feet—But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!Arm! arm! it is! it is!—the cannon's opening roar!
Within a window'd niche of that high hallSate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hearThat sound the first amidst the festival,And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;And when they smiled because he deemed it near,His heart more truly knew that peal too wellWhich stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,And gathering tears and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlush'd at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings; such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated! Who would guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier, ere the morning star:While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering with white lips—"The foe! they come, they come!"
And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose—The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hillsHave heard—and heard too have her Saxon foes—How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fillsTheir mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring, which instilsThe stirring memory of a thousand years;And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they passGrieving—if aught inanimate e'er grieves—Over the unreturning brave—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,Which now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure; when this fiery massOf living valour, rolling on the foe,And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay;The midnight brought the signal sound of strife;The morn the marshalling of arms; the dayBattle's magnificently stern array!The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,The earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent,Rider and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent!
At Quatre Bras, when the fight ran high,Stout Cameron stood with wakeful eye,Eager to leap as a mettlesome hound,Into the fray with a plunge and a bound,But Wellington, lord of the cool command,Held the reins with a steady hand,Saying, "Cameron, wait, you'll soon have enough.Give the Frenchmen a taste of your stuff,When the Cameron men are wanted."
Now hotter and hotter the battle grew,With tramp and rattle, and wild halloo,And the Frenchmen poured, like a fiery flood,Right on the ditch where Cameron stood.Then Wellington flashed from his steadfast stanceOn his captain brave a lightning glance,Saying, "Cameron, now have at them, boy,Take care of the road to Charleroi,Where the Cameron men are wanted."
Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from a bowInto the midst of the plunging foe,And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent,Sweeping the rocks in its foamy current;And he fell the first in the fervid fray,Where a deathful shot had shove its way,But his men pushed on where the work was rough,Giving the Frenchmen a taste of their stuff,Where the Cameron men were wanted.
'Brave Cameron, then, front the battle's roarHis foster-brother stoutly bore,His foster-brother with service true,Back to the village of Waterloo.And they laid him on the soft green sod,And he breathed his spirit there to God,But not till he heard the loud hurrahOf victory billowed from Quatre Bras,Where the Cameron men were wanted.
By the road to Ghent they buried him then,This noble chief of the Cameron men,And not an eye was tearless seenThat day beside the alley, green:Wellington wept—the iron man!And from every eye in the Cameron clanThe big round drop in bitterness fell,As with the pipes he loved so wellHis funeral wail they chanted.
And now he sleeps (for they bore him home,When the war was done across the foam),Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben,With his sires, the pride of the Cameron men.Three thousand Highlandmen stood round,As they laid him to rest in his native ground;The Cameron brave, whose eye never quailed,Whose heart never sank, and whose hand never failed,Where a Cameron man was wanted.
Onward, brave men, onward go,Place is none for rest below;He who laggeth faints and fails.He who presses on prevails!
Monks may nurse their mouldy moodsCaged in musty solitudes;Men beneath the breezy skyMarch to conquer or to die!
Work and live—this only charmWarms the blood and nerves the arm,As the stout pine stronger growsBy each gusty blast that blows.
On high throne or lonely sod,Fellow-workers we with God;Then most like to Him when weMarch through toil to victory.
If there be who sob and sigh.Let them sleep or let them die;While we live we strain and strive,Working most when most alive!
Where the fairest blossom grew,There the spade had most to do;Hearts that bravely serve the Lord,Like St. Paul, must wear the sword!
Onward, brothers, onward go!Face to face to find the foe!Words are weak, and wishing fails,But the well-aimed blow prevails!
"Hodie tibi, cras mihii."
Yours to-day and ours to-morrow,Hither, comrade, hence to go;Yours the joy and ours the sorrow,Yours the weal and ours the woe.
What the profit of the stronger?Life is loss and death is gain;Though we live a little longer,Longer life is longer pain.
Which the better for the weary—Longer travel? Longer rest?Death is peace, and life is dreary:He must die who would be blest.
You have passed across the borders,Death has led you safely home;We are standing, waiting orders,Ready for the word to come.
Empty-handed, empty-hearted,All we love have gone before,And since they have all departed,We are loveless evermore.
Yours to-day and ours to-morrow,Hither, comrade, hence to go;Yours the joy and ours the sorrow,Yours the weal and ours the woe.
I love contemplating—apartFrom all his homicidal glory—The traits that soften to our heartNapoleon's story.
'Twas when his banners at Boulogne,Armed in our island every freeman,His navy chanced to capture onePoor British seaman.
They suffered him,—I know not how,Unprisoned on the shore to roam;And aye was bent his longing browOn England's home.
His eye, methinks, pursued the flightOf birds to Britain, half-way over,With envy—theycould reach the whiteDear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,Than this sojourn would have been dearer,If but the storm his vessel broughtTo England nearer.
At last, when care had banished sleep,He saw one morning, dreaming, doating,An empty hogshead from the deepCome shoreward floating.
He hid it in a cave, and wroughtThe livelong day, laborious, lurking,Until he launched a tiny boat,By mighty working.
Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyondDescription wretched: such a wherry,Perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond,Or crossed a ferry.
For ploughing in the salt-sea field,It would have made the boldest shudder;Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,—No sail—no rudder.
From neighbouring woods he interlacedHis sorry skiff with wattled willows;And thus equipped he would have passedThe foaming billows.
But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,His little Argo sorely jeering.Till tidings of him chanced to reachNapoleon's hearing.
With folded arms Napoleon stood,Serene alike in peace and danger,And, in his wonted attitude,Addressed the stranger.
"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel passOn twigs and staves so rudely fashioned,Thy heart with some sweet British lassMust be impassioned."
"I have no sweetheart," said the lad;"But,—absent years from one another,—Great was the longing that I hadTo see my mother."
"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said,"You've both my favour fairly won,A noble mother must have bredSo brave a son."
He gave the tar a piece of gold,And, with a flag of truce, commandedHe should be shipped to England old,And safely landed.
Our sailor oft could scantly shiftTo find a dinner, plain and hearty,But never changed the coin and giftOf Buonaparte.