 | The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton |  |
274
A MONUMENT FOR SCUTARI,
AFTER THE CRIMEAN WAR, SEPTEMBER, 1855.
“The cypresses of Scutari
In stern magnificence look down
On the bright lake and stream of sea
And glittering theatre of town;
Above the throng of rich kiosks,
Above the towers in triple tire,
Above the domes of loftiest mosques,
Those pinnacles of death aspire.”
In stern magnificence look down
On the bright lake and stream of sea
And glittering theatre of town;
Above the throng of rich kiosks,
Above the towers in triple tire,
Above the domes of loftiest mosques,
Those pinnacles of death aspire.”
Thus, years ago, in grave descant,
The trave'ller sang those ancient trees
That Eastern grace delights to plant
In reverence of man's obsequies;
But time has shed a golden haze
Of memory round the cypress glooms,
And gladly he reviews the days
He wandered 'mid those alien tombs.
The trave'ller sang those ancient trees
That Eastern grace delights to plant
In reverence of man's obsequies;
But time has shed a golden haze
Of memory round the cypress glooms,
And gladly he reviews the days
He wandered 'mid those alien tombs.
Now other passion rules the soul;
And Scutari's familiar name
Arouses thoughts beyond controul,
A tangled web of pride and shame;
No more shall that fair word recall
The Moslem and his Asian rest,
But the dear brothers of us all
Rent from their mother's bleeding breast.
And Scutari's familiar name
Arouses thoughts beyond controul,
A tangled web of pride and shame;
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The Moslem and his Asian rest,
But the dear brothers of us all
Rent from their mother's bleeding breast.
Calmly our warriors moulder there,
Uncoffined, in the sandy soil,
Once festered in the sultry glare,
Or wasted in the wintry toil.
No verdure on those graves is seen,
No shade obstructs the garish day;
The tender dews to keep them green
Are wept, alas! too far away;
Uncoffined, in the sandy soil,
Once festered in the sultry glare,
Or wasted in the wintry toil.
No verdure on those graves is seen,
No shade obstructs the garish day;
The tender dews to keep them green
Are wept, alas! too far away;
Are wept in homes their smiles shall bless
No more, beyond the welte'ring deep,
In cottages now fatherless
On English mead or Highland steep,
In palaces by common grief
Made level with the meanest room,—
One agony, and one relief—
The conscience of a glorious doom!
No more, beyond the welte'ring deep,
In cottages now fatherless
On English mead or Highland steep,
In palaces by common grief
Made level with the meanest room,—
One agony, and one relief—
The conscience of a glorious doom!
For there, too, is Thermopylæ;—
As on the dank Ægean shore,
By this bright portal of the sea
Stood the Devoted as of yore;
When Greece herself was merged in night,
The Spartan held his honour's meed—
And shall no pharos shed the light
To future time of Britain's deed?
As on the dank Ægean shore,
By this bright portal of the sea
Stood the Devoted as of yore;
276
The Spartan held his honour's meed—
And shall no pharos shed the light
To future time of Britain's deed?
Masters of Form!—if such be now—
On sense and powers of Art intent,
To match this mount of sorrow's brow
Devise your seemliest monument:
One that will symbolize the cause
For which this might of manhood fell,
Obedience to their country's laws,
And duty to God's truth as well.
On sense and powers of Art intent,
To match this mount of sorrow's brow
Devise your seemliest monument:
One that will symbolize the cause
For which this might of manhood fell,
Obedience to their country's laws,
And duty to God's truth as well.
Let, too, the old Miltonic Muse,
That trumpeted “the scattered bones
Of saints on Alpine mountains,” use
Reveillé of forgotten tones;
Let some one, worthy to be priest
Of this high altar of renown,
Write in the tongues of West and East
Who bore this cross, who wore this crown.
That trumpeted “the scattered bones
Of saints on Alpine mountains,” use
Reveillé of forgotten tones;
Let some one, worthy to be priest
Of this high altar of renown,
Write in the tongues of West and East
Who bore this cross, who wore this crown.
Write that, as Britain's peaceful sons
Luxurious rich, well-tended poor,
Fronted the foeman's steel and guns,
As each would guard his household door;
So, in those ghastly halls of pain
Where thousand hero-sufferers lay,
Some smiled in thought to fight again,
And most unmurmu'ring passed away.
Luxurious rich, well-tended poor,
Fronted the foeman's steel and guns,
As each would guard his household door;
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Where thousand hero-sufferers lay,
Some smiled in thought to fight again,
And most unmurmu'ring passed away.
Write that, when pride of human skill
Fell prostrate with the weight of care,
And men prayed out for some strong will,
Some reason 'mid the wild despair,
The loving heart of woman rose
To guide the hand and clear the eye,
Gave hope amid the sternest woes,
And saved what man had left to die.
Fell prostrate with the weight of care,
And men prayed out for some strong will,
Some reason 'mid the wild despair,
The loving heart of woman rose
To guide the hand and clear the eye,
Gave hope amid the sternest woes,
And saved what man had left to die.
Write every name—lowlier the birth,
Loftier the death!—and trust that when
On this regenerated earth
Rise races of ennobled men,
They will remember—these were they
Who strove to make the nations free,
Not only from the sword's brute sway,
But from the spirit's slavery.
Loftier the death!—and trust that when
On this regenerated earth
Rise races of ennobled men,
They will remember—these were they
Who strove to make the nations free,
Not only from the sword's brute sway,
But from the spirit's slavery.
| The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton | |