My Lyrical Life :: :: University of Virginia Library

Like Children, peering from some distant nook,
What time the Soldiers pass with pealing strains
And bannered pomp to Battle far ablaze,
We peered into the passing scenes of War,—
Its crowning heaven aglow with starry hopes;
Its crowded hell of red and writhing pain,
With hearts that ached and burned, as kindled cheeks
Flamed up with reddening shame or bloom of pride;
And told the story as the deeds were done.

328

NEW YEAR'S EVE IN EXILE.

The Flower and Chivalry of many lands,
Doomed Watchers of their own Lands from afar;
Warriors of Freedom, who for heritage
Bore on their brows a sign as cursed as Cain's;
Betrothed to Martyrdom as to a Bride,
Had met together, a strange Company,
But Brothers who were battling for one Cause.
They were heroic Souls who had lain life's all
On Freedom's hungry Altar, and gone forth
Clad in the spirit of self-sacrifice,
To roam a thankless world with homeless hearts,—
Men who had tossed on Danger's wildest waves,
For whom a radiant Victory ever shone,
Like Hero on her Watch-tower with her torch,
Lighting her Lover through the shadow of death,—
Men who had broken Battle's burning lines,
And dealt death with their hands, life with their looks,
And in the last stern charge of desperate valour
On Death's scythe dashed with force that turned its edge.
Some were but Youths, yet with such manhood flushed,
By eager leaps to reach a lordlier life,
They had attained the old heroic stature.

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Some had grown gray with battle, some with years,
And there were ancient Sorrows grand as kings
Of an old peerless line. Great silent Griefs
And Sufferings crowned for immortality!

Earnest as fire they sate, and reverent
As though a God were present in their midst;
Stern, but serene and hopeful, earnest, brave,
As Cromwell's Ironsides on a battle-eve;
Each individual life as clenched and knit,
As though beneath their robes their fingers clutched
The weapon sworn to strike a Tyrant down,
That would not flash except to light his fall.

And in their midst Mazzini rose to speak
The kindling thought that fused them all as one.
And O, but hearts flew out, like Freedom's bird,
To flap their wings above the flag of war.
And fierce looks flashed, and prayers went up to God
In Fiery Chariots of their fervent souls;
Stern eyes were veiled with noble tears to see
That Exile by the hounds of torture tracked;
Who, while they tore his stricken life, still drank
His cup of trembling, smiling very calm.

Dilating as the Prophet's soul of flame
Lightened within him, all his aspect burned
With an unearthly fire: he was caught up
The Mount Transfiguration, with eyes fixed
Far-off, intense as though he talked with God,
He stood there gazing down the unseen time

330

Like some hoar Hill that loftily o'erlooks
The mists of night, and rises with bare brow
To catch the unrisen Morn. While all the plains
Below were darkling, he already sunned
Him in the glory of the coming day.
And his words swept their yielding, springing hearts,
As strong winds take a field of billowing corn.
“The merry bells are jubilant To-night
Through all the land of Exile; blithe wine laughs
Its bubbling laughter,—winking gem-like eyes,
And leaps up in the beaker like red lips
Whose kisses storm the inner gates of bliss.
But not with mirth, and song, and dainty feast,
We meet to hold our solemn festival.
We wait the wine of Freedom: when it runs,
We shall wax merry too,—perchance grow drunken—
They keep it ripening to such mellow age!
And we shall banquet like Immortals fed
By Hebe's hand at the Ambrosial feasts.

“The New Year flashes on us sadly-grand,
Leaps in our midst with ringing armour on,
Strikes a mail'd hand in ours, and bids us arm
Ere the first trumpet sound the onset hour.
Dense darkness lies on Europe's winter-world.
Stealthy and grim the Bear comes creeping forth,
Out of the North, and all the Peoples sleep
By Freedom's smouldering watch-fire: there is none
To snatch the brand, and dash it in his face.
Old England sleeps, and still the Bear steals on.
Ah! she forgetteth how, in the old years,
The great hearts of her glorious Commonwealth

331

Sent thunder-throbbings through the lands, and gave them
Such a new pulse of nobler life: and when
Their sumless Venture wrecked, and o'er them rolled
The wormwood waters of defeat and death,
How in their pleading hands they held the Babe
And Orphan Liberty, and bade her rear it
For love of them, and for its own dear sake.
Old England halts behind the nations now.
Dim is her Beacon Despots paled to see
Burn on them through the dark, like God's stern eye.
Her battle-armour rusteth on her walls,
And the once mighty arm that struck such blows
For Right and Freedom, droopeth listless now.
A dry-rot eats her life: her God is Mammon!
God Mars no longer leaps into her heart,
As in a Chariot driving down to battle.
Her ancient fame and valour have become
A tale that's told us of forgotten times—
Some fabled Kraken slumbering in its sea!
O! for the voice of Milton once again,
To make the lion-eyes lighten, and her heart
As tremblingly alive as is a Star,
Till in her naked strength majestical
She walked the sun-road of her glorious way.

