MAJOR-GENERAL H.A. MACDONALD, C.B., D.S.O. [Told in the Ranks.]
There were lots of lies and tattleIn dispatches and on wire,But 'twas Mac who saved the battleWhen the word came to retire."I'll no do it"—he cried, readyFor what peril lay in store,With his ranks like steel and steady—"And I'll see them hanged before!O, we maun jist fight!" And bolderSlewed his front the Dervish way,Smart with shoulder knit to shoulder,White and black that bloody day.
Then a hell of fire, and sputteredIron blast and leaden hail,While the Maxims stormed and stutteredAnd our rifles did not fail.For the destiny of nationsWith an agony intense,And our Empire's own foundationsHung a minute in suspense.But old Mac was cool as ever,And his words like leaping flameFlashed in confident endeavourTo avert that evil shame.
Swung his lines on hinges, rollingRight and left like very doom,Till our fate nigh past controllingBrake in glory out of gloom.While upon those awful stagesThrobbed a world's great piston beat,And the moments seemed as agesRung from death and red defeat.Ah, we lived, indeed, and no manRecked of wound or any ill,As we grimly faced the foeman—If we died, to conquer still.
And it felt as though the burdenOf all England gave us might,Laid on each, who asked no guerdonBut against those odds to fight.Let the lucky get high stationsAnd the honour which he won,Mac desires no decorationsBut the gallant service done.For the rankers bear the lossesAnd the brunt of every toil,While they earn for others "crosses"And the splendour and the spoil.
Mashangombi's was the rat-hole,Which we had to draw ere day,Heedless whether this or that hole—If we only found a way;Up among the iron furrowsOf the rocks, where hid in burrowsSafe the rats in shelter lay.No misgiving, not a fear—Nor was I the last astraddleNor the hindmost in the rearWhen the bugle sounded clear—"Boot and saddle!"
Right away went men and horses,Both as eager for the fun;Through the drifts and dried-up courses,Where like mad the waters runAfter storms or through the winters,Mashing all they meet to splinters—Ready, hand and sword and gun.Every eye was keen to mark,And the tongue alone seemed idleEvery ear alert to harkAs we scanned each crevice dark—Bit and bridle!
Here and there the startled chirrupOf strange creatures, as we go,Standing sometimes in the stirrup,Just to get a bigger show;Till we gain our point, the entry—There the pass, no sign of sentry,Not a sound above, below!Clear the coast, the savage gaveNever hint to south or norward;Was he napping in his cave,With that quiet like the grave?—Steady, forward!
Further in; the rats were sleeping;We would grimly smoke them out,With a dose of lead for keepingAnd a fence of flame about;They might wake perhaps from shelter,At our bullets' ghastly pelter,To the brief and bloody rout!—But, next moment, we were wraptDown to saddle girth and leatherIn the fire of foes unmapt;Wewere turned, and fairly trapt—"Keep together!"
On they poured in thousands, hurlingSteel that stabbed and belching ballFrom a host of rifles, curlingSerpent-wise around us all.Front and flank and rear, they tumbledNearer, darker, as we fumbled—Till we heard the Captain's call,"Each man for himself, and back!"So we rushed those rocky mazes,With that torrent grim and blackDealing ruin in our track—Death and blazes!
Ah, that bullet! How it shatteredVein and tissue to the bone;Dropt me faint and blood-bespattered,Helpless on a bed of stone!While the mare which oft had eatenFrom my hand, caressed, unbeaten,Left her master doomed, alone.Limply then I lay in dread,Racked with torture, sick and under—Hearing, as through vapours redAnd with reeling heart and head,Hoofs of thunder!
Was I dreaming? By the boulderWhere I huddled as I fell,Stood the steed beside my shoulderFaithful, fain to serve me well.Whinnying softly, then, to screen meFrom the foe, she knelt between meAnd that circling human hell.Tenderly she touched my faceWith the nose that knew my petting,Ripe for the last glorious raceAnd her comrade's own embrace—Unforgetting!
