 | Havelock's March and Other Poems |  |
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NATIONAL.
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HAVELOCK'S MARCH.
The Revolt.
Come hither my brave Soldier boy, and sit you by my side,
To hear a tale, a fearful tale, a glorious tale of pride;
How Havelock with his handful, all so faithful, and so few,
Held on in that far Indian land, to bear our England through
Her pass of bloodiest peril, and her reddest sea of wrath;
And strode like Paladins of old on their avenging path.
Tho' clothes were drencht, and flesh was parcht, and bones were chilled with cold,
The gallant hearts never gave up; they never loosed their hold;
But fought right on, and triumphed! O but eyes rained as we read
How proudly every place was filled, with living and with dead.
The dark death-circle narrowed round our little English band:
The stillness of a brooding storm lay on the eastern land;
The false Sepoy stoopt lower for his spring, and, in his eye
A bloody light was burning on them, as he glided by:
Old Horrors rose, and leered at them, from out the tide of time,—
The peering peaks of War's old world, whose brows were stained with crime!
The conscious Silence was but dumb, a cursed plot to hide;
The darkness only a mask of Death, ready to slip aside.
Under the leafy palms they lay, and through their gay green crown,
Our English saw no Storm roll up: no Fate swift flaming down.
To hear a tale, a fearful tale, a glorious tale of pride;
How Havelock with his handful, all so faithful, and so few,
Held on in that far Indian land, to bear our England through
Her pass of bloodiest peril, and her reddest sea of wrath;
And strode like Paladins of old on their avenging path.
Tho' clothes were drencht, and flesh was parcht, and bones were chilled with cold,
The gallant hearts never gave up; they never loosed their hold;
But fought right on, and triumphed! O but eyes rained as we read
How proudly every place was filled, with living and with dead.
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The stillness of a brooding storm lay on the eastern land;
The false Sepoy stoopt lower for his spring, and, in his eye
A bloody light was burning on them, as he glided by:
Old Horrors rose, and leered at them, from out the tide of time,—
The peering peaks of War's old world, whose brows were stained with crime!
The conscious Silence was but dumb, a cursed plot to hide;
The darkness only a mask of Death, ready to slip aside.
Under the leafy palms they lay, and through their gay green crown,
Our English saw no Storm roll up: no Fate swift flaming down.
At last it came. The Rebel drum was heard at dead of night:
They dasht in dust the only torch that showed the face of Right!
Again the Devil clutches at his lost throne of the earth,
And sends a people, smit with plague of madness, howling forth.
As in a Demon's dream they swarm from horrible hiding nooks;
Red Murder stabs the air, and lights their way with bloody looks!
Snuffing the smell of human blood, the cruel Moloch stands;
Hearing the cry of “Kill! Kill! Kill!” and claps his gory hands.
At dead of night, while England slept, the fearful vision came,
She lookt, and with a dawn of hell the East was all a-flame.
They dasht in dust the only torch that showed the face of Right!
Again the Devil clutches at his lost throne of the earth,
And sends a people, smit with plague of madness, howling forth.
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Red Murder stabs the air, and lights their way with bloody looks!
Snuffing the smell of human blood, the cruel Moloch stands;
Hearing the cry of “Kill! Kill! Kill!” and claps his gory hands.
At dead of night, while England slept, the fearful vision came,
She lookt, and with a dawn of hell the East was all a-flame.
Stern tidings came to Havelock, of legions in revolt:
“The traitors turn upon us, and the eaters of our salt,
Subtle as death, and false as hell, and cruel as the grave,
Have sworn to rend us by the root; be quick, if ye would save;
The wild beasts bloody and obscene, mad-drunk with gore and lust,
Have wreaked a horrible vengeance on our England rolled in dust.”
And such a withering wind doth blow, such fearful sounds it brings,
The soul with shudders tries to shake off creeping thoughts and things!
A vast invisible Terror twines its fingers in the hair,
With one hand feeling for the throat; a hand that will not spare.
“The traitors turn upon us, and the eaters of our salt,
Subtle as death, and false as hell, and cruel as the grave,
Have sworn to rend us by the root; be quick, if ye would save;
The wild beasts bloody and obscene, mad-drunk with gore and lust,
Have wreaked a horrible vengeance on our England rolled in dust.”
And such a withering wind doth blow, such fearful sounds it brings,
The soul with shudders tries to shake off creeping thoughts and things!
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With one hand feeling for the throat; a hand that will not spare.
They slew the grizzled Warrior, who to them had been so true;
The ruddy stripling with frank eyes of bonny English blue;
They slew the Maiden as she slept; the Mother great with child;
The Babe, that smiled up in their face, they stabbed it as it smiled.
The piteous, pleading, hoary hair, they draggled in red mire;
And mocked the dying as they dasht out, frantic from the fire,
To fall upon their Tulwars, hacked to death; the bayonet
Held up some child; the devils danced around it writhing yet:
Warm flesh, that kindled so with life, was torn, and slowly hewn,
To daintiest morsels for the feast where death began too soon.
The ruddy stripling with frank eyes of bonny English blue;
They slew the Maiden as she slept; the Mother great with child;
The Babe, that smiled up in their face, they stabbed it as it smiled.
The piteous, pleading, hoary hair, they draggled in red mire;
And mocked the dying as they dasht out, frantic from the fire,
To fall upon their Tulwars, hacked to death; the bayonet
Held up some child; the devils danced around it writhing yet:
Warm flesh, that kindled so with life, was torn, and slowly hewn,
To daintiest morsels for the feast where death began too soon.
Our English girls, whose sweet red blood went dancing on its way,
A merry marriage-maker quick for its near weddingday,—
All life awaiting for the breath of Love's sweet south to blow,
And budding bridal roses ripe with secret balms should flow—
They stripped them naked as they were born; naked along the street,
In their own blood they made them dip their delicate white feet!
With some last rag of shelter the poor helpless darling tries
To hide her from the cruel hell of those devouring eyes;
Then, plucking at the skirts of Death, she prayerfully doth cling,
To hide her from the eyes that still gloat round her in a ring.
A merry marriage-maker quick for its near weddingday,—
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And budding bridal roses ripe with secret balms should flow—
They stripped them naked as they were born; naked along the street,
In their own blood they made them dip their delicate white feet!
With some last rag of shelter the poor helpless darling tries
To hide her from the cruel hell of those devouring eyes;
Then, plucking at the skirts of Death, she prayerfully doth cling,
To hide her from the eyes that still gloat round her in a ring.
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The Avengers.
“Now, Soldiers of our England, let your love arise in power;
For never yet was greater need than in this awful hour:
Together stand like old true-hearts that never fear nor flinch;
With feet that have been shod for death, never to yield an inch.
Our Empire is a Ship on fire, before a howling wind,
With such a smoke of torment, as 'twould make high heaven blind!
Wild Ruin waves his flag of flame, and ye must spring on deck,
And quench the fire in blood, and save our treasures from the wreck.
Many a time has England thought she sent her worth bravest forth;
But never went more gallant men, of more heroic worth.
For never yet was greater need than in this awful hour:
Together stand like old true-hearts that never fear nor flinch;
With feet that have been shod for death, never to yield an inch.
Our Empire is a Ship on fire, before a howling wind,
With such a smoke of torment, as 'twould make high heaven blind!
Wild Ruin waves his flag of flame, and ye must spring on deck,
And quench the fire in blood, and save our treasures from the wreck.
Many a time has England thought she sent her worth bravest forth;
But never went more gallant men, of more heroic worth.
Hungry and lean, thro' rain and mire, our war-wolves grimly go,
On their long march, that shall not mete the red grave of the foe:
Like winter trees stripped to their naked strength of heart and arm,
That glory in their grimness as they tussle with the storm!
Only a handful few and stern, and few and stern their words;
Fierce meaning in their eyes that meet and strike out sparks like swords!
And there goes Havelock! leading the Forlorn Hope of our land;
The quick heart spurring at their side; the banner of their band:
Kindled, but calm, along their ranks his steady eye doth run,
As marksman seeks the death-line down the level of his gun.
On their long march, that shall not mete the red grave of the foe:
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That glory in their grimness as they tussle with the storm!
Only a handful few and stern, and few and stern their words;
Fierce meaning in their eyes that meet and strike out sparks like swords!
And there goes Havelock! leading the Forlorn Hope of our land;
The quick heart spurring at their side; the banner of their band:
Kindled, but calm, along their ranks his steady eye doth run,
As marksman seeks the death-line down the level of his gun.
Beneath the whitening snows of age his spirit ardours glow,
As glow the fragrant fires of spring in flowers beneath the snow.
Look in his grave and martial face, with God's dear pity toucht;
A saviour soul doth sanctify the sword his hand hath clutcht:
A little while his silent thoughts have gone within to pray,
And send a farewell of the heart to the dear ones far away.
He prays to God to light him thro' the perilous darkness, when
He grapples with the beasts of blood, and quells them in their den.
And now his look is lifted in the light of some far goal;
His lips the living trumpet of a grey-haired seer's soul.
As glow the fragrant fires of spring in flowers beneath the snow.
Look in his grave and martial face, with God's dear pity toucht;
A saviour soul doth sanctify the sword his hand hath clutcht:
A little while his silent thoughts have gone within to pray,
And send a farewell of the heart to the dear ones far away.
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He grapples with the beasts of blood, and quells them in their den.
And now his look is lifted in the light of some far goal;
His lips the living trumpet of a grey-haired seer's soul.
On the housetops of Allahabad black, scowling brows were bent,
In hate, and deep, still curses, on our heroes as they went
To fight their hundred-days-long fight; all true as their good steel,
The Highlanders of Havelock, the Fusileers of Neil!
A falling firmament of rain the heavens were pouring down;
They heeded not the drowning heavens, nor yet the foeman's frown:
Forward they strained with hearts a-fire, and gallantly they toiled
Till darkness fell upon them: then the Moon rose up and smiled.
A little thing! and yet it seemed at such a time to come
Just like a proud and mournful smile from the very heart of Home.
In hate, and deep, still curses, on our heroes as they went
To fight their hundred-days-long fight; all true as their good steel,
The Highlanders of Havelock, the Fusileers of Neil!
A falling firmament of rain the heavens were pouring down;
They heeded not the drowning heavens, nor yet the foeman's frown:
Forward they strained with hearts a-fire, and gallantly they toiled
Till darkness fell upon them: then the Moon rose up and smiled.
A little thing! and yet it seemed at such a time to come
Just like a proud and mournful smile from the very heart of Home.
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That night they halted in a snipe-swamp; hungry, cold, and drencht;
With hearts that kept the blitheness of brave men that never blencht.
Thro' flooding nullah, slushy sand, onward they strode again,
Ere Dawn, a wingéd glory, alit upon the burnisht rain,
And mists up-gathered sullenly along the rear of flight,
Slowly as beaten Bellooches might lounge from out the fight.
Then heaven grew like inverted hell; a blazing vault of fire!
The Sun pursuing pitiless, to bring the brain-strokes nigher;
With white heat blinding in their front, and burning down all day,
Intently as the eyes of Death a-feeding on his prey.
