War Lyrics dedicated to the friends of the dead. By A. and L. Shore. Second edition, with additions |
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VISIONS. |
 | War Lyrics |  |
VISIONS.
I.
Mother! in whose ears, by night and day,
Furious horsehoofs down a valley sound,
Bursting like a thunderbolt away
From thy boy left groaning on the ground!
He, one moment past,
Proud to rush so fast
On the ball which met him at mid bound!
Furious horsehoofs down a valley sound,
Bursting like a thunderbolt away
From thy boy left groaning on the ground!
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Proud to rush so fast
On the ball which met him at mid bound!
Yes, oh mother! whosoe'er thou be,
Straining back, through soft October's sun,
All thy soul between two hills to see
Where those riderless war-horses run,
And their shining, shattered
Riders all lie scattered—
And to hasten through them, seeking for that one!
Straining back, through soft October's sun,
All thy soul between two hills to see
Where those riderless war-horses run,
And their shining, shattered
Riders all lie scattered—
And to hasten through them, seeking for that one!
Hang not o'er that vision on the sward
With an agony too sore to bear!
God hath saved for thee one farewell word,
And one lock of thy slain darling's hair!
Though, in that strange hour,
Pain had crushing power,
Love's unshattered heart preserved thine image there.
With an agony too sore to bear!
God hath saved for thee one farewell word,
And one lock of thy slain darling's hair!
Though, in that strange hour,
Pain had crushing power,
Love's unshattered heart preserved thine image there.
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Simple words were those his dying breath
Bravely uttered betwixt groan and groan,
Whilst his comrade on the road to death
Bent to catch the message and be gone—
Let none say they claim
Neither praise nor fame!
God hath heard and blest them, looking on!
Bravely uttered betwixt groan and groan,
Whilst his comrade on the road to death
Bent to catch the message and be gone—
Let none say they claim
Neither praise nor fame!
God hath heard and blest them, looking on!
II.
Thou, too, hearing in repeated trance
One that softly calls from a tent door,
Calleth in the kindly speech of France,
“Here he lies—and he will wake no more!
Ere, on the white ground,
Him at dawn we found,
Death had found him, and we brought him to this floor.”
One that softly calls from a tent door,
Calleth in the kindly speech of France,
“Here he lies—and he will wake no more!
Ere, on the white ground,
Him at dawn we found,
Death had found him, and we brought him to this floor.”
Well thou know'st the face to them unknown,
Laid out there in uncomplaining calm!
With thy piercing cry, “He died alone!
Frozen, whilst this hearth was blazing warm!”
Thou, for whose great anguish
Fancy finds a language,
Dream a softer dream o'er that poor form!
Laid out there in uncomplaining calm!
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Frozen, whilst this hearth was blazing warm!”
Thou, for whose great anguish
Fancy finds a language,
Dream a softer dream o'er that poor form!
Stealing through the wild, white gloom like hope,
Sleep caressed away his painful breath,
And his soul glid smoothly down a slope
Of delicious visions into death,
And, with murmurs dim,
Voices talked of him,
As we talk by beds where fever languisheth.
Sleep caressed away his painful breath,
And his soul glid smoothly down a slope
Of delicious visions into death,
And, with murmurs dim,
Voices talked of him,
As we talk by beds where fever languisheth.
All the grim war-landscape of the waste
Melted from those heavy, happy eyes—
Tent, and trench, and battery displaced
Slowly, for a fire-lit room to rise,
In whose curtained shade
All his children played,
And Death found his soul with thee in Paradise.
Melted from those heavy, happy eyes—
Tent, and trench, and battery displaced
Slowly, for a fire-lit room to rise,
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All his children played,
And Death found his soul with thee in Paradise.
III.
“Doctor, quick! I'm for the front again!
What's the loss of a left arm, I say?
Oh, I've seen our best and stoutest men
Trampled into muddy, bloody clay!—
Stones must serve our turn now—
Let the villains learn how
England's Guards can keep their ground to-day!”
What's the loss of a left arm, I say?
Oh, I've seen our best and stoutest men
Trampled into muddy, bloody clay!—
Stones must serve our turn now—
Let the villains learn how
England's Guards can keep their ground to-day!”
“Forward! forward! down the General goes!
Would to God my breast had turned that ball!
On them with the bayonet! charge and close!
Snatch those Colours e'er the brave boy fall!
Snatch them yet another!
Oh my own last brother!
Now the turn is mine to save them for you all!”
Would to God my breast had turned that ball!
On them with the bayonet! charge and close!
Snatch those Colours e'er the brave boy fall!
Snatch them yet another!
Oh my own last brother!
Now the turn is mine to save them for you all!”
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“Hark, it is our own brave Duke that speaks,
Come to count his battered Guardsmen o'er!
Look, the tears are running down his cheeks—
‘Never did I think to see you more!
No, my gallant fellows,
You, nor yet these Colours!
Never have they gone through such a day before!’”
Come to count his battered Guardsmen o'er!
Look, the tears are running down his cheeks—
‘Never did I think to see you more!
No, my gallant fellows,
You, nor yet these Colours!
Never have they gone through such a day before!’”
“Father! father! long e'er this I know
You have pardoned your rebellious son—
You must live until I come to show
Clasp and medal from my country won!
One for Alma, father,
One for Balaclava,
One for Inkerman, to tell you what I've done!”
You have pardoned your rebellious son—
You must live until I come to show
Clasp and medal from my country won!
One for Alma, father,
One for Balaclava,
One for Inkerman, to tell you what I've done!”
“Where's the tress she gave me when we parted,
Cut in haste from her fair lengths of hair—
When I thought she looked so broken-hearted,
I had won it ere we were aware?
Oh, our dance that night!
Anguish and Delight,
Love and Farewell, were the partners there.”
Cut in haste from her fair lengths of hair—
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I had won it ere we were aware?
Oh, our dance that night!
Anguish and Delight,
Love and Farewell, were the partners there.”
“Oh my cruel love! I thought of you,
In the roar and rattle of the strife,
And my heart was to its grief as true,
With a sword's point half an inch from life,
Or, when called to wait
In yon trench for fate,
As when you refused to be my wife!”
In the roar and rattle of the strife,
And my heart was to its grief as true,
With a sword's point half an inch from life,
Or, when called to wait
In yon trench for fate,
As when you refused to be my wife!”
Raving thus in the hushed blank of night,
Still as fever lifts its weary head,
There is one who glides with watchful light
Down the endless floor from bed to bed,
And the dream-vexed spirit
Feels a blessing near it,
In her robe's light stir, and in her foot's light tread.
Still as fever lifts its weary head,
There is one who glides with watchful light
Down the endless floor from bed to bed,
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Feels a blessing near it,
In her robe's light stir, and in her foot's light tread.
There is one who daily, nightly, too,
“Thinks of her beloved troops” afar,
One who from her palace blesses you,
Patient martyrs of a noble war!
All our hearts, no less,
Reverently confess
What you've done for us, and what you are!
“Thinks of her beloved troops” afar,
One who from her palace blesses you,
Patient martyrs of a noble war!
All our hearts, no less,
Reverently confess
What you've done for us, and what you are!
L. February, 1855.
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