O her haunches heaved and quiveredWith the passion freely broughtFor the life to be delivered,Though she first with demons fought;While her large eyes gleamed and glistenedAnd her ears down-pointing listened,Waiting for the answer sought.Till a sudden wave of mightSet me once again astraddleOn the seat of saving flight,Plucked from very jaws of night—Boot and saddle!
Pass the word to the boys to-night!—lying about midst dying anddead!—Whisper it low; make ready to fight! stand like men at your horses'head!Look to your stirrups and swords, my lads, and into your saddlesyour pistols thrust;Then setting your teeth as your fathers did, you'll make the enemybite the dust!What did they call us, boys, at home?—"Feather-bed soldiers!"—faith, it's true!"Kept to be seen in her Majesty's parks, and mightily smart at agrand review!"Feather-bed soldiers? Hang their chaff! Where in the world, I shouldlike to know,When a war broke out and the country called, was an English soldiersorry to go?Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! cavalry! infantry! there andthen;No matter what careless lives they lived, they were ready to die likeEnglishmen!So pass the word! in the sultry night,Stand to your saddles! make ready to fight!
We are sick to death of the scorching sun, and the desert stretchingfor miles away;We are all of us longing to get at the foe, and sweep the sand withour swords to-day!Our horses look with piteous eyes—they have little to eat, andnothing to do;And the land around is horribly white, and the sky above is terriblyblue.But it's over now, so the Colonel says: he is ready to start, we areready to go:And the cavalry boys will be led by men—Ewart! and Russell! andDrury-Lowe!Just once again let me stroke the mane—let me kiss the neck and feelthe breathOf the good little horse who will carry me on to the end of thebattle—to life or death!"Give us a grip of your fist, old man!" let us all keep close whenthe charge begins!God is watching o'er those at home! God have mercy on all our sins!So pass the word in the dark, and then,When the bugle sounds, let us mount like men!
Out we went in the dead of the night! away to the desert, across thesand—Guided alone by the stars of Heaven! a speechless host! a ghostlyband!No cheery voice the silence broke; forbidden to speak, we could hearno soundBut the whispered words, "Be firm, my boys!" and the horses' hoofs onthe sandy ground."What were we thinking of then?" Look here! if this is the last trueword I speak,I felt a lump in my throat—just here—and a tear came trickling downmy cheek.If a man dares say that I funked, he lies! But a man is a man thoughhe gives his lifeFor his country's, cause, as a soldier should—he has still got aheart for his child and wife!But I still rode on in a kind of dream; I was thinking of home andthe boys—and thenThe silence broke! and, a bugle blew! then a voice rang cheerily,"Charge, my men!"So pass the word in the thick of the fight,For England's honour and England's right!
What is it like, a cavalry charge in the dead of night? I canscarcely tell,For when it is over it's like a dream, and when you are in it a kindof hell!I should like you to see the officers lead—forgetting their swaggerand Bond Street air—Like brothers and men at the head of the troop, while bugles echo andtroopers dare!With a rush we are in it, and hard at work—there's scarcely a minuteto think or pause—For right and left we are fighting hard for the regiment's honour andcountry's cause!Feather-bed warriors! On my life, be they Life Guards red or HorseGuards blue,They haven't lost much of the pluck, my boys, that their fathersshowed us at Waterloo!It isn't for us, who are soldiers bred, to chatter of wars, be theywrong or right;We've to keep the oath that we gave our QUEEN! and when we are init—we've got to fight!So pass the word, without any noise,Bravo, Cavalry! Well done, boys!
Pass the word to the boys to-night, now that the battle is fairlywon.A message has come from the EMPRESS-QUEEN—just what we wanted—a brief "Well done!"The sword and stirrup are sorely stained, and the pistol barrels areempty quite,And the poor old charger's piteous eyes bear evidence clear of thedesperate fight.There's many a wound and many a gash, and the sun-burned face isscarred and red;There's many a trooper safe and sound, and many a tear for the "pal"who's dead!I care so little for rights and wrongs of a terrible war; but theworld at large—It knows so well when duty's done!—it will think sometimes of ourcavalry charge!Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! we have solemnly taken anoath! and then,In all the battles throughout the world, we have followed our fatherslike Englishmen!So pass this blessing the lips between—'Tis the soldier's oath—GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
At the evening roll call at the "Charterhouse" School, where Baden-Powell was educated, it is customary for the boys to respond to the call of their names by saying "Adsum—I'm here!"