With hearts that kept the blitheness of brave men that never blencht.
Thro' flooding nullah, slushy sand, onward they strode again,
Ere Dawn, a wingéd glory, alit upon the burnisht rain,
And mists up-gathered sullenly along the rear of flight,
Slowly as beaten Bellooches might lounge from out the fight.
Then heaven grew like inverted hell; a blazing vault of fire!
The Sun pursuing pitiless, to bring the brain-strokes nigher;
With white heat blinding in their front, and burning down all day,
Intently as the eyes of Death a-feeding on his prey.
All the day long, and every day, with patience conquering pain,
Our good and gallant fellows with one purpose forward strain;
For there is that within each heart nothing but death can stop;
They hurry on, and hurry on, and hurry till they drop;
Trying to save the remnant; reach the leaguered place in time
To grasp, with red-wet slaughtering hands, the workers of this crime.
They think of all the dead that float adown the Ganges' waters:
Those noble Englishmen of ours; their gentle wives and daughters!
Of Fire and Madness broken loose, and doing deeds most pitiful;
And then of vengeance dealt out by the choaked and blackened city-full.
Our good and gallant fellows with one purpose forward strain;
For there is that within each heart nothing but death can stop;
They hurry on, and hurry on, and hurry till they drop;
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To grasp, with red-wet slaughtering hands, the workers of this crime.
They think of all the dead that float adown the Ganges' waters:
Those noble Englishmen of ours; their gentle wives and daughters!
Of Fire and Madness broken loose, and doing deeds most pitiful;
And then of vengeance dealt out by the choaked and blackened city-full.
They think of those poor things that climb each little eminence;
As, from the deluge of the dark, when day is going hence,
The sheep will huddle up the hill, and gather there forlorn;
So gather they in this dread night, to wait the far-off morn.
Or, crouching in the jungle, they look up in Nature's face,
To find she has no heart, for all her reptilinear grace!
Each leaf a sword, or prickly spear, or lifted jagged knife!
No shields of shelter like our leaves; but threatening human life,
With ominous gouts of blood; and there the roots go writhing round,
Like curses coiled upon the spring, that rest not underground.
As, from the deluge of the dark, when day is going hence,
The sheep will huddle up the hill, and gather there forlorn;
So gather they in this dread night, to wait the far-off morn.
Or, crouching in the jungle, they look up in Nature's face,
To find she has no heart, for all her reptilinear grace!
Each leaf a sword, or prickly spear, or lifted jagged knife!
No shields of shelter like our leaves; but threatening human life,
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Like curses coiled upon the spring, that rest not underground.
They find sure tokens all the day! and starting from their dream
At night, they hear the Pariah dogs that howl by Ganges stream,
Knowing the waters bear their freight of corpses stiff and stark,
Scenting the footfalls on the air, as Death comes down the dark;
Only the Lotus with ripe lips, and arms caressing clings.
The silence swarms with ghastly thoughts; each sound with ghastly things.
There, stands the plough i' the furrow; there the villagers have flown!
There, Fire ran dancing over roofs that underfoot went down!
There, Renaud hung his dangling dead, with but short time for shrift,
He caught them on their way to hell, and gave them there a lift.
At night, they hear the Pariah dogs that howl by Ganges stream,
Knowing the waters bear their freight of corpses stiff and stark,
Scenting the footfalls on the air, as Death comes down the dark;
Only the Lotus with ripe lips, and arms caressing clings.
The silence swarms with ghastly thoughts; each sound with ghastly things.
There, stands the plough i' the furrow; there the villagers have flown!
There, Fire ran dancing over roofs that underfoot went down!
There, Renaud hung his dangling dead, with but short time for shrift,
He caught them on their way to hell, and gave them there a lift.
They saw the first sight of their foe as the fourth dawn grew red;
Twenty miles to breakfast marched; and had to fight instead.
The morning smiled on arms up-piled, and weary way-worn men,
But soon the assembly sounded, and they sprung to arms again;
The heaviest hearts up-leaping light, as flames that tread on air.
The Rebel line bore down as they had caught us unaware;
But Maude dasht forward with his guns, over the sandy mire,
And little did they relish our bright rain of rifle fire:
Quickly the onward way was ploughed, with heaps on either hand;
They broke the foe, then broke their fast, that dauntless little band.
Twenty miles to breakfast marched; and had to fight instead.
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But soon the assembly sounded, and they sprung to arms again;
The heaviest hearts up-leaping light, as flames that tread on air.
The Rebel line bore down as they had caught us unaware;
But Maude dasht forward with his guns, over the sandy mire,
And little did they relish our bright rain of rifle fire:
Quickly the onward way was ploughed, with heaps on either hand;
They broke the foe, then broke their fast, that dauntless little band.
Again they felt our withering fire, by Pandoo Nuddee stream;
Again they feared the crashing charge, and fled the vengeful gleam:
Small loss was his in battle when the Conqueror lookt around;
But many fell from weariness, and died without a wound.
Soft, whispering flowery secrets, came a low wind of the west
That eve, like breath made balmy with the sweet love in the breast;
Breathing its freshness thro' the groves of Mango and of Palm;
But the sweetest thing that wind could bring was slumber's holy balm,
To bless them for the morrow, and give strength for them to cope
With those ten thousand men that stood betwixt them and their hope.
Again they feared the crashing charge, and fled the vengeful gleam:
Small loss was his in battle when the Conqueror lookt around;
But many fell from weariness, and died without a wound.
Soft, whispering flowery secrets, came a low wind of the west
That eve, like breath made balmy with the sweet love in the breast;
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But the sweetest thing that wind could bring was slumber's holy balm,
To bless them for the morrow, and give strength for them to cope
With those ten thousand men that stood betwixt them and their hope.
It must have been a glorious sight to see them as they went,
With veteran valour steady; sure of proud accomplishment,
When Havelock bade his line advance, and the Highlanders swept on;
Each one at heart a thousand; a thousand men as one;
Linked in their beautiful proud line across the broken lands,
Straight on! they never paused to lift the weapon in their hands;
Silent, compact and resolute, charged as a thunder-cloud.
That burst, and wrapt the dead and living in one smoky shroud;
One volley of Defiance! one wild cheer! and through the smoke,
They flasht! and all the battle into flying fragments broke.
With veteran valour steady; sure of proud accomplishment,
When Havelock bade his line advance, and the Highlanders swept on;
Each one at heart a thousand; a thousand men as one;
Linked in their beautiful proud line across the broken lands,
Straight on! they never paused to lift the weapon in their hands;
Silent, compact and resolute, charged as a thunder-cloud.
That burst, and wrapt the dead and living in one smoky shroud;
One volley of Defiance! one wild cheer! and through the smoke,
They flasht! and all the battle into flying fragments broke.
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When night came down they lay there, gashed all over, side by side,
The grey old warrior, and the youth, his Mother's darling pride!
Rolled with the rebel in the dust, and grim in bloody death;
And over all the mist arose, dank as the graveyard's breath.
But light of heart we took the hill, and very proud that night
Was Havelock of his noble men, and Cawnpore was in sight.
The men had neither food nor tent, but the red road was won:
And very proud were they to hear their General's “Well done;”
Not knowing how their triumph-cheer had rung a fatal knell;
Or what that wondrous wretch had done who has no match in hell.
The grey old warrior, and the youth, his Mother's darling pride!
Rolled with the rebel in the dust, and grim in bloody death;
And over all the mist arose, dank as the graveyard's breath.
But light of heart we took the hill, and very proud that night
Was Havelock of his noble men, and Cawnpore was in sight.
The men had neither food nor tent, but the red road was won:
And very proud were they to hear their General's “Well done;”
Not knowing how their triumph-cheer had rung a fatal knell;
Or what that wondrous wretch had done who has no match in hell.
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Cawnpore.
Cawnpore was ghastly silent, as into it they stepped;
There stood the blackened Ruin that the brave old Soldier kept!
Where strained each ear for the English cheer, and stretcht the wan wide eyes,
Thro' all that awful night to see the signal rocket rise;
No tramp, no cheer of Brothers near; no distant cannon's boom;
Nothing but Death goes to and fro betwixt the glare and gloom.
The living remnant try to hold their bit of blood-stained ground;
Dark gaps continual in their midst; the dead all lying round;
And saddest corpses still are those that die and do not die;
With just a little glimmering light of life to show them by.
There stood the blackened Ruin that the brave old Soldier kept!
Where strained each ear for the English cheer, and stretcht the wan wide eyes,
Thro' all that awful night to see the signal rocket rise;
No tramp, no cheer of Brothers near; no distant cannon's boom;
Nothing but Death goes to and fro betwixt the glare and gloom.
The living remnant try to hold their bit of blood-stained ground;
Dark gaps continual in their midst; the dead all lying round;
And saddest corpses still are those that die and do not die;
With just a little glimmering light of life to show them by.
Each drop of water cost a wound to fetch it from the well;
The father heard his crying child and went, but surely fell.
They had drunk all their tears, and now dry agony drank their blood;
The sand was killing in their souls; the wind a fiery flood;
Oh, for one waft of heather-breath from off a Scottish wold!
One shower that makes our English leaves smile greener for its gold!
Then life drops in ward from the eyes; turns upward with last prayer,
To look for its deliverance; the only way lies there!
And then triumphant Treachery made leap each trusting heart,
Like some poor Bird called from the nest, up-poising for the dart.
The father heard his crying child and went, but surely fell.
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The sand was killing in their souls; the wind a fiery flood;
Oh, for one waft of heather-breath from off a Scottish wold!
One shower that makes our English leaves smile greener for its gold!
Then life drops in ward from the eyes; turns upward with last prayer,
To look for its deliverance; the only way lies there!
And then triumphant Treachery made leap each trusting heart,
Like some poor Bird called from the nest, up-poising for the dart.
“Come, let us pray,” their Chaplain said. No other boon was craved:
No pleading word for mercy sued; no face the white flag waved;
But all grasped hands and prayed, till peace their souls serenely filled;
Then like our noble Martyrs, there they stood up, and were killed.
Only one saved!
He led our soldiers to the house of blood;
An eager, panting, cursing crew! but stricken there they stood
In silence that was breathlessness of vengeance infinite;
A-many wept like women who were fiercest in the fight:
There grew a look in human eyes as tho' a wild beast came
Up in them at that scent of blood and glared devouring flame.
No pleading word for mercy sued; no face the white flag waved;
But all grasped hands and prayed, till peace their souls serenely filled;
Then like our noble Martyrs, there they stood up, and were killed.
Only one saved!
He led our soldiers to the house of blood;
An eager, panting, cursing crew! but stricken there they stood
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A-many wept like women who were fiercest in the fight:
There grew a look in human eyes as tho' a wild beast came
Up in them at that scent of blood and glared devouring flame.
All the Babes and Women butchered! all the dear ones dead;
The story of their martyrdom in lines of awful red!
The blood-black floor, the clotted gore, fair tresses, fierce sword-dints;
Last message-scrawl upon the wall, and tiny fingerprints:
Gathered in one were all strange sights of horror and despair,
That make the vision blood-shot, freeze the life, or lift the hair.
