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388

WAR SONGS.

TO THE BESIEGERS OF SEBASTOPOL.

June, 1855.
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!
Well we know the end is sure,
Though its coming must be slow!
Never fear we murmur here!
What you are, right well we know;
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!
Once we flattering lies believed;
Once 'twas quicker work we thought;
Now we know, no more deceived,
How your triumph must be bought;
Dearly bought, but, late or soon,
'Twill be yours right well we know;
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!
Southward pour their swarming hordes;
South, we know, they pour in vain;
Dashed against you, all they've known,
Known so well! they'll know again;
Inkermann again,—once more
Balaclava would they know?
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!
Onward! forward! trench by trench;
Nearer! closer! still more near!
389

Onward! forward! brave hearts, think
How we watch and listen here!
Think, oh! with what beating hearts!
We your triumph long to know!
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!
Greater than the deeds you've done,
To them add this triumph more!
Ah! how proudly, men, at home
Then we'll tell that triumph o'er!
Think with what exulting hearts
We your mighty deed shall show!
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!
This is no unrighteous war,
Waged by kings—by nations curst!
Europe rolls the deluge back
That upon her soon must burst;
Arts and freedom, all we prize,
That we, freemen, still may know,
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!
What! shall fresh lands, year by year,
Sink beneath the despot's heel!
Shall we weakly wait our turn
Poland's fearful fate to feel!
Not for us is Finland's doom!
Hungary's fall we will not know!
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!
Onward! what shall keep you back!
For the end who weakly fears!
On! the living have our prayers;
On! the fallen have our tears;
Oh, what welcome waits you here,
Victors, when your wounds you show!
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!
395

TAKE, FLAGS, ONE GLORY MORE.

Write on your flags another name!
The stirring ones they bear,
To-day shall see a newer fame
Their ancient glory share;
From Abraham's heights and Plassey's plain,
Right well-known words they bore;
To-day another boast they gain—
To-day one glory more.
396

Fields that our fearless fathers won,
We, to your glory true,
Dare add this deed their sons have done
Without a blush to you.
Brave hearts through all your hundred fights
Your flags to victory bore,
As brave, upon the Alma's heights,
Gave you one glory more.
Steep rose the cliff—deep flowed the stream—
Above their thousands lay;
And muskets' roll and bayonets' gleam
Told they stood well at bay.
A hundred guns the fierce hail sent,
That through our rent ranks tore;
Up—with the cold steel in we went,
And won one glory more.
Then, flags, receive the Alma's fame!
And shall that be the last?
Shall you not show a prouder name,
Ere Autumn's days are past?
Sebastopol awaits the doom
That Badajos once bore;
Flags, on your conquering folds keep room
For yet one glory more.

THE FRENCH INVASION.

April, 1855.
“Who comes?”—through silence and through gloom,
Sternly and cold, that deep voice calls;
“Who comes?” rolls on from tomb to tomb,
Around thy silent vaults, St. Paul's;
“I hear the sound of ceaseless feet—
“The people's murmur round me hums—
“Say, whom does London throng to greet?
“Conqueror or king, who, welcomed, comes?”
397

“Who comes?” from yonder neighbouring tomb,
Hollow and cold, that drear voice came;
“Who comes?” the cry that stirred the gloom
And asked for answer, was the same.
Ah! well each mighty voice I knew—
His, from those lips whose iron smile
Ruled the red tides of Waterloo;
And his, whose glory lit the Nile.
“Who comes?”—“Napoleon.” At the word,
From either tomb, with sudden start,
Leapt the wild cry; how quick it stirred
To hate and anguish each full heart!
“Napoleon?—France?—and is it so?
“Oh, England! for one living hour,
“Again to front the advancing foe!
“And back to hurl his hated power!
“Where were our fleets?—Our armies, where?
“What! at the Frenchman's feet we lie!
“And can we only crowd and stare,
“As through our streets his eagles fly?
“Not one stroke more!—oh, for the cheers
“Vittoria heard!”—“He only meets
“Our welcome here; he only hears
“Glad shouts through all our gazing streets.”
“Are we so fallen! are we so base,
“We kiss the feet that tread us down!”—
“No;—still our England holds her place,
“Nor knows a check, nor dreads a frown.
“With mightier fleets than those that bore
“Both flags on far Trafalgar's day,
“We sweep the Euxine—foes no more;
“We through the Baltic hold our way.”
“Accursed race! what have they done
“That Europe thus withdraws her ban!
“Can England mingle hands with one
“Kin to the hated Corsican?”
398

“We can—we do;—to Europe's rights
“A foe, at St. Helena died
“Napoleon; lo! Napoleon fights
“For Europe's freedom by our side.
“How blind is man! that ancient hate
“That saw in France a ceaseless foe—
“Thank God! 'tis past, and ere too late,
“Allied, a common cause we know.
“Yes! God be thanked! we front the North
“Together; on their forward track,
“We face its fell hordes swarming forth,
“And to their cold steppes hurl them back.
“Yes! common triumphs flush our cheeks,
“And fire our blood in all we do;
“Of Inkermann each proudly speaks;
“And Alma blots out Waterloo.
“Wiser is God than man!” I said.
The storm of cheers swept by, and then,
From where reposed the mighty dead,
A blended murmur breathed “Amen.”