Oft as the shades of evening fell,In the school-boy days of old,—The form work done, or the game played well,—Clanging aloft the old school bellUttered its summons bold;And a bright lad answered the roll call clear,"Adsum,—I'm here!"
A foe-girt town and a captain trueOut on the Afric plain;—High overhead his Queen's flag flew,But foes were many and friends but few;Who shall guard that flag from stain?And calm 'mid confusion a voice rang clear,"Adsum,—I'm here!"
The slow weeks passed, and no succour came,Famine and death were rife;Yet still that banner of deathless fame,Floated, unsullied by fear or shame,Over the scene of strife;And the voice,—though weaker—was full of cheer,"Adsum,—I'm here!"
Heaven send, that when many a heart's dismayed,In dark days yet in store,—Should foemen gather; or, faith betrayed,The country call for a strong man's aidAs she never called before,—A voice like his may make answer clear,Banishing panic, and calming fear,"Adsum,—I'm here!"
(January 23, 1879.)
It was over at Isandula, the bloody work was done,And the yet unburied dead looked up unblinking at the sun;Eight hundred men of Britain's best had signed with blood the storyWhich England leaves to time, and lay there scanted e'en of glory.
Stewart Smith lay smiling by the gun he spiked before he died;But gallant Gardner lived to write a warning and to rideA race for England's honour and to cross the Buffalo,To bid them at Rorke's Drift expect the coming of the foe.
That band of lusty British lads camped in the hostile landRose up upon the word with Chard and Bromhead to command;An hour upon the foe that hardy race had barely won,But in it all that men could do those British lads had done.
And when the Zulus on the hill appeared, a dusky host,They found our gallant English boys' 'pale faces' at their post;But paler faces were behind, within the barricade—The faces of the sick who rose to give their watchers aid.
Five men to one the first dark wave of battle brought, it boreDown swiftly, while our youngsters waited steadfast as the shore;Behind the slender barricade, half-hidden, on their knees,They marked the stealthy current glide beneath the orchard trees.
Then forth the volley blazed, then rose the deadly reek of war;The dusky ranks were thinned; the chieftain slain by young Dunbar,Rolled headlong and their phalanx broke, but formed as soon as broke,And with a yell the furies that avenge man's blood awoke.
The swarthy wave sped on and on, pressed forward by the tide,Which rose above the bleak hill-top, and swept the bleak hill-side;It rose upon the hill, and, surging out about its base,Closed house and barricade within its murderous embrace.
With savage faces girt, the lads' frail fortress seemed to beAn island all abloom within a black and howling sea;And only that the savages shot wide, and held the noiseAs deadly as the bullets, they had overwhelmed the boys.
Then in the dusk of day the dusky Kaffirs crept aboutThe bushes and the prairie-grass, to rise up with a shout,To step as in a war-dance, all together, and to flingTheir weight against the sick-house till they made its timbers spring.
When beaten back, they struck their shields, and thought to strikewith fearThose British hearts,—their answer came, a ringing British cheer!And the volley we sent after showed the Kaffirs to their costThe coolness of our temper,—scarce an ounce of shot was lost.
And the sick men from their vantage at the windows singled outFrom among the valiant savages the bravest of the rout;A pile of fourteen warriors lay dead upon the groundBy the hand of Joseph Williams, and there led up to the mound
A path of Zulu bodies on the Welshman's line of fireEre he perished, dragged out, assegaied, and trampled in their ire;But the body takes its honour or dishonour from the soul,And his name is writ in fire upon our nation's long bead-roll.
Yet, let no name of any man be set above the rest,Where all were braver than the brave, each better than the best,Where the sick rose up as heroes, and the sound had hearts for thoseWho, in madness of their fever, were contending as with foes.