Faces to faces flasht hell-fire! O, but they felt 'twould take
The very cup of God's own wrath, that terrible thirst to slake:
For many a day “Cawnpore” was hissed, and, at its word of guilt,
The slaying sword went merciless right, ruddy to the hilt.
The story of their martyrdom in lines of awful red!
The blood-black floor, the clotted gore, fair tresses, fierce sword-dints;
Last message-scrawl upon the wall, and tiny fingerprints:
Gathered in one were all strange sights of horror and despair,
That make the vision blood-shot, freeze the life, or lift the hair.
Faces to faces flasht hell-fire! O, but they felt 'twould take
The very cup of God's own wrath, that terrible thirst to slake:
For many a day “Cawnpore” was hissed, and, at its word of guilt,
The slaying sword went merciless right, ruddy to the hilt.
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There came a time we caught them, with a vast and whelming wave,
And in their grand Secunder Bagh, we made a bloody grave!
Once more the Highlanders pressed on with nervous, springy tread,
And Peel was there with his big guns, and Campbell at their head:
A spring of daring madness! and they leapt upon their prey
With hungry hearts on fury fed, for many and many a day.
For hours and hours, they slew, and slew, the devils in their den:
“Ye wreaked your will on women weak, now try it with strong men.”
The blood that cried to heaven long in vapours from our slain,
Fell hot and fast upon their heads in a rich ruddy rain.
And in their grand Secunder Bagh, we made a bloody grave!
Once more the Highlanders pressed on with nervous, springy tread,
And Peel was there with his big guns, and Campbell at their head:
A spring of daring madness! and they leapt upon their prey
With hungry hearts on fury fed, for many and many a day.
For hours and hours, they slew, and slew, the devils in their den:
“Ye wreaked your will on women weak, now try it with strong men.”
The blood that cried to heaven long in vapours from our slain,
Fell hot and fast upon their heads in a rich ruddy rain.
That day we made their delicate white marble glow and swim;
There rose a cry like hell from out a slaughter great and grim:
And as they claspt their hands and sued for mercy where they fell,
One last sure thrust was given for that red and writhing Well.
And there was joy in every heart, and light in every eye,
To see the traitor hordes that fled, make a last stand to die!
While from the big wide wounds, like snakes, the runlets crawled along
And stole away; the reptiles who had done the cruel wrong!
A terrible reprisal for each precious drop they spilled.
Seventeen hundred coward killers there were bravely killed.
There rose a cry like hell from out a slaughter great and grim:
And as they claspt their hands and sued for mercy where they fell,
One last sure thrust was given for that red and writhing Well.
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To see the traitor hordes that fled, make a last stand to die!
While from the big wide wounds, like snakes, the runlets crawled along
And stole away; the reptiles who had done the cruel wrong!
A terrible reprisal for each precious drop they spilled.
Seventeen hundred coward killers there were bravely killed.
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The Relief.
England's unseen, dead Sorrow doth a visible Angel rise;
The sword of justice in her hand; Revenge looks thro' her eyes:
Stern with the purpose in her soul right onward hastens she,
Like one that bears the doom of worlds, with vengeful majesty;
Sombre, superb, and terrible, before them still she goes!
And tho' they lessen day by day, they deal such echoing blows,
That still dilating with success, still mightier grows that band,
Till in the place of hundreds, ten thousand seem to stand.
With arms that weary not at work, they bear our victor flag,
To plant it high on hills of dead, a torn and bloody rag.
The sword of justice in her hand; Revenge looks thro' her eyes:
Stern with the purpose in her soul right onward hastens she,
Like one that bears the doom of worlds, with vengeful majesty;
Sombre, superb, and terrible, before them still she goes!
And tho' they lessen day by day, they deal such echoing blows,
That still dilating with success, still mightier grows that band,
Till in the place of hundreds, ten thousand seem to stand.
With arms that weary not at work, they bear our victor flag,
To plant it high on hills of dead, a torn and bloody rag.
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And Lucknow lies before them now, with all its pomp unrolled;
Against the smiling sapphire, gleam her tops of lighted gold.
Each royal wall is fretted all with frostwork and with fire,
A glory of colours jewel-rich, that makes a splendourpyre,
As wave on wave the wonder breaks, the pointed [spire; flames burn higher;
On dome of mosque and minaret, on pinnacle and
Fairy creations, seen mid-air, that in their pleasaunce wait,
Like wingéd creatures sitting just outside their heaven-gate.
The City in its beauty lies, with flowers about her feet;
Green fields, and goodly gardens, make so foul a thing seem sweet.
Against the smiling sapphire, gleam her tops of lighted gold.
Each royal wall is fretted all with frostwork and with fire,
A glory of colours jewel-rich, that makes a splendourpyre,
As wave on wave the wonder breaks, the pointed [spire; flames burn higher;
On dome of mosque and minaret, on pinnacle and
Fairy creations, seen mid-air, that in their pleasaunce wait,
Like wingéd creatures sitting just outside their heaven-gate.
The City in its beauty lies, with flowers about her feet;
Green fields, and goodly gardens, make so foul a thing seem sweet.
The Trumpet rings out for the march with utterance golden-grand,
A sound that shivers to the heart of Havelock's little band,
And makes their spirits thrill as leaves are thrilled in some wild wind;
Hunger and heartache, weariness and wounds, all left behind.
Their sufferings all forgotten now, as in the ranks they form;
And every man in stature rose to wrestle with that storm.
All silent! what was in their hearts could not be said in words;
With faces set for Lucknow, ground to sharpness, keen as swords!
A tightning twitch all over! a grim glistening in the eye,
“Forward!” and on their way they strode to dare, and do, and die.
A sound that shivers to the heart of Havelock's little band,
And makes their spirits thrill as leaves are thrilled in some wild wind;
Hunger and heartache, weariness and wounds, all left behind.
32
And every man in stature rose to wrestle with that storm.
All silent! what was in their hearts could not be said in words;
With faces set for Lucknow, ground to sharpness, keen as swords!
A tightning twitch all over! a grim glistening in the eye,
“Forward!” and on their way they strode to dare, and do, and die.
Hope whispers at the ear of some, that they shall meet again,
And clasp their long-lost darlings, after all the toil and pain;
A-many know that they will sleep to-night among the slain;
And many a cheek will bloom no more for all the tearful rain:
And some have only vengeance; but to-day 'tis bitter sweet;
And there goes Havelock! his aim too lofty for defeat;
With steady tramp the column treads, true as the firm heart's-beat;
Upon its headlong murderous march for that long fatal street.
All ready to win a soldier's grave, or do the daring deed!
But not a man that fears to die for England in her need.
And clasp their long-lost darlings, after all the toil and pain;
A-many know that they will sleep to-night among the slain;
And many a cheek will bloom no more for all the tearful rain:
And some have only vengeance; but to-day 'tis bitter sweet;
And there goes Havelock! his aim too lofty for defeat;
With steady tramp the column treads, true as the firm heart's-beat;
Upon its headlong murderous march for that long fatal street.
33
But not a man that fears to die for England in her need.
The masked artillery raked the road, and plough'd them front and flank;
Some gallant fellow every step was stricken from the rank;
But, as he staggered, in his place another sternly stepped;
And, firing fast as they could load, their onward way they kept.
Now, give them the good bayonet! with England's fiercest foes,
Strong arm, cold steel will do it, in the wildest, bloodiest close:
And now their bayonets abreast go sparkling up the ridge,
And with a thrilling cheer they take the guns, and clear the bridge.
One good home-thrust! and surely, as the dead in doom are sure,
They send them where the British cheer can trouble them no more.
Some gallant fellow every step was stricken from the rank;
But, as he staggered, in his place another sternly stepped;
And, firing fast as they could load, their onward way they kept.
Now, give them the good bayonet! with England's fiercest foes,
Strong arm, cold steel will do it, in the wildest, bloodiest close:
And now their bayonets abreast go sparkling up the ridge,
And with a thrilling cheer they take the guns, and clear the bridge.
One good home-thrust! and surely, as the dead in doom are sure,
They send them where the British cheer can trouble them no more.
The fire is biting bitterly; onward the battle rolls;
And Death is glaring at them, from then thousand hiding holes;
Death stretches up from earth to heaven, spreading his darkness round;
Death piles the heaps of helplessness face downward to the ground;
Death flames from deadly ambuscades, where all was still and dark;
Death swiftly speeds on whizzing wings the bullets to their mark;
Death from the doors and windows, all around and overhead,
Darts, with his cloven fiery tongues, incessant, quick, and red:
Death everywhere, Death in all sounds, and, thro' the smoky seeth,
Victory beckons at the end of long dark lanes of death.
And Death is glaring at them, from then thousand hiding holes;
34
Death piles the heaps of helplessness face downward to the ground;
Death flames from deadly ambuscades, where all was still and dark;
Death swiftly speeds on whizzing wings the bullets to their mark;
Death from the doors and windows, all around and overhead,
Darts, with his cloven fiery tongues, incessant, quick, and red:
Death everywhere, Death in all sounds, and, thro' the smoky seeth,
Victory beckons at the end of long dark lanes of death.
Another charge, another cheer, another battery won!
And in a whirlwind of fierce fire the fight goes roaring on.
Into the very heart of hell, with comrades falling fast,
Thro' all that tempest terrible, the glorious remnant passed.
No time to help a dear old friend: but where the wounded fell,
They knew it was all over, and they lookt a last farewell.
And dying eyes, slow setting in a cold and stony stare,
Turned upward, see a map of murder scribbled on the air
With crossing flames; and others read their fiery fearful fate,
In dark, swart faces waiting for them, almost white with hate.
And in a whirlwind of fierce fire the fight goes roaring on.
Into the very heart of hell, with comrades falling fast,
Thro' all that tempest terrible, the glorious remnant passed.
No time to help a dear old friend: but where the wounded fell,
They knew it was all over, and they lookt a last farewell.
35
Turned upward, see a map of murder scribbled on the air
With crossing flames; and others read their fiery fearful fate,
In dark, swart faces waiting for them, almost white with hate.
O, proudly men will march to death, when Havelock leads them on:
Thro' all the storm he sat his horse as he were cut in stone!
But now his look grows dark; his eye lightens with quicker flash:
“On, for the Residency, we must make a last brave dash.”
And on dasht Highlander and Sikh thro' a sea of fire and steel,
On, with the lion of their strength, our first in glory, Niel!
It seemed the face of heaven grew black, so close it held its breath,
Through all the glorious agony of that long march of death.
The round shot tears, the bullets rain; O God, outspread thy shield!
Put forth thy red right arm, for them! thy sword of sharpness wield.
One wave breaks forward on the shore, and one falls helpless back:
Again they club their wasted strength, to fight like “Hell-fire Jack.”
And still as fainter grows the fire of that intrepid band,
Again they grasp the bayonet as 'twere Salvation's hand.
They leap the broad, deep trenches, rush thro' archways streaming fire;
Every step some brave heart bursts, heaving deliverance nigher:
“I'm hit,” cries one, “you'll take me on your back, my comrade, I
Should like to see their bonny white faces once before I die;
My body may save you from the shot.”