THE SCORE IS—FOUR.

September, 1854.
Czar, how goes the game we play?
Czar, how speeds the gory game?
War's red hand has dealt to-day;
Who has triumph?—who has shame?
Turkey played; has Turkey won?
Hark! she tells you score for score;
You, O mighty Czar, but one;
She, full soon to reckon four.
Yes, she dares her fate to try
In the iron game of swords;
Does she quail, or does she fly,
Scared by all your boasted hordes?
399

One, Sinope gave to you;
She from Oltenitza bore
One; Citate made her two;
Soon, O Czar, she'll reckon four.
Fiercer grows the game of blood;
Wary Omar plays it well;
How his strength your might withstood,
Abu Tabia's mounds can tell;
Grimly Turkey laughed to see
One there added to her score;
There Silistria made her three;
Soon, O Czar, she'll reckon four.
Now our conquering turn begins;
Now we dare the mighty chance;
England wars, and England wins,
Side by side with conquering France.
Once from France the game you won;
Hers are Moscow's days no more;
She nor we shall count you one;
Soon, O Czar, we'll reckon four.
Tell the mighty reckoning o'er;
Reckon we and reckon you;
From Odessa one we bore;
Bomarsund we counted two;
On the gory Alma, fame
Adds another to our score;
Look, O despot, to your game;
Soon, O Czar, we reckon four.
Did you boast and did you threat?
Europe flings you scoff for scoff;
Turkey owes you many a debt;
One she pays your Menschikoff;
One Sebastopol shall pay;
There another soon we score;
Well may Russia dread the day,
When, O Czar, we reckon four!
400

THE ALMA.

September 20th, 1854.
Yes—clash, ye pealing steeples!
Ye grim-mouthed cannon, roar!
Tell what each heart is feeling,
From shore to throbbing shore!
What every shouting city,
What every home would say,
The triumph and the rapture
That swell our hearts to-day.
And did they say, O England,
That now thy blood was cold,
That from thee had departed
The might thou hadst of old!
Tell them no deed more stirring
Than this thy sons have done,
Than this, no nobler triumph
Thy conquering arms have won.
The mighty fleet bore seaward;
We hushed our hearts in fear,
In awe of what each moment
Might utter to our ear;
For the air grew thick with murmurs
That stilled the hearer's breath,
With sounds that told of battle,
Of victory, and of death.
We knew they could but conquer;
O fearless hearts, we knew
The name and fame of England
Could but be safe with you.
We knew no ranks more dauntless
The rush of bayonets bore,
Through all Spain's fields of carnage,
Or thine, Ferozepore.
401

O red day of the Alma!
O when thy tale was heard,
How was the heart of England
With pride and gladness stirred!
How did our peopled cities
All else forget, to tell
Ye living, how ye conquered,
And how, O dead, ye fell!
Glory to those who led you!
Glory to those they led!
Fame to the dauntless living!
Fame to the peaceful dead!
Honour, for ever, honour
To those whose bloody swords
Struck back the baffled despot,
And smote to flight his hordes!
On, with your fierce burst onward!
On, sweep the foe before,
Till the great sea-hold's volleys
Roll through the ghastly roar!
Till your resistless onset
The mighty fortress know,
And storm-won fort and rampart
Your conquering standards show.
Yes—clash, ye bells, in triumph!
Yes—roar, ye cannon, roar!
Not for the living only,
But for those who come no more.
For the brave hearts coldly lying
In their far-off gory graves,
By the Alma's reddened waters,
And the Euxine's dashing waves.
For thee, thou weeping mother,
We grieve; our pity hears
Thy wail, O wife; the fallen,
For them we have no tears;
402

No—but with pride we name them,
For grief their memory wrongs;
Our proudest thoughts shall claim them,
And our exulting songs.
Heights of the rocky Alma,
The flags that scaled you bore
“Plassey,” “Quebec,” and “Blenheim,”
And many a triumph more;
And they shall show your glory
Till men shall silent be
Of Waterloo and Maida,
Moultan and Meanee.
I look; another glory
Methinks they give to fame;
By Badajoz and Bhurtpore
Streams out another name;
From captured fleet, and city,
And fort, the thick clouds roll,
And on the flags above them
Is writ “Sebastopol.”