For the hospital was blazing, roof and wall, and in its lightThe Kaffirs showed like devils, till so deadly grew the fightThat they cowered into cover, and one moment all was still,When a Kaffir chieftain bellowed forth new orders from the hill.
Then the Zulu warriors rallied, formed again, and hand to handWe fought above the barricade; determined was the stand;Our fellows backed each other up,—no wavering and no haste,But loading in the Kaffirs' teeth, and not a shot to waste.
We had held on through the dusk, and we had held on in the lightOf the burning house; and later, in the dimness of the night,They could see our fairer faces; we could find them by their cries,By the flash of savage weapons and the glare of savage eyes.
With the midnight came a change—that angry sea at length was cowed,Its waves still broke upon us, but fell fainter and less loud;When the 'pale face' of the dawn rose glimmering from his bedThe last black sullen wave swept off and bore away the dead.
That island all abloom with English youth, and fortifiedWith English valour, stood above the wild, retreating tide;Those lads contemned Canute, and shamed the lesson that he read,—For them the hungry waves withdrew, the howling ocean fled.
Britannia, rule, Britannia! while thy sons resemble thee,And are islanders, true islanders, wherever they may be;Island fortified like this, manned with islanders like these,Will keep thee Lady of thy Land, and Sovereign of all Seas!
Said he of the relieving force,As through the town he sped,"Art thou in Baden-Powell's Horse?"The trooper shook his head,Then drew his hand his mouth across,Like one who's lately fed."Alas! for Baden-Powell's horse—It's now in me," he said.—Daily Express.
Just a simple little story I've a fancy for inditing;It shows the funny quarters in which chivalry may lodge,A story about Africa, and Englishmen, and fighting,And an unromantic hero by the name of Samuel Hodge.
"Samuel Hodge!" The words in question never previously filled aConspicuous place in fiction or the Chronicles of Fame;And the Blood and Culture critics, or the Rosa and MatildaSchool of Novelists would shudder at the mention of the name.
It was up the Gambia River—and ofthatunpleasant stationIt is chiefly in connection with the fever that we hear!—That my hero with the vulgar and prosaic appellationWas a private—mind, a private!—and a sturdy pioneer.
It's a dreary kind of region, where the river mists arisingRoll slowly out to seaward, dropping poison in their track.And accordingly few gentlemen will find the fact surprisingThat a rather small proportion of our garrison comes back!
It is filthy, it is foetid, it is sordid, it is squalid;If you tried it for a season, you would very soon repent;But the British trader likes it, and he finds a reason solidFor the liking, in his profit at the rate of cent, per cent.
And to guard the British traders, gallant men and merry younkers,In their coats of blue and scarlet, still are stationed at thepost,Whilst the migratory natives, who are known as "Tillie-bunkas,"Grub up and down for ground-nuts and chaffer on the coast.
Furthermore, to help the trader in his laudable vocation,We have heaps of little treaties with a host of little kings,And, at times, the coloured caitiffs in their wild inebriation,Gather round us, little hornets, with uncomfortable stings.
To my tale:—The King of Barra had been getting rather "sarsy,"In fact, for such an insect, he was coming it too strong,So we sent a small detachment—it was led by Colonel D'Arcy—To drive him from his capital of Tubabecolong!
Now on due investigation, when his land they had invaded,They learnt from information which was brought them by the guidesThat the worthy King of Barra had completely _barra_cadedThe spacious mud-construction where his majesty resides.
"At it, boys!" said Colonel D'Arcy, and himself was first to enter,And his fellows tried to follow with the customary cheers;Through the town he dashed impatient, but had scarcely reached thecentreEre he found the task before him was a task for pioneers.
For so strongly and so stoutly all the gates were palisaded,The supports could never enter if he did not clear a way:—But Sammy Hodge, perceiving how the foe might be "persuaded,"Had certain special talents which he hastened to display.
Whilst the bullets, then, were flying, and the bayonets were glancingWhilst the whole affair in fury rather heightened than relaxed,With axe in hand, and silently, our pioneer advancingSMOTE THE GATE; AND BADE IT OPEN; AND IT DID—AS IT WAS AXED!