His comrade bore him on:
But, ere they reacht the Bailie Guard, the longing soul was gone.
Thro' all the storm he sat his horse as he were cut in stone!
But now his look grows dark; his eye lightens with quicker flash:
“On, for the Residency, we must make a last brave dash.”
And on dasht Highlander and Sikh thro' a sea of fire and steel,
On, with the lion of their strength, our first in glory, Niel!
It seemed the face of heaven grew black, so close it held its breath,
Through all the glorious agony of that long march of death.
The round shot tears, the bullets rain; O God, outspread thy shield!
Put forth thy red right arm, for them! thy sword of sharpness wield.
36
Again they club their wasted strength, to fight like “Hell-fire Jack.”
And still as fainter grows the fire of that intrepid band,
Again they grasp the bayonet as 'twere Salvation's hand.
They leap the broad, deep trenches, rush thro' archways streaming fire;
Every step some brave heart bursts, heaving deliverance nigher:
“I'm hit,” cries one, “you'll take me on your back, my comrade, I
Should like to see their bonny white faces once before I die;
My body may save you from the shot.”
His comrade bore him on:
But, ere they reacht the Bailie Guard, the longing soul was gone.
And now the Gateway was in sight; the last grim moment came.
One moment makes immortal! dead or living, endless fame!
They heard the voice of fiery Niel, that like a trumpet thrilled!
“Push on my men, 'tis getting dark: ”he sat where he was killed.
Another frantic surge of life, and plunging o'er the bar,
Right into harbour bursting goes their whirling wave of war,
And breaks in mighty thunders of reverberating cheers,
Then dances on in frolic foam of kisses, blessings, tears.
Stabbed by mistake, one native cries with the last breath he draws,
“Welcome, my friends, never you mind, it's all for the good cause.”
One moment makes immortal! dead or living, endless fame!
They heard the voice of fiery Niel, that like a trumpet thrilled!
“Push on my men, 'tis getting dark: ”he sat where he was killed.
37
Right into harbour bursting goes their whirling wave of war,
And breaks in mighty thunders of reverberating cheers,
Then dances on in frolic foam of kisses, blessings, tears.
Stabbed by mistake, one native cries with the last breath he draws,
“Welcome, my friends, never you mind, it's all for the good cause.”
How they had leaned and listened, as the battle sounded nigher;
How they had strained their eyes to see them coming crown'd with fire!
Till in the flashing street they heard them breathing bloody breath,
And then the English faces came white from the clouds of death;
And iron grasp met tender clasp; wan weeping women fold
Their dear Deliverers, down whose long rough beards the big tears rolled.
Another such a meeting will not be on this side heaven!
The little wine they have hoarded, to the last drop shall be given
To those who, in their mortal need, fought on thro' fearful odds,
Bled for them, reacht them, saved them, less like men than glorious gods.
How they had strained their eyes to see them coming crown'd with fire!
Till in the flashing street they heard them breathing bloody breath,
And then the English faces came white from the clouds of death;
And iron grasp met tender clasp; wan weeping women fold
Their dear Deliverers, down whose long rough beards the big tears rolled.
Another such a meeting will not be on this side heaven!
The little wine they have hoarded, to the last drop shall be given
38
Bled for them, reacht them, saved them, less like men than glorious gods.
39
Death of Havelock.
The Warrior may be ripe for rest, and laurelled with great deeds,
But till their work be done, no rest for those whom God yet needs:
Whether in rivers of ruin their onward way they tear,
Or healing waters trembling with the beauty that they bear;
Blasting or blessing they must on: on, on, for ever on!
Divine unrest is in their breast, until their work be done.
Nor is it all a pleasant path the sacred band must tread,
With life a summer holiday, and death a downy bed!
They wear away with noble use, they drink the tearful cup;
And they must bear the bitter cross who go with Christ to sup.
But till their work be done, no rest for those whom God yet needs:
Whether in rivers of ruin their onward way they tear,
Or healing waters trembling with the beauty that they bear;
Blasting or blessing they must on: on, on, for ever on!
Divine unrest is in their breast, until their work be done.
Nor is it all a pleasant path the sacred band must tread,
With life a summer holiday, and death a downy bed!
They wear away with noble use, they drink the tearful cup;
And they must bear the bitter cross who go with Christ to sup.
Each day his face grew thinner, and sweeter, saintlier grew
The smiling soul that every day was burning keenlier through.
And higher, each day higher, did the life-flame heavenward climb,
Like sad sweet sunshine up the wall, that for the sunset time
Still watches; and the signal that shall call it hence is given;
Even so his spirit kept the watch, till beckoned home to heaven.
His work was done, his eyes with peace were soft and satisfied;
War-worn and wasted, in the arms of Victory he died.
“Havelock's dead,” and darkness fell on every upturned face;
The shadow of an Angel passing from its earthly place.
The smiling soul that every day was burning keenlier through.
40
Like sad sweet sunshine up the wall, that for the sunset time
Still watches; and the signal that shall call it hence is given;
Even so his spirit kept the watch, till beckoned home to heaven.
His work was done, his eyes with peace were soft and satisfied;
War-worn and wasted, in the arms of Victory he died.
“Havelock's dead,” and darkness fell on every upturned face;
The shadow of an Angel passing from its earthly place.
They laid it low, the old grey head, not only grey with years;
It had been bowed in Sorrow's lap and silvered with her tears;
Our England may not crown it, with her heart too full for speech;
The hand that draws into the dark, hath borne it beyond reach.
The eyes of far-away heaven-blue, with such keen lustre lit,
As they could pierce the dark of death, and, star-like, fathom it,
They may not swim with sweetness as the happy Children run
To welcome home the Reaper, when the weary day is done!
How would the tremulous radiance round the old man's mouth have smiled;
Our good grey-headed hero, with the heart of a little child.
It had been bowed in Sorrow's lap and silvered with her tears;
Our England may not crown it, with her heart too full for speech;
The hand that draws into the dark, hath borne it beyond reach.
The eyes of far-away heaven-blue, with such keen lustre lit,
As they could pierce the dark of death, and, star-like, fathom it,
41
To welcome home the Reaper, when the weary day is done!
How would the tremulous radiance round the old man's mouth have smiled;
Our good grey-headed hero, with the heart of a little child.
In grandest strength he fell, full-length; and now our hero climbs
To those who stood up in their day and spoke with after times:
There on the battlements of Heaven, they watch us, looking back
To see the blessing flow for those who follow in their track.
He smileth from his heaven now; the Martyr with his palm;
The weary warrior's tired life is crown'd with starry calm.
On many sailing thro' the storm another star shall shine,
And they shall look up thro' the night and conquer at the sign.
In the red pass of peril, with a fame shall never dim,
Died Havelock, the Good Soldier; who would not die like him?
Honour to Henry Havelock! tho' not of kingly blood,
He wore the double royalty of being great and good.
He rose and reacht the topmost height; our Hero lowly born:
So from the lowly grass hath grown the proud embattled Corn!
He rose up in our cruel need, and towering on he trod;
Bearing his brow to battle bold, as humbly to his God.
He did his work nor thought of nations ringing with his name,
He walkt with God, and talkt with God, nor cared if following Fame
Should find him toiling in the field, or sleeping underground;
Nor did he mind what resting-place, with heaven embracing round.
To those who stood up in their day and spoke with after times:
There on the battlements of Heaven, they watch us, looking back
To see the blessing flow for those who follow in their track.
He smileth from his heaven now; the Martyr with his palm;
The weary warrior's tired life is crown'd with starry calm.
On many sailing thro' the storm another star shall shine,
And they shall look up thro' the night and conquer at the sign.
In the red pass of peril, with a fame shall never dim,
Died Havelock, the Good Soldier; who would not die like him?
42
He wore the double royalty of being great and good.
He rose and reacht the topmost height; our Hero lowly born:
So from the lowly grass hath grown the proud embattled Corn!
He rose up in our cruel need, and towering on he trod;
Bearing his brow to battle bold, as humbly to his God.
He did his work nor thought of nations ringing with his name,
He walkt with God, and talkt with God, nor cared if following Fame
Should find him toiling in the field, or sleeping underground;
Nor did he mind what resting-place, with heaven embracing round.
When swarming hell had broken bounds, he showed us how to stand
With rootage like the Palm amidst the maddest whirl of sand;
Undaunted while the swarthy storm around him swirled and swirled,
A winding sheet of all white life! a wild Sahara world!
The drowning waves closed over him, lost to all human view,
But, like an arrow straight from God, he cleft their twelve hosts through.
No swerving as he walkt along the rearing earthquake ridge;
He made a way for Victory, his body was her bridge.
Grand in the mouths of men his fame along the centuries runs;
Women shall read of his great deed and bear heroic sons.
With rootage like the Palm amidst the maddest whirl of sand;
Undaunted while the swarthy storm around him swirled and swirled,
A winding sheet of all white life! a wild Sahara world!
The drowning waves closed over him, lost to all human view,
But, like an arrow straight from God, he cleft their twelve hosts through.
43
He made a way for Victory, his body was her bridge.
Grand in the mouths of men his fame along the centuries runs;
Women shall read of his great deed and bear heroic sons.
He leant a trusting hand on heaven, a gentle heart on home;
In secret he grew ready, ere the Judgment hour was come.
In darkest days of duty he had seen God's goodness shown;
And now, in all his beauty sees the King upon his throne!
Some Angel-Mute had led him thro' his trial's thorny ways,
Till, on a sudden, lo, he stood, full in the glory's blaze.
Aloud, for all the world to hear, God called his servant's name,
And led him forth, where all might see, upon the heights of fame.
His arch of life, suspended as it sprang, in heaven appears,
Our bow of promise o'er the storm, seen thro' rejoicing tears.
Joy to old England! she has stuff for storm-sail and for stay,
While she can breed such heroes, in her quiet, homely way:
Such martial souls that go with grim, war-figured brows pulled down,
As men that are resolved to bear Death's heavy, iron crown.
So long as she has sons like these, no foe shall make her bow,
While Ocean washes her white feet; Heaven kisses her fair brow.
Her beauty high and starlike in its splendour, hath not fled;
Her bravery high and warlike is not vanisht, is not dead:
War blows away the ashes gray, and kindles at the core,
Live sparkles of such sacred fire as glowed on Marston Moor.
In secret he grew ready, ere the Judgment hour was come.
In darkest days of duty he had seen God's goodness shown;
And now, in all his beauty sees the King upon his throne!
Some Angel-Mute had led him thro' his trial's thorny ways,
Till, on a sudden, lo, he stood, full in the glory's blaze.
Aloud, for all the world to hear, God called his servant's name,
And led him forth, where all might see, upon the heights of fame.
His arch of life, suspended as it sprang, in heaven appears,
Our bow of promise o'er the storm, seen thro' rejoicing tears.
44
While she can breed such heroes, in her quiet, homely way:
Such martial souls that go with grim, war-figured brows pulled down,
As men that are resolved to bear Death's heavy, iron crown.