OUR TRIUMPH FOR SINOPE.

1853.
Let's sing of the deeds we've been doing;
Let's tell of the glory we've won;
The Russians have been to Sinope,
And we've sent to see what they've done;
It may be a Duncan or Jervis
Had found for our fleet other work,
But we've not their old-fashioned way, Sirs,
Just now in assisting the Turk.
Don't talk of the Nile and Trafalgar,
And wish for a Nelson to-day;
He'd have shown Natchimoff at Spithead, Sirs,
But that's not our Aberdeen's way;
403

No—Charley Napier might have blundered;
That's not how our ministers work;
Let Russia do just what she pleases,—
We'll talk and write notes for the Turk.
Some six months or so we've been talking,
And all to no purpose, in truth;
We had but to float on the Baltic,
No Russian had then crossed the Pruth;
But might not the Czar have been angered,
Had our guns, not our tongues, been at work?
It's safer to keep our three-deckers,
Things, but to be seen by the Turk.
Some say, had we argued with broadsides,
The Czar had most certainly heard;
Yes—Cronstadt had sent on our message,
Sebastopol told every word;
But then, you know, all this had hindered
Our Clarendon's whole six months' work;
And then, with our lint at Sinope,
We had not assisted the Turk.
You surely would have us be cowards,
When some others frightened we see!
If Prussia and Austria fear him,
And fawn on him, why should not we?
Without us, France will not be bolder,
And do any true honest work;
Besides, the Czar will but allow us
To play at assisting the Turk.
With England's safety and honour
Who'll say that we're playing the fool?
Our doctors staunch wounds at Sinope;
Our captains drink healths at Stamboul;
We're sorry they butchered some thousands;
Our three-deckers heard them at work;
But, after the slaughter was over,
We dared to send lint to the Turk.
404

BEWARE, O CZAR, BEWARE!

1853.
And does he dare to mutter
To us, of threats and war!
We, too, our threats can utter;
We, too, can strike, O Czar;
For ours—for Europe's freedom,
We well your power may dare;
Your threats—we little heed 'em;
Beware, O Czar, beware!
No—why should we dissemble?
We are not Pole or Russ;
Let Austria fawn and tremble,
What are your threats to us?
Well Petersburgh may fear us,
And Cronstadt!—have a care!
Sebastopol may hear us;
Beware, O Czar, beware!
At serf and savage lancer,
At all your hordes we smile;
What shall your mandates answer?
The broadsides of the Nile.
With right for our reliance,
If you our might will dare,
We fling you our defiance;
Beware, O Czar, beware!
Frown on your vassal, Prussia;
To Denmark nod your will;
But England, god of Russia,
England is England still;
And if your madness warn us
To crush you—have a care;
The time's not come to scorn us;
Beware, O Czar, beware!
405

What! sit you so securely,
You have no cause for fear?
Is Poland crushed so surely,
Her hour may not be near?
What if, with power to right her,
We fling the torch in there,
That shall to freedom light her!
Beware, O Czar, beware!
We would have peace with honour;
Much, much for peace we'd give;
But England, shame upon her,
If she dishonoured live;
Think not of us so poorly;
No fear makes us forbear;
Once striking, we strike surely;
Beware, O Czar, beware!
416

THE PEACE.

1856.
It means in Paris that a tyrant's strengthened
To hold a noble nation, crouching slaves,
It means his hold on France's soul is lengthened,
By that which kings, from rising nations, saves.
It means in Turin that the hopes there cherished
To unchain Italy half-withered droop;
They find its soldiers for a dream have perished,
And that Sardinia is a despot's dupe.
It means in Warsaw that a half-dead nation,
Finds the West's words were merely meant to fool
Its woes to dreams, and wakes with indignation,
To know 'twas used and thrown by as a tool.
417

It means in Stockholm fear and sore complaining,
That the West lured its Swedes to beard the Czar,
To leave them, mocked and scorned, without regaining
Finland, the bait that armed them half for war.
It means in Berlin, Wurtemberg, and Baden,
That Germans are to be the things they are,
From whom their owners no free voice will pardon,
Slaves, through this peace, from freedom doubly far.
And in Vienna peace means the relinking
Of half-cracked chains on Austrian and on Pole,
That Hun and Lombard long may cease from thinking
Of hope of freeing limb, or tongue, or soul.
It means that we to whom each suffering nation
Most looked for help to freedom, next to God,
Hating this peace, must know the degradation,
To smile and sign it at a tyrant's nod.
Therefore, O roaring guns, you well may thunder,
And thunder on as if you ne'er would cease;
Therefore, O clanging steeples, who can wonder
You're clashing England's welcome to this peace!
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