Just a word of explanation, it may save us from a quarrel,I have really no intention—'twould be shameful if I had,Of preaching you a blatant, democratic kind of moral;For the "swell, you know," the D'Arcy, fought as bravely as the"cad!"
Yet I own that sometimes thinking how a courteous decorationMay be won by shabby service or disreputable dodge,I regard with more than pleasure—with a sense of consolation—The Victoria Cross "For Valour" on the breast of Sammy Hodge!
(October 25, 1857.)
Oh! that last day in Lucknow fort!We knew that it was the last:That the enemy's mines had crept surely in,And the end was coming fast.
To yield to that foe meant worse than death;And the men and we all work'd on:It was one day more, of smoke and roar,And then it would all be done.
There was one of us, a corporal's wife,A fair young gentle thing,Wasted with fever in the siege,And her mind was wandering.
She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid,And I took her head on my knee:"When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said,"Oh! please then waken me."
She slept like a child on her father's floorIn the flecking of wood-bine shade,When the house-dog sprawls by the open door,And the mother's wheel is stay'd.
It was smoke and roar, and powder-stench,And hopeless waiting for death:But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child,Seem'd scarce to draw her breath.
I sank to sleep, and I had my dream,Of an English village-lane,And wall and garden;—a sudden screamBrought me back to the roar again.
Then Jessie Brown stood listening,And then a broad gladness brokeAll over her face, and she took my handAnd drew me near and spoke:
"The Highlanders!Oh! dinna ye hearThe slogan far awa—The McGregor's? Ah! I ken it weel;It's the grandest o' them a'.
"God bless thae bonny Highlanders!We're saved! we're saved!" she cried:And fell on her knees, and thanks to GodPour'd forth, like a full flood-tide.
Along the battery-line her cryHad fallen among the men:And they started, for they were there to die:Was life so near them then?
They listen'd, for life: and the rattling fireFar off, and the far-off roarWere all:—and the colonel shook his head,And they turn'd to their guns once more.
Then Jessie said—"That slogan's dune;But can ye no hear them, noo,—The Campbells are comin'?It's no a dream;Our succours hae broken through!"
We heard the roar and the rattle afarBut the pipes we could not hear;So the men plied their work of hopeless war,And knew that the end was near.
It was not long ere it must be heard,—A shrilling, ceaseless sound:It was no noise of the strife afar,Or the sappers underground.
Itwasthe pipes of the Highlanders,And now they play'd "Auld Lang Syne:"It came to our men like the voice of God,And they shouted along the line.
And they wept and shook one another's hands,And the women sobb'd in a crowd:And every one knelt down where we stood,And we all thank'd God aloud.
That happy day when we welcomed them,Our men put Jessie first;And the General took her hand, and cheersFrom the men, like a volley, burst.
And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream'dMarching round and round our line;And our joyful cheers were broken with tears,For the pipes play'd "Auld Lang Syne."
(By permission of Messrs. Isbister & Co.)
"Oh! were you at war in the red Eastern land?What did you hear, and what did you see?Saw you my son, with his sword in his hand?Sent he, by you, any dear word to me?"
"I come from red war, in that dire Eastern land;Three deeds saw I done one might well die to see;But I know not your son with his sword in his hand;If you would hear of him, paint him to me."
"Oh, he is as gentle as south winds in May!""'Tis not a gentle place where I have been.""Oh, he has a smile like the outbreak of day!""Where men are dying fast, smiles are not seen."
"Tell me the mightiest deeds that were done.Deeds of chief honour, you said you saw three:You said you saw three—I am sure he did one.My heart shall discern him, and cry, 'This is he!'"
"I saw a man scaling a tower of despair,And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud.""That was my son! Had he streams of fair hair?""Nay; it was black as the blackest night-cloud."
"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the fortress was won,And they said it was grand for a man to die so.""Alas for his mother! He was not my son.Was there no fair-hair'd soldier who humbled the foe?"