So long as she has sons like these, no foe shall make her bow,
While Ocean washes her white feet; Heaven kisses her fair brow.
Her beauty high and starlike in its splendour, hath not fled;
Her bravery high and warlike is not vanisht, is not dead:
War blows away the ashes gray, and kindles at the core,
Live sparkles of such sacred fire as glowed on Marston Moor.
Thank God for all our heroes, who so wondrously have done!
Thank God for men like Havelock, and mighty Nicholson:
Hodgeson, of Hodgeson's Horse, who slew the guiltiest; noble Niel;
And he o' the good Ship Shannon, our beloved Captain Peel!
If India's fate had rested on each single saviour soul,
They would have kept their grasp of it till we regained the whole.
One fighter never would give in, thro' all his fearless part;
One fortress they could never win; 'twas the true English heart.
The Lightnings of that bursting Cloud, which were to blast our might,
But served to shew its majesty clear in the sterner light.
Thank God for men like Havelock, and mighty Nicholson:
Hodgeson, of Hodgeson's Horse, who slew the guiltiest; noble Niel;
And he o' the good Ship Shannon, our beloved Captain Peel!
45
They would have kept their grasp of it till we regained the whole.
One fighter never would give in, thro' all his fearless part;
One fortress they could never win; 'twas the true English heart.
The Lightnings of that bursting Cloud, which were to blast our might,
But served to shew its majesty clear in the sterner light.
Our England towers up beautiful with her dilating form,
To greater stature in the strife, and glory in the storm;
Her wrath's great wine-press trodden on so many vintage fields,
With crush and strain, and press of pain, a ripened spirit yields,
To warm us in our winter, when the times are coward and cold,
And work divinely in young veins; bring boyhood to the old.
Behold her flame from field to field on Victory's chariot wheels,
Till to its den, bleeding to death, Rebellion backward reels.
Her Martyrs are aveng'd! ye may search that Indian land,
And scarcely find a single soul of all the bloody band.
To greater stature in the strife, and glory in the storm;
Her wrath's great wine-press trodden on so many vintage fields,
With crush and strain, and press of pain, a ripened spirit yields,
To warm us in our winter, when the times are coward and cold,
And work divinely in young veins; bring boyhood to the old.
Behold her flame from field to field on Victory's chariot wheels,
Till to its den, bleeding to death, Rebellion backward reels.
46
And scarcely find a single soul of all the bloody band.
We've many a nameless hero lying in his unknown grave,
Their life's gold fragment gleaming but a sunfleck on the wave.
But rest you unknown, noble dead! our living are one hand
Of England's power; but, with her dead she grasps into the land.
In many a country they sleep crown'd, her conquering, faithful dead;
They pave her path where shines her sun of empire overhead;
And where their blood has turned to bloom, our England's Rose is red:
They circle in a glorious ring, with which the world is wed.
For us the flower of our race makes quick the sand and sod,
And there, as here, amid our dead, we build our Church to God.
Their life's gold fragment gleaming but a sunfleck on the wave.
But rest you unknown, noble dead! our living are one hand
Of England's power; but, with her dead she grasps into the land.
In many a country they sleep crown'd, her conquering, faithful dead;
They pave her path where shines her sun of empire overhead;
And where their blood has turned to bloom, our England's Rose is red:
They circle in a glorious ring, with which the world is wed.
For us the flower of our race makes quick the sand and sod,
And there, as here, amid our dead, we build our Church to God.
Your Brother Willie, boy, was one of Havelock's little band:
My Son! my beautiful brave Son, lies in that Indian Land.
They buried him by the way-side where he bowed him down to die,
While Homeward in its eastern pomp the Triumph passed him by.
And even yet mine eyes are wet, but 'tis with that proud tear
A great grand feeling in its front doth like a jewel wear.
I see him! on his forehead shines the conqueror's burning crest,
And God's own cross of Victory is on his martial breast.
I should have liked to have felt him near, when these old eyes are dim,
But gave him to our England; she had greater need of him.
My Son! my beautiful brave Son, lies in that Indian Land.
47
While Homeward in its eastern pomp the Triumph passed him by.
And even yet mine eyes are wet, but 'tis with that proud tear
A great grand feeling in its front doth like a jewel wear.
I see him! on his forehead shines the conqueror's burning crest,
And God's own cross of Victory is on his martial breast.
I should have liked to have felt him near, when these old eyes are dim,
But gave him to our England; she had greater need of him.
48
GARIBALDI.
He is the Helper that Italy wanted
To free her from fetters and cerements quite:
His is the great heart no dangers have daunted;
His is the true hand to finish the fight.
Way, for a Man of the kingliest nature!
Scope, for a soul of the high Roman stature!
His great deeds have crown'd him;
His heroes are round him;
On, on Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right.
To free her from fetters and cerements quite:
His is the great heart no dangers have daunted;
His is the true hand to finish the fight.
Way, for a Man of the kingliest nature!
Scope, for a soul of the high Roman stature!
His great deeds have crown'd him;
His heroes are round him;
On, on Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right.
To brave battle-music up goes the smoke-curtain;
A Country arises, all one should he call:
The sound of his trumpet is never uncertain;
He fights for his Cause till it conquer or fall.
His chariot wheels do not spin without biting;
And far better pointed for Freedom's red writing—
His Rifles and Guns—
Than their politic pens;
Garibaldi, my Hero, best Man of them all.
A Country arises, all one should he call:
The sound of his trumpet is never uncertain;
He fights for his Cause till it conquer or fall.
His chariot wheels do not spin without biting;
And far better pointed for Freedom's red writing—
His Rifles and Guns—
Than their politic pens;
Garibaldi, my Hero, best Man of them all.
60
When he sail'd up our river, the frank hearty Seaman,
We saw how an English soul smiled from his face:
For Italy's saviour we knew it was the man,
All hero, no matter what garb, or what place.
And we prayed he might have one more grip that
Was glorious!
Prophesied he should be leader victorious
Of Italy, free
From the Alps to the sea;
Now breathless we watch while he runs the great race.
We saw how an English soul smiled from his face:
For Italy's saviour we knew it was the man,
All hero, no matter what garb, or what place.
And we prayed he might have one more grip that
Was glorious!
Prophesied he should be leader victorious
Of Italy, free
From the Alps to the sea;
Now breathless we watch while he runs the great race.
Fierce out of torment his fighters have risen,
Shouting from hell where they tortured them dumb;
Maimed from old battle-fields, mad from the prison,
Suddenly, strange as Cloud-armies, they come;
With mouths that can shut like the Eagle's beak clasping;
With hands that will grip like a bower-anchor grasping;
The flying foe feels,
When they're close at his heels,
That Death and the Devil are bringing his doom.
Shouting from hell where they tortured them dumb;
Maimed from old battle-fields, mad from the prison,
Suddenly, strange as Cloud-armies, they come;
With mouths that can shut like the Eagle's beak clasping;
With hands that will grip like a bower-anchor grasping;
The flying foe feels,
When they're close at his heels,
That Death and the Devil are bringing his doom.
Not only living! but dead men are fighting
For him! thus with few he can fight the great host;
For each one they see an unseen foe is smiting;
Over each head an avenging white ghost!
All the young Martyrs they murdered by moonlight;
All the dark deeds of blood done in the noonlight,
Shall make their hearts reel
With a shudder, and kneel
To lay down their arms and give all up for lost.
For him! thus with few he can fight the great host;
For each one they see an unseen foe is smiting;
Over each head an avenging white ghost!
61
All the dark deeds of blood done in the noonlight,
Shall make their hearts reel
With a shudder, and kneel
To lay down their arms and give all up for lost.
They tell the wild tales of him, gathered together,
Turn pale at his shadow in midst of their speech;
For down he swoops on them, like hawk on the heather,
Strikes home with sure aim, and up-soars beyond reach.
Or he sweeps all before him with whirling blade reeking;
They fly helter-skelter, for shelter run shrieking,
As waves wild and white,
Driven mad with affright,
Are dasht into foam as they hide up the beach.
Turn pale at his shadow in midst of their speech;
For down he swoops on them, like hawk on the heather,
Strikes home with sure aim, and up-soars beyond reach.
Or he sweeps all before him with whirling blade reeking;
They fly helter-skelter, for shelter run shrieking,
As waves wild and white,
Driven mad with affright,
Are dasht into foam as they hide up the beach.
Watching o' nights in the cold, he remembers
The homes of his love in their ashes laid low;
And hot in his heart Vengeance rakes up the embers,
To warm her old hands at the wrathful red glow.
He has had torn from him all that was nearest;
He has seen murdered his darlings the dearest;
With all this and more,
To the heart's crimson core
He kindles! and all flashes out on the Foe.
The homes of his love in their ashes laid low;
And hot in his heart Vengeance rakes up the embers,
To warm her old hands at the wrathful red glow.
He has had torn from him all that was nearest;
He has seen murdered his darlings the dearest;
With all this and more,
To the heart's crimson core
He kindles! and all flashes out on the Foe.
62
No Peace, Garibaldi, till Italy, stronger
Shall sit with free nations, majestic, serene;
And meet them as lovers may meet when no longer
The cold corse of one that was dead lies between.
For this, God was with you when perils were round you;
For this, the fire smote you not, floods have not drown'd you;
Their Sword and their Shot,
Have harmed you not,
And your Purpose croucht long for its spring unseen.
Shall sit with free nations, majestic, serene;
And meet them as lovers may meet when no longer
The cold corse of one that was dead lies between.
For this, God was with you when perils were round you;
For this, the fire smote you not, floods have not drown'd you;
Their Sword and their Shot,
Have harmed you not,
And your Purpose croucht long for its spring unseen.
On, with our British hearts all beating true to you;
All keeping time to the march of the brave!
I would to God we might cut our way thro' to you,
Gallantly breasting the stormiest wave.
Would the old Lion could leap in to greet you,
Just as our free blood is leaping to meet you,
Stand by your side
In his terrible pride,
Mighty to shield, as You're daring to save.
All keeping time to the march of the brave!
I would to God we might cut our way thro' to you,
Gallantly breasting the stormiest wave.
Would the old Lion could leap in to greet you,
Just as our free blood is leaping to meet you,
Stand by your side
In his terrible pride,
Mighty to shield, as You're daring to save.
Long was the night of her kneeling; but surely
Shall Italy rise to her queenliest height.
Many a time has the battle gone sorely,
To make the last triumph more signal and bright.
Her foes shall be swept from her path like the stubble,
For now is their day of down-treading and trouble;
God tires of old Rome!
Venetia cries “Come.”
On, on Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right.
Shall Italy rise to her queenliest height.
Many a time has the battle gone sorely,
To make the last triumph more signal and bright.
63
For now is their day of down-treading and trouble;
God tires of old Rome!
Venetia cries “Come.”
On, on Garibaldi, for Freedom and Right.
73
HUGH MILLER'S GRAVE.
Before the grim grave closes, let me drop
My few poor flowers upon his Coffin lid!
I loved the man: his taking roughness too
I liked; it was the Sword-hilt rough with gems.
I loved him living, not with that late love
Which asks for rootage in the dead man's grave,
And must be writ in Marble to endure.
To many he seemed stern, for he could guard
His tongue with his good teeth: to some he showed
Rough as the Holly's lower range of leaves,
His prickly humour all alive with spears:
But if you climbed to the serener height,
You found a life in smooth and shining leaf,
And crowned with calm, and lying nearer heaven.
My few poor flowers upon his Coffin lid!
I loved the man: his taking roughness too
I liked; it was the Sword-hilt rough with gems.
I loved him living, not with that late love
Which asks for rootage in the dead man's grave,
And must be writ in Marble to endure.
To many he seemed stern, for he could guard
His tongue with his good teeth: to some he showed
Rough as the Holly's lower range of leaves,
His prickly humour all alive with spears:
But if you climbed to the serener height,
You found a life in smooth and shining leaf,
And crowned with calm, and lying nearer heaven.
Low lies the grandest head in all Scotland.
We'll miss him when there's noble work to do!
We'll miss him coming thro' the crowded street,
Like plaided Shepherd from the Ross-shire Hills,
Stalwart and iron-grey and weather-worn;
His tall head holding up a lonely lamp
Of steadfast thought still burning in his eyes,
Like some masthead-light lonely thro' the night;
His eyes, that rather dreamed than saw, deep-set
In the brow's shadow, looking forward, fixed
On something which we saw not, solemn, strange!
We'll miss him when there's noble work to do!
We'll miss him coming thro' the crowded street,
Like plaided Shepherd from the Ross-shire Hills,
Stalwart and iron-grey and weather-worn;
80
Of steadfast thought still burning in his eyes,
Like some masthead-light lonely thro' the night;
His eyes, that rather dreamed than saw, deep-set
In the brow's shadow, looking forward, fixed
On something which we saw not, solemn, strange!
He was a Hero true as ever stept
In the Forlorn Hope of a warring world:
And from opposing circumstance his palm
Drew loftier stature, and a lustier strength.
From the far dreamland height of youthful years
He flung his gage out mid the trampling strife,
And fought his way to it with spirit that cut
Like a scythed chariot, and took up his own.
Once more Childe Roland to the dark tower came,
Saw bright forms beckon on the battlements,
And stormed thro' fighting foes, true steel to steel;
Slow step by step he won his winding way,
And reached the top, and stood up Victor there;
And yet with most brave meekness it was done.
His life-tree fair of leaf, and rich in fruit!
We could not see it mouldering at the heart.
We knew not how in nights of pain he groped,
And groped with bleeding feel down the dark crypts
Of consciousness, to find the buried sense;
When the faint flame of being flickering low,
Made fearful shadows spectral on the walls;
And beckoning terrors muttered in the dark;
Old misery-mongers moaned along the wind;
The lights burned blue as Death were breathing near,
And dead hands seemed to reach and drag him down.
The powers of Evil often have a hand
With human Lots in the dim urn of Fate.
In the Forlorn Hope of a warring world:
And from opposing circumstance his palm
Drew loftier stature, and a lustier strength.
From the far dreamland height of youthful years
He flung his gage out mid the trampling strife,
And fought his way to it with spirit that cut
Like a scythed chariot, and took up his own.
Once more Childe Roland to the dark tower came,
Saw bright forms beckon on the battlements,
And stormed thro' fighting foes, true steel to steel;
Slow step by step he won his winding way,
And reached the top, and stood up Victor there;
And yet with most brave meekness it was done.
His life-tree fair of leaf, and rich in fruit!
We could not see it mouldering at the heart.
We knew not how in nights of pain he groped,
And groped with bleeding feel down the dark crypts
Of consciousness, to find the buried sense;
When the faint flame of being flickering low,
81
And beckoning terrors muttered in the dark;
Old misery-mongers moaned along the wind;
The lights burned blue as Death were breathing near,
And dead hands seemed to reach and drag him down.
The powers of Evil often have a hand
With human Lots in the dim urn of Fate.
The awful Dark flung over him a pall
Of pain, hot hands of hell were on his eyes,
And Devils drew him thro' the cold night-wind;
But while they held the helpless body bound,
The spirit broke away. That rent was death!
The iron will wherewith he cleft his path
From the stone-quarries to the heights of fame,
Still strove for freedom when the leap was death.
Of pain, hot hands of hell were on his eyes,
And Devils drew him thro' the cold night-wind;
But while they held the helpless body bound,
The spirit broke away. That rent was death!
The iron will wherewith he cleft his path
From the stone-quarries to the heights of fame,
Still strove for freedom when the leap was death.
Ay me, poor fellow! would we had but known,
And reacht him in that horror of great gloom,
And caught his hand, and prayed that he would bid
Us kindlier farewell: leave us when 'twas light!
And reacht him in that horror of great gloom,
And caught his hand, and prayed that he would bid
Us kindlier farewell: leave us when 'twas light!
But, never doubt God's Children find their home
By dark as well as day. The life he lived,
And not the death he died, was first in judgment.
It is the writing on the folded scroll
Death sends, and not the seal, that God will judge.
I love to think the Spirit of Cowper caught
Hold of his poor weak wandering hands in help,
As at the dark door he in blindness groped.
How it would touch that tender soul to read
The earthly memories written in his face!
Such memories as ope the gates of heaven:
And he who soothed him with last words on earth
Might whisper his first welcome in the heavens,
And lead him thro' cool valleys green where grow
The leaves of healing by the river of life,
Where tears and travel-stains are wiped away,
All troubled thoughts laid in ambrosial rest,
And there is no more pain.
By dark as well as day. The life he lived,
And not the death he died, was first in judgment.
It is the writing on the folded scroll
Death sends, and not the seal, that God will judge.
82
Hold of his poor weak wandering hands in help,
As at the dark door he in blindness groped.
How it would touch that tender soul to read
The earthly memories written in his face!
Such memories as ope the gates of heaven:
And he who soothed him with last words on earth
Might whisper his first welcome in the heavens,
And lead him thro' cool valleys green where grow
The leaves of healing by the river of life,
Where tears and travel-stains are wiped away,
All troubled thoughts laid in ambrosial rest,
And there is no more pain.
Then as they bowed
Before His throne who sitteth in the Heavens,
Perchance the pleading Poet prayed that he
Might sit beside him at th' eternal feast.
The fancy flower-like from his coffin grew
Even while I lookt. He lay as Death did seem
Only a dream he might have dreamed before;
All peaceful as the face of Sabbath morn:
The meekened witness of another world.
That stern white stillness had a starry touch,
As his last look had caught the first of heaven.
The battle-armour of a soldier soul
Lay battered, but still bright from many blows,
Upon the field; and such as few could wear.
Before His throne who sitteth in the Heavens,
Perchance the pleading Poet prayed that he
Might sit beside him at th' eternal feast.
The fancy flower-like from his coffin grew
Even while I lookt. He lay as Death did seem
Only a dream he might have dreamed before;
All peaceful as the face of Sabbath morn:
The meekened witness of another world.
That stern white stillness had a starry touch,
As his last look had caught the first of heaven.
The battle-armour of a soldier soul
Lay battered, but still bright from many blows,
Upon the field; and such as few could wear.
83
The ghosts of last year leaves, that last night rose
And rustled in their spectral dance of death,
Are laid and silent in a shroud of snow!
The day is dark above the long dark host!
The sad husht heavens seem choked, but cannot weep!
Many pale faces, many tristful eyes,
With dumb looks pleading for the kindly rain
That comes not when the heart can only cry
With unshed tears, close round his wintry grave!
The lonely men whose lives are still alight
And shining when the tired toilers sleep,
To whom Night brings the larger thoughts like Stars.
I marvel if among them there is one
Who shudders when men speak of such a death
As if they named His—who has longed to pluck
Death's cool hand down upon the burning brain,
But chokes the secret in his heart as though
He crusht a hissing serpent in his hand,
Lest it scream out, and his white face be known!
And rustled in their spectral dance of death,
Are laid and silent in a shroud of snow!
The day is dark above the long dark host!
The sad husht heavens seem choked, but cannot weep!
Many pale faces, many tristful eyes,
With dumb looks pleading for the kindly rain
That comes not when the heart can only cry
With unshed tears, close round his wintry grave!
The lonely men whose lives are still alight
And shining when the tired toilers sleep,
To whom Night brings the larger thoughts like Stars.
I marvel if among them there is one
Who shudders when men speak of such a death
As if they named His—who has longed to pluck
Death's cool hand down upon the burning brain,
But chokes the secret in his heart as though
He crusht a hissing serpent in his hand,
Lest it scream out, and his white face be known!
Ah! come away, for sorrow is a child
That needs no nursing! And all seems so strange.
One last look, and then home to feel and feel
What we have lost; and when from the dark earth
A spring-tide dawn of leaf-light glistens green,
And Nature with her dewfall and her rain
Gives to our grief the last calm tender touch,
And makes the Heartsease grow from out his grave,
In those sweet days when hearts are tenderest
For those who never come back with the flowers,
Upon some balmy Eve so beautiful
We should not wonder if an Angel stood
Suddenly at our side; the silent march
Of all the beauty culminating thus!
Then let us come, dear friend, and spend an hour—
While Nature kneeleth in all places lowly,
God's blessing resting on a time so holy—
At the communion table of His tomb.
That needs no nursing! And all seems so strange.
One last look, and then home to feel and feel
What we have lost; and when from the dark earth
A spring-tide dawn of leaf-light glistens green,
And Nature with her dewfall and her rain
Gives to our grief the last calm tender touch,
84
In those sweet days when hearts are tenderest
For those who never come back with the flowers,
Upon some balmy Eve so beautiful
We should not wonder if an Angel stood
Suddenly at our side; the silent march
Of all the beauty culminating thus!
Then let us come, dear friend, and spend an hour—
While Nature kneeleth in all places lowly,
God's blessing resting on a time so holy—
At the communion table of His tomb.
85
THE FIGHTING TEMERAIRE
TUGGED TO HER LAST BERTH.
It is a glorious tale to tell,
When nights are long and mirk,
How well she fought our fight; how well
She did our England's work;
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
When nights are long and mirk,
How well she fought our fight; how well
She did our England's work;
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
Bravely over the breezy blue,
They went to do or die;
And proudly on herself she drew
The Battle's burning eye!
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand Old Temeraire.
They went to do or die;
And proudly on herself she drew
The Battle's burning eye!
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand Old Temeraire.
Round her the glory fell in flood,
From Nelson's loving smile,
When, raked with fire, she ran with blood,
In England's hour of trial!
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
From Nelson's loving smile,
When, raked with fire, she ran with blood,
In England's hour of trial!
148
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
And when our darling of the sea
Sank dying on his deck;
With her revenging thunders, she
Struck down his foe—a Wreck!
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
Sank dying on his deck;
With her revenging thunders, she
Struck down his foe—a Wreck!
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
And when our victory stayed the rout,
And Death had stilled the storm,
How gallantly she led them out—
Her prize on either arm!
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
And Death had stilled the storm,
How gallantly she led them out—
Her prize on either arm!