"I saw a man charging in front of his rank,Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die:Straight as an arrow hurled into the flankOf a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nigh."
"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the battle was won,And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air.Be comforted, mother; he was not thy son;Worn was his forehead, and gray was his hair."
"Oh! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose;I kissed it last night in my dream. I have heardTwo legends of fame from the land of our foes;But you said there were three; you must tell me the third."
"I saw a man flash from the trenches and flyIn a battery's face; but it was not to slay:A poor little drummer had dropp'd down to die,With his ankle shot through, in the place where he lay.
"He carried the boy like a babe through the rain,The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and shell;And he walked at a foot's pace because of the pain,Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell."
"Did he live?" "No; he died: but he rescued the boy.Such a death is more noble than life (so they said).He had streams of fair hair, and a face full of joy,And his name"—"Speak it not! 'Tis my son! He is dead!
"Oh, dig him a grave by the red rowan tree,Where the spring moss grows softer than fringes of foam!And lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me,For I shall be ready before he comes home.
"And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath,And a tale to touch hearts through the slow-spreading years—How he died his noble and beautiful death,And his mother who longed for him, died of her tears.
"But what is this face shining in at the door,With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair?Are you come, blessed ghost, from the far heavenly shore?Do not go back alone—let me follow you there!"
"Oh! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain;I come to your heart, and God answers your prayer.Your son is alive from the hosts of the slain,And the Cross of our Queen on his breast glitters fair!"
(September 20, 1854.)BY RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.
Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be,Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea:Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known—Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown.In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name,And a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame.Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower and shrine,Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine,Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head,Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead.Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say—When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away—"He has pass'd from, us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them thatdiedBy the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side."Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as thoseWho beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose,Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous fields of old,Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold;And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done,By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were won.Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free—Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.
(September 20, 1854.)
Our old War-banners on the windWere waving merrily o'er them;The hope of half the world behind—The sullen Foe before them!They trod their march of battle, boldAs death-devoted freemen;Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old,Or Rome's immortal Three Men.Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!Like Love, thou bringest sorrow.But, O! for such an hour with thee,Who would not die to-morrow?
With towering heart and lightsome feetThey went to their high places;The fiery valour at white heatWas kindled in their faces!Magnificent in battle-robe,And radiant, as from star-lands,That spirit shone which girds our globeWith glory, as with garlands!Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;But, O! for such an hour with thee,Who would not die to-morrow?
They saw the Angel Iris o'erTheir deluge of grim fire;And with their life's last tide they boreThe Ark of Freedom higher!And grander 'tis i' the dash of deathTo ride on battle's billows,When Victory's kisses take the breath,Than sink on balmiest pillows.Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;But, O! for such an hour with thee,Who would not die to-morrow?
Brave hearts, with noble feelings flushed;In valour's ruddy riotBut yesterday! how are ye hushedBeneath the smile of quiet!For us they poured their blood like wine,From life's ripe-gathered clusters;And far through History's night shall shineTheir deeds with starriest lustres.Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;But, O! for such an hour with thee,Who would not die to-morrow?
We laid them not in churchyard home,Beneath our darling daisies:Where to their grave-mounds Love might come,And sit and sing their praises.But soothly sweet shall be their restWhere Victory's hands have crowned themTo Earth our Mother's bosom pressed,And Heaven's arms around them.Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;But, O! for such an hour with thee,Who would not die to-morrow?
Yes, there they lie 'neath Alma's sod,On pillows dark and gory—As brave a host as ever trodOld England's path to glory.With head to home and face to sky,And feet the tyrant spurning,So grand they look, so proud they lie,We weep for glorious yearning.Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;But, O! for such an hour with thee,Who would not die to-morrow?
They in life's outer circle sleep,As each in death stood sentry!And like our England's dead still keepTheir watch for kin and country.Up Alma, in their red footfalls,Comes Freedom's dawn victorious,Such graves are courts to festal halls!They banquet with the Glorious.Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;But, O! for such an hour with thee,Who would not die to-morrow?
Our Chiefs who matched the men of yore,And bore our shield's great burden,The nameless Heroes of the Poor,They all shall have their guerdon.In silent eloquence, each lifeThe Earth holds up to heaven,And Britain gives for child and wifeAs those brave hearts have given.Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;But, O! for such an hour with thee,Who would not die to-morrow?
The Spirits of our Fathers stillStand up in battle by us,And, in our need, on Alma hill,The Lord of Hosts was nigh us.Let Joy or Sorrow brim our cup,'Tis an exultant story,How England's Chosen Ones went upRed Alma's hill to glory.Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;But, O! for such an hour with thee,Who would not die to-morrow?
(October 25, 1854.)THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.
Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade,Charge for the guns!" he said.Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismay'd?Not tho' the soldier knewSomeone had blunder'd.Theirs not to make reply,Theirs not to reason why,Theirs but to do and die.Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley'd and thunder'd;Stormed at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,Flash'd as they turned in air,Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder'd;Plunged in the battery smokeRight thro' the line they broke,Cossack and RussianReel'd from the sabre strokeShatter'd and sunder'd.Then they rode back, but not—Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame thro' the jaws of DeathBack from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?O, the wild charge they made.All the world wonder'd.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!
The fierce wild charge was over; back to old England's shoreWere borne her gallant troopers, who ne'er would battle more;In hospital at Chatham, by Medway's banks they lay,Dragoon, hussar, and lancer, survivors of the fray.
One day there came a message—'twas like a golden ray—"Victoria, Britain's noble Queen, will visit you to-day;"It lighted up each visage, it acted like a spell,On Britain's wounded heroes, who'd fought for her so well.
One soldier lay among them, fast fading was his life,A lancer from the border, from the good old county Fife;Already was death's icy grasp upon his honest brow,When through the ward was passed the word, "The Queen is comingnow!"
The dying Scottish laddie, with hand raised to his head,Saluted Britain's Sovereign, and with an effort said—"And may it please your Majesty, I'm noo aboot to dee,I'd like to rest wi' mither, beneath the auld raugh tree.
"But weel I ken, your Majesty, it canna, mauna be,Yet, God be thanked, I might hae slept wi' ithers o'er the sea,'Neath Balaclava's crimsoned sward, where many a comrade fell,But now I'll rest on Medway's bank, in sound of Christian bell."
She held a bouquet in her hand, and from it then she choseFor the dying soldier laddie a lovely snow-white rose;And when the lad they buried, clasped in his hand was seenThe simple little snowy flower, the gift of Britain's Queen.
(November 5, 1854.)
'Twas midnight ere our guns' loud laugh at their wild work did cease,And by the smouldering fires of war we lit the pipe of peace.At four a burst of bells went up through Night's cathedral dark,It seemed so like our Sabbath chimes, we could but wake, and hark!So like the bells that call to prayer in the dear land far away;Their music floated on the air, and kissed us—to betray.Our camp lay on the rainy hill, all silent as a cloud,Its very heart of life stood still i' the mist that brought itsshroud;For Death was walking in the dark, and smiled his smile to seeHow all was ranged and ready for a sumptuous jubilee.
O wily are the Russians, and they came up through the mirk—Their feet all shod for silence in the best blood of the Turk!While in its banks our fiery tide of War serenely slept,Their subtle serpentry unrolled, and up the hill-side crept.In the Ruins of the Valley do the birds of carnage stir?A creaking in the gloom like wheels! feet trample—bullets whir—By God! the Foe is on us! Now the bugles with a startThrill—like the cry of a wrongèd queen—to the red roots of theheart;And long and loud the wild war-drums with throbbing triumph roll—A sound to set the blood on fire, and warm the shivering soul.
The war-worn and the weary leaped up ready, fresh, andtrue! No weak blood curdled white i' the face, no valour turned todew.Majestic as a God defied, arose our little host—All for the peak of peril pushed—each for the fieriest post!Thorough mist, and thorough mire, and o'er the hill brow scowlinggrim,As is the frown of Slaughter when he dreams his dreadful dream.No sun! but none is needed,—men can feel their way to fight,The lust of battle in their face—eyes filled with fiery light;And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the dark earth layThe prophesying morning-red of a great and glorious day.