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
Her day now draweth to its close,
With solemn sunset crowned;
To death her crested beauty bows;
The night is folding round,
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
With solemn sunset crowned;
To death her crested beauty bows;
The night is folding round,
149
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
No more the big heart in her breast,
Will heave from wave to wave;
Weary and war-worn, ripe for rest,
She glideth to her grave,
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
Will heave from wave to wave;
Weary and war-worn, ripe for rest,
She glideth to her grave,
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
In her dumb pathos desolate
As night among the dead!
Yet wearing an exceeding weight
Of glory on her head.
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
As night among the dead!
Yet wearing an exceeding weight
Of glory on her head.
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
Good bye! good bye! Old Temeraire;
A sad, a proud good bye!
The stalwart spirit that did wear
Your sternness, shall not die.
Our good ship Temeraire;
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
A sad, a proud good bye!
The stalwart spirit that did wear
Your sternness, shall not die.
150
The fighting Temeraire!
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
Thro' battle blast, and storm of shot,
Your Banner we shall bear;
And fight for it, like those who fought
Your guns, old Temeraire!
The fighting Temeraire;
The conquering Temeraire;
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
Your Banner we shall bear;
And fight for it, like those who fought
Your guns, old Temeraire!
The fighting Temeraire;
The conquering Temeraire;
She goeth to her last long home,
Our grand old Temeraire.
151
RIFLE VOLUNTEERS.
You leal high hearts of England,
The evil days are near,
When we with steel in heart and hand,
Must strike for all that's dear.
And better to tread the bloodiest deck,
Or fieriest field of fame,
Than break the heart, and bow the neck,
And sit in the shadow of shame.
Let Despot, Death or Devil come,
United here we stand:
We'll safely guard our Island-Home.
Or die for the dear old Land.
The evil days are near,
When we with steel in heart and hand,
Must strike for all that's dear.
And better to tread the bloodiest deck,
Or fieriest field of fame,
Than break the heart, and bow the neck,
And sit in the shadow of shame.
Let Despot, Death or Devil come,
United here we stand:
We'll safely guard our Island-Home.
Or die for the dear old Land.
O Volunteers of England,
You'll hurry to her call;
And our good Ship shall sail the storm,
With its merry mariners all.
In words we need not waste our breath,
But, be the Trumpet blown,
And in the Battle's dance of death,
We'll dance the bravest down.
Let Despot, Death or Devil come,
United here we stand;
We'll safely guard our Island-Home,
Or die for the dear old Land.
You'll hurry to her call;
And our good Ship shall sail the storm,
With its merry mariners all.
In words we need not waste our breath,
But, be the Trumpet blown,
152
We'll dance the bravest down.
Let Despot, Death or Devil come,
United here we stand;
We'll safely guard our Island-Home,
Or die for the dear old Land.
Success to our dear England,
Should dark days come again;
And may she rise up glorious
As the rainbow after rain:
A thousand memories warm us still,
And, ere the old spirit dies,
The purple of each wold and hill
From our best blood shall rise.
Let Despot, Death or Devil come,
United here we stand;
We'll safely guard our Island-Home,
Or die for the dear old Land.
Should dark days come again;
And may she rise up glorious
As the rainbow after rain:
A thousand memories warm us still,
And, ere the old spirit dies,
The purple of each wold and hill
From our best blood shall rise.
Let Despot, Death or Devil come,
United here we stand;
We'll safely guard our Island-Home,
Or die for the dear old Land.
God strike with our dear England;
And long may the old land be,
The guiding glory of the world;
Home of the fair and free!
Old ocean on his silver shield
Uplifts our little Isle,
Unvanquisht still by flood or field,
While the heavens in blessing smile.
Let Despot, Death or Devil come,
United here we stand;
We'll safely guard our Island-Home,
Or die for the dear old Land.
And long may the old land be,
The guiding glory of the world;
Home of the fair and free!
Old ocean on his silver shield
Uplifts our little Isle,
153
While the heavens in blessing smile.
Let Despot, Death or Devil come,
United here we stand;
We'll safely guard our Island-Home,
Or die for the dear old Land.
163
CHRISTIE'S POEMS.
197
OUR LITTLE CHILD WITH RADIANT EYES.
With seeking hearts we still grope on,
Where dropt our jewel in the dust;
The looking crowd have long since gone,
And still we seek with lonely trust;
O little Child with radiant eyes!
Where dropt our jewel in the dust;
The looking crowd have long since gone,
And still we seek with lonely trust;
O little Child with radiant eyes!
Dark underneath the brightening sod,
The sweetest life of all our years
Is crowded in ae gift to God.
We stand outside the gate in tears!
O little Child with radiant eyes!
The sweetest life of all our years
Is crowded in ae gift to God.
We stand outside the gate in tears!
O little Child with radiant eyes!
In all our heart-ache we are drawn,
Unweeting, to your little grave;
There, on your heavenly shore of dawn,
Breaks gentlier Sorrow's sobbing wave;
O little Child with radiant eyes!
Unweeting, to your little grave;
There, on your heavenly shore of dawn,
Breaks gentlier Sorrow's sobbing wave;
O little Child with radiant eyes!
Heart-empty as the acorn-cup
That only fills with wintry showers,
The breaking cloud but brimmeth up
With tears this pleading life of ours.
O little Child with radiant eyes!
That only fills with wintry showers,
The breaking cloud but brimmeth up
With tears this pleading life of ours.
O little Child with radiant eyes!
202
We think of you, our Angel kith,
Till life grows light with starry leaven:
We never forget you Darling with
The gold hair waving high in heaven!
Our little Child with radiant eyes!
Till life grows light with starry leaven:
We never forget you Darling with
The gold hair waving high in heaven!
Our little Child with radiant eyes!
Your white wings grown you will conquer Death!
You are coming through our dreams even now,
With two blue peeps of heaven beneath
The arching glory of your brow,
Our little Child with radiant eyes!
You are coming through our dreams even now,
With two blue peeps of heaven beneath
The arching glory of your brow,
Our little Child with radiant eyes!
We cannot pierce the dark, but oft
You see us with looks of pitying balm;
A hint of heaven—a touch more soft
Than kisses—all the trouble is calm.
O little Child with radiant eyes!
You see us with looks of pitying balm;
A hint of heaven—a touch more soft
Than kisses—all the trouble is calm.
O little Child with radiant eyes!
Think of us wearied in the strife;
And when we sit by Sorrow's streams,
Shake down upon our drooping life
The dew that brings immortal dreams.
O little Child with radiant eyes!
And when we sit by Sorrow's streams,
Shake down upon our drooping life
The dew that brings immortal dreams.
O little Child with radiant eyes!
206
HOW THE FLOWERS CAME FROM EDEN.
The Seraph faded into air;
The Snake glode underground;
As on the last step of Heaven's stair,
Poor exiled Eve lookt round.
The Snake glode underground;
As on the last step of Heaven's stair,
Poor exiled Eve lookt round.
Heartless as Death, and blind as Doom,
The heavens bowed with wrath:
Where God, betwixt the glare and gloom,
Stood in their backward path.
The heavens bowed with wrath:
Where God, betwixt the glare and gloom,
Stood in their backward path.
The memories in each other's eyes,
They cannot, dare not face;
Forlorn and vast the wide world lies;
They see no hiding place.
They cannot, dare not face;
Forlorn and vast the wide world lies;
They see no hiding place.
Two mourners following the hearse
Of joy, go slowly forth;
To see the shadow of their curse
Fall lengthening over earth.
Of joy, go slowly forth;
To see the shadow of their curse
Fall lengthening over earth.
218
Then did the Flowers of Eden grieve;
As tho' a low wind stirred,
They softly prayed to follow Eve;
And God in Heaven heard.
As tho' a low wind stirred,
They softly prayed to follow Eve;
And God in Heaven heard.
As when some erring Child may see,
The Father's face no more;
A Mother's love sends secretly;
Her heart keeps open door;
The Father's face no more;
A Mother's love sends secretly;
Her heart keeps open door;
So were the Flowers from Paradise,
For missioned comfort sent;
All heaven in their sweet pitying eyes!
And where Eve trod they went.
For missioned comfort sent;
All heaven in their sweet pitying eyes!
And where Eve trod they went.
With dear drops of that gladness spilled
In Eden, they came pearled;
Their cups with colours of Heaven filled,
To pour thro' all the world.
In Eden, they came pearled;
Their cups with colours of Heaven filled,
To pour thro' all the world.
They kiss her feet; embrace her knees;
About her dance and play;
They run before and climb the trees,
To cheer her by the way.
About her dance and play;
They run before and climb the trees,
To cheer her by the way.
219
On hills and moorlands golden fires
Of gorse in beauty burn;
Into red roses break the briars;
A flower for every thorn.
Of gorse in beauty burn;
Into red roses break the briars;
A flower for every thorn.
And ever since, their silent march,
Goes glowing overground;
And under Ocean's azure arch;
In an immortal round.
Goes glowing overground;
And under Ocean's azure arch;
In an immortal round.
The wee white fairies of the snow,
May cover them awhile;
But from their hiding-places, lo!
The fresh young Eden smile!
May cover them awhile;
But from their hiding-places, lo!
The fresh young Eden smile!
They come back with their fragrant news,
By brook, and field, and fell;
They wake, and in a thousand hues,
Their dream of beauty tell.
By brook, and field, and fell;
They wake, and in a thousand hues,
Their dream of beauty tell.
They bring the distant dearness of
That dewy Eden youth,
Into the kindling nearness of
Warm kisses on the mouth.
That dewy Eden youth,
Into the kindling nearness of
Warm kisses on the mouth.
220
Our thoughts are with their fancies freakt,
And delicately drawn;
With them our gray of life is streakt,
Divinely as the dawn.
And delicately drawn;
With them our gray of life is streakt,
Divinely as the dawn.
And ailing souls come forth to see,
How the sweet Flowers reveal
The waving skirts of Deity,
Which at a touch can heal.
How the sweet Flowers reveal
The waving skirts of Deity,
Which at a touch can heal.
Our dying eyes their balm beseech;
Our dying fingers fold
Their coolness, when we cannot reach
The flower; so dank the mould.
Our dying fingers fold
Their coolness, when we cannot reach
The flower; so dank the mould.
Their roots like feeling fingers twine,
About the lone grave-bed:
Stars of the ground, they kindly shine,
Thro' that long dark o' the Dead.
About the lone grave-bed:
Stars of the ground, they kindly shine,
Thro' that long dark o' the Dead.
Incense, pathetically sweet,
Their little censers wave—
Standing all night at head and feet
Of our wee Sydney's grave.
Their little censers wave—
Standing all night at head and feet
Of our wee Sydney's grave.
221
With mournful fragrance to my heart,
They pierce at times, until
The tears up in mine eyes will start,
With airs of heaven a-thrill.
They pierce at times, until
The tears up in mine eyes will start,
With airs of heaven a-thrill.
Still blooms with all its buried charms,
That old lost land of ours;
Above its silent war of worms,
A world laughs out in flowers.
That old lost land of ours;
Above its silent war of worms,
A world laughs out in flowers.
229
POOR BIDDY.