As bridegroom leaves his wedded bride in gentle slumbers sealed,Our England slumbered in the West, when her warriors went afield.We thought of her, and swore that day to strike immortal blows,As all along our leagured line the roar of battle rose.Her banners waved like blessing hands, and we felt it was the hourFor a glorious grip till fingers met in the throat of Russian power,And at a bound, and with a sound that madly cried to kill,The lion of Old England leapt in lightnings from the hill.And there he stood superb, through all that Sabbath of the Sword,And there he slew, with a terrible scorn, his hunters, horde onhorde.
All Hell seemed bursting on us, as the yelling legions came—The cannon's tongues of quick red fire licked all the hills aflame!Mad whistling shell, wild sneering shot, with devilish glee wentpast,Like fiendish feet and laughter hurrying down the battle-blast;And through the air, and round the hills, there ran a wrack sublimeAs though Eternity were crashing on the shores of Time.On bayonets and swords the smile of conscious victory shone,As down to death we dashed the Rebels plucking at our Throne.On, on they came with face of flame, and storm of shot and shell—Up! up! like heaven-sealers, and we hurled them back to Hell.
Like the old sea, white-lipped with rage, they dash and foam despairOn ranks of rock, ah! what a prize for the wrecker death was there!But as 'twere River Pleasaunce, did our fellows take that flood,A royal throbbing in the pulse that beat voluptuous blood:The Guards went down to the fight in gray that's growing gory red—See! save them, they're surrounded! leap your ramparts of the dead,And back the desperate battle, for there is but one short strideBetween the Russ and victory! One more tug, you true and tried—The Red-Caps crest the hill! with bloody spur, ride, Bosquet, ride!Down like a flood from Etna foams their valour's burning tide.
Now, God for Merrie England cry! Hurrah for France the Grand!We charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand to hand!He caught a shadowy glimpse across the smoke of Alma's frayOf the Destroying Angel that shall blast his strength to-day.We shout and charge together, and again, again, againOur plunging battle tears its path, and paves it with the slain.Hurrah! the mighty host doth melt before our fervent heat;Against our side its breaking heart doth faint and fainter beat.And O, but 'tis a gallant show, and a merry march, as thusWe sound into the glorious goal with shouts victorious!
From morn till night we fought our fight, and at the set of sunStood conquerors on Inkerman—our Soldiers' Battle won.That morn their legions stood like corn in its pomp of golden grain!That night the ruddy sheaves were reaped upon the misty plain!We cut them down by thunder-strokes, and piled the shocks of slain:The hill-side like a vintage ran, and reeled Death's harvest-wain.We had hungry hundreds gone to sup in Paradise that night,And robes of Immortality our ragged braves bedight!They fell in boyhood's comely bloom, and bravery's lusty pride;But they made their bed o' the foemen dead, ere they lay down anddied.
We gathered round the tent-fire in the evening cold and gray,And thought of those who ranked with us in battle's rough array,Our comrades of the morn who came no more from that fell fray!The salt tears wrung out in the gloom of green dells far away—The eyes of lurking Death that in Life's crimson bubbles play—The stern white faces of the dead that on the dark ground layLike statues of old heroes, cut in precious human clay—Some with a smile as life had stopped to music proudly gay—The household gods of many a heart all dark and dumb to-day!And hard hot eyes grew ripe for tears, and hearts sank down to pray.
From alien lands, and dungeon-grates, how eyes will strain to markThis waving Sword of Freedom burn and beckon through the dark!The martyrs stir in their red graves, the rusted armour ringsAdown the long aisles of the dead, where lie the warrior kings.To the proud Mother England came the radiant victoryWith laurels red, and a bitter cup like some last agony.She took the cup, she drank it up, she raised her laurelled brow:Her sorrow seemed like solemn joy, she looked so noble now.The dim divine of distance died—the purpled past grew wan,As came that crowning glory o'er the heights of Inkerman.