Poor Biddy was peculiarly proud,
And often passed along the public road
Riding a Stick: she would have been a witch
In the old days, and wierdly filled her niche.
And often passed along the public road
Riding a Stick: she would have been a witch
In the old days, and wierdly filled her niche.
The mocking Bairns would cry, as she would stalk,
“Biddy, you might as well on two legs walk;”
And she would say, says she, the poor daftling!
“I might! but for the grandeur of the thing.”
“Biddy, you might as well on two legs walk;”
And she would say, says she, the poor daftling!
“I might! but for the grandeur of the thing.”
Alas, how many pitiful tricks we play
Like Biddy, in less Natural kind o' way:
And ride our stick, and have our foolish fling,
God help us! for the grandeur of the thing.
Like Biddy, in less Natural kind o' way:
And ride our stick, and have our foolish fling,
God help us! for the grandeur of the thing.
237
DOWN IN THE VILLAGE.
248
FARMER FORREST'S OPINION OF THE BROAD-BOTTOMED MINISTRY.
1859.
Now tell me you who wink, or blink, or think,
What good is a Broad bottom if we sink?
What good is a Broad bottom if we sink?
Not Whigs! not Tories! we want English souls
Where-thro' there yet reverberates and rolls
Some echo of old greatness; good stout hands
Must bear our Banner over seas and lands!
Our forms of freedom must not choke the breath,
The outer mail be forged for inner death!
There is a wild hour coming for us, when
We must all weather it as Englishmen.
Where-thro' there yet reverberates and rolls
Some echo of old greatness; good stout hands
Must bear our Banner over seas and lands!
Our forms of freedom must not choke the breath,
The outer mail be forged for inner death!
There is a wild hour coming for us, when
We must all weather it as Englishmen.
We cannot leave the land for watch and ward
To those who know not what a gem they guard;
Who bind us helpless for the Bird of Blood
To swoop on; who would have this famous flood
Of English Freedom stagnate till it stink,
While reptiles wriggle in their slimy drink,
And frogs shall reign in darkness; croak all night
And call the Stars false Prophets of the light.
To those who know not what a gem they guard;
Who bind us helpless for the Bird of Blood
To swoop on; who would have this famous flood
Of English Freedom stagnate till it stink,
While reptiles wriggle in their slimy drink,
And frogs shall reign in darkness; croak all night
And call the Stars false Prophets of the light.
249
Our good ship may be driving on the rocks:
We want a Compass, and not Weather-Cocks!
We have had leaders who strode forward all
On fire to serve her at their Country's call;
They did not stoop, till blind, for place and pelf,
Their whole life burned a sacrifice of self!
They faced the Spirit of the Storm and Strife,
And with an upward smile laid down their life.
We want a Compass, and not Weather-Cocks!
We have had leaders who strode forward all
On fire to serve her at their Country's call;
They did not stoop, till blind, for place and pelf,
Their whole life burned a sacrifice of self!
They faced the Spirit of the Storm and Strife,
And with an upward smile laid down their life.
But now our leaders are the coward and cold;
The Gnomes whose daylight is a gleam of gold;
The Dwarfs who sun them in a Tyrant's smile;
The Peacemen who would set our dear green Isle
Spinning their Cotton till the judgment hour,
With Ocean turning round for water-power.
These pander to this Plunderer of the night;
Confused their little sense of Wrong and Right!
And they would bow our England's dear head down
Trustfully in his lap to leave her crown!
See her sit weeping where her brave lie dead;
Blood on her raiment, ashes on her head.
The Gnomes whose daylight is a gleam of gold;
The Dwarfs who sun them in a Tyrant's smile;
The Peacemen who would set our dear green Isle
Spinning their Cotton till the judgment hour,
With Ocean turning round for water-power.
These pander to this Plunderer of the night;
Confused their little sense of Wrong and Right!
And they would bow our England's dear head down
Trustfully in his lap to leave her crown!
See her sit weeping where her brave lie dead;
Blood on her raiment, ashes on her head.
A Palmerston now crawls were Cromwell stood;
A Tyrant's Parasite, that licks the blood
From his red hand, an old eternal stain!
And takes, for Glory's sign, that brand of Cain!
He is an Eve in innocence we know,
But leans and listens to the Serpent so,
We are no safer although well we weet
The fruit of knowledge He will never eat.
A Tyrant's Parasite, that licks the blood
From his red hand, an old eternal stain!
And takes, for Glory's sign, that brand of Cain!
250
But leans and listens to the Serpent so,
We are no safer although well we weet
The fruit of knowledge He will never eat.
In Milton's patriot seat sits little John,
Who to the muzzle loads his monster gun,
And fires in air if it goes off at all,
To find his own lead on his own head fall,
If he have any, for, since he who bled
Upon a Tyrant's block once lost his head,
To keep up the tradition Lord John is
Determined to be always losing his.
Who to the muzzle loads his monster gun,
And fires in air if it goes off at all,
To find his own lead on his own head fall,
If he have any, for, since he who bled
Upon a Tyrant's block once lost his head,
To keep up the tradition Lord John is
Determined to be always losing his.
And Gladstone aims at nothing, sure to hit,
Or splits fine hairs till he have none to split.
Who rides out from the ranks for challenge, he
May toss the Sword and catch it gracefully,
But must be able, when the onsets come,
To drive with slaying hand his hilt heart-home.
He is a Seer, but so many-eyed,
He sees so many ways, from many a side,
His eyes like horses in the old punishment
Whereby all ways at once the doomed was rent,
Draw to divide him, follow if he dare,
He is to pieces pulled by either pair.
Or splits fine hairs till he have none to split.
Who rides out from the ranks for challenge, he
May toss the Sword and catch it gracefully,
But must be able, when the onsets come,
To drive with slaying hand his hilt heart-home.
He is a Seer, but so many-eyed,
He sees so many ways, from many a side,
His eyes like horses in the old punishment
Whereby all ways at once the doomed was rent,
Draw to divide him, follow if he dare,
He is to pieces pulled by either pair.
251
These be our Leaders now. Napoleon's Pal,
Is head of England's power, and crowning all,
To cool the blood, and soothe all sin to rest,
The great castrated Quaker Interest
Stands Eunuch at the Privy Chamber.
Is head of England's power, and crowning all,
To cool the blood, and soothe all sin to rest,
The great castrated Quaker Interest
Stands Eunuch at the Privy Chamber.
Wake
My England! these thy sword and shield? they make
A Ministry broad-bottomed without doubt,
For better target when you kick them out.
My England! these thy sword and shield? they make
A Ministry broad-bottomed without doubt,
For better target when you kick them out.
252
MY BONNY LADY.
Eve gave us her fair Daughters to restore
The Eden that their Mother lost of yore;
They lead us thro' the Angel-guarded door,
And where they smile it blooms for evermore.
But dearest of Eve's Daughters dear is she
Who makes an Eden in my Home for me;
My Bonny Lady.
The Eden that their Mother lost of yore;
They lead us thro' the Angel-guarded door,
And where they smile it blooms for evermore.
But dearest of Eve's Daughters dear is she
Who makes an Eden in my Home for me;
My Bonny Lady.
No seeming beauty perilous to know,
Like dream of ripeness on the sour sloe,
But sweet to the true heart as summer fruit,
And sound and strong to love's most secret root;
A soul made human by its kindling life!
A woman ripened to the perfect Wife!
My Bonny Lady.
Like dream of ripeness on the sour sloe,
But sweet to the true heart as summer fruit,
And sound and strong to love's most secret root;
A soul made human by its kindling life!
A woman ripened to the perfect Wife!
My Bonny Lady.
253
She grows in graces as the flowers bloom;
Her robe of beauty woven in Heaven's loom!
She wears her jewels in her lips and eyes:
Diamond sparks! warm rubies! pearls of price!
And see what shapely sweetness may be shown,
Bright budding from a simple morning gown!
My Bonny Lady.
Her robe of beauty woven in Heaven's loom!
She wears her jewels in her lips and eyes:
Diamond sparks! warm rubies! pearls of price!
And see what shapely sweetness may be shown,
Bright budding from a simple morning gown!
My Bonny Lady.
Upon her dear brow is no band of care
That binds the heavy burden souls must bear;
The dew of childhood's Heaven yet lingering lies
Cool in the shadows of her morning eyes;
So may some spirit in its brightness wait
With welcome at the beautiful heaven gate.
My Bonny Lady.
That binds the heavy burden souls must bear;
The dew of childhood's Heaven yet lingering lies
Cool in the shadows of her morning eyes;
So may some spirit in its brightness wait
With welcome at the beautiful heaven gate.
My Bonny Lady.
Eyelids once lifted with the kiss of Love,
Droop tender after as the brooding dove!
Lips, when the soul of joy is tasted, will
Hush its loud sound of laughter, and be still.
Yet is she happy as the lark that sings,
Winnowing out the music with his wings;
My Bonny Lady.
Droop tender after as the brooding dove!
Lips, when the soul of joy is tasted, will
Hush its loud sound of laughter, and be still.
Yet is she happy as the lark that sings,
Winnowing out the music with his wings;
My Bonny Lady.
254
Lo, how she bows with soft and settled bliss,
Over her babe in breathless tenderness!
Her image that my Lily bends above,
To mingle One in my heart's sea of Love!
Thus hath she doubled love and Love's caress,
With doubled blessing, doubled power to bless.
My Bonny Lady.
Over her babe in breathless tenderness!
Her image that my Lily bends above,
To mingle One in my heart's sea of Love!
Thus hath she doubled love and Love's caress,
With doubled blessing, doubled power to bless.
My Bonny Lady.
Her smile the sum of sweetness infinite!
Her neck a throne where many graces sit!
Like music of the soul her motion is,
But none can know the inner sanctities;
Outside they stand in wonder, I alone
Pass in to worship at the spirit-throne.
My Bonny Lady.
Her neck a throne where many graces sit!
Like music of the soul her motion is,
But none can know the inner sanctities;
Outside they stand in wonder, I alone
Pass in to worship at the spirit-throne.
My Bonny Lady.
Behold her in religious lustre stand,
Clothed all in white and fit for spirit-land!
Her thankful eyes uplift for angel food;
And you might worship her, so pure, so good;
For all shy beauty, all sweet shadowy grace,
Breaks into brightness through my Lady's face;
My Bonny Lady.
Clothed all in white and fit for spirit-land!
Her thankful eyes uplift for angel food;
And you might worship her, so pure, so good;
For all shy beauty, all sweet shadowy grace,
Breaks into brightness through my Lady's face;
My Bonny Lady.
255
I think of her, and mine eyes softly close
While all my heart with sweetness overflows;
Each breath it breathes in blessing sets astir
Some gracious balm, and sweet as hidden myrrh.
My Rest while toiling up the hill of life!
A Halfway House to Heaven! my noble Wife!
My Bonny Lady.
While all my heart with sweetness overflows;
Each breath it breathes in blessing sets astir
Some gracious balm, and sweet as hidden myrrh.
My Rest while toiling up the hill of life!
A Halfway House to Heaven! my noble Wife!
My Bonny Lady.
269
THE END.
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