“But England sleeps—the Ruin still rolls on.
Earth crouches 'neath the shuddering wings of Fear.
Silent, and very calm, Freedom lies hushed,
And listens like a panting thing pursued,
Heark'ning, heart-stifled, for the stealthiest tread
Of One that hunts like Tarquin for Lucrece.
'Tis midnight now, and all the creeping things,
And Birds of Darkness, ply their ghastly work:

332

Life gropes and stumbles among gaping graves,
And Freedom's worshippers fall headless, while
They bend to give their hearts up at her shrine!
But God's in heaven, and yet the day shall dawn—
Break from the dark upon her golden wings,
Her quickening splendours rend and burn the gloom,
Her living tides of glory burst, and foam,
And hurry along the darksome streets of night.
Cloud after cloud shall light a rainbow-roof,
And build a Triumph-Arch for conquering Day
To flash her beauty—trail her grandeurs through,
And take the world in her white arms of light.
And Earth shall fling aside her mask of gloom,
And lift her tearful face. O there will be
Blood on it thick as dews! The Children's blood
Splashed in the Mother's face! And there must be
A red sunrise of retribution yet!
A mighty Future is about to break
The hush o' the world—the waiting gloom in heaven.

“The New Year cometh with a magic key,
To ope some radiant chamber in Time's palace.
Our Martyrs have not sown such seed in vain!
Beneath old Winter's snows a world of hope
Lies ripening, and shall richly run to flowers,
When Earth shall kindle as a countenance
Alive with love, and all the soul alight!
O come, thou Spring of God, and at thy voice
The balmy blood shall beat in bud and leaf!
And come, thou mellow rain, fall on it warm,
And fondle it with kisses, drop rich tears;
And blow, thou sweet Spring-wind, and make it stir
With secret rapture—budding tenderly,
With all the glory of its folded bloom,

333

And all its fragrance striving for the light.
God, what a Spring and Harvest yet shall crown
The dark, dern Deluge of Calamity!
Then come, thou grand New Year, in silence come
Across the white snows, and the winter-land.
Come, great Deliverer, call the peoples up,—
Up from the Egypt of their slavery!
Ring out the death-knell of old Tyranny—
'Tis rotten ripe, the heart of half the world
Doth beat and burst to hurry it into hell.
Stride o'er the Present, grand as some huge wave
Should rise and rush o'er Panama at a leap,
And make two Seas one perfect world of waters.
So link our great Past to a nobler Future,
And set our new world singing on its way.

“A little while and England must awake!
She has but swooned beneath the kiss of Peace,
And languished in her long voluptuous dream,
While weed-like creatures crept along her path.
Where leaped of old proud waves of glorious life,
The sluggish channels choke with golden sand.
The hills of light rose shining far away,
Where she should stand and touch the hem of Heaven;
But, day by day she darkened deeper down.
The cold, grim shadow stretched o'er half the earth,
Came freezing round her watchfire's dying flame,
While spirit-finger-pointings signalled her,
And spirit-rustlings stirred the air in vain.
A fire of anguish flamed from Poland's eyes
When the red Deluge closed above her head:
Sodden with suffering and unwept tears,
The heart of Hungary pled in silence stern:
Poor Italy lay guarded in her grave,

334

Her life all crouching in one listening sense,
To catch aught stirring in the upper world:
Out of the North the brute Colossus strode,
With grimly-solemn pace, proud in the might
That moves not but to crush, and terribly towered
Its growing shape through Battle's bloody gap
Where Nations fell; and like a Cyclop's eye
Its one idea lit it to the prey:
While pale Expediency paltered for
The peaceful chance of being eaten last.

“A little while and England will awake,
Like Sternness stripped for strife: Grim-wooing War
Reflect his terrible beauty in her face;
Her heart will dance to a strain of loftier life,
On fire to bring the death-strokes hand to hand.
For God will call His Chosen once again,
And the Old Guard of Freedom take the field.
Rejoicing in the glory of her strength,
Like some proud cataract she will shout for the strife,
And hurl her hurrying waves of valour down:
The glorious shudder of intrepid blood
Will hurtle through her veins, and Victory's voice
Cry from the inmost Oracle of her soul.
Her swift avenging armaments shall flame
O'er land and sea, sublime as when of old
With a colossal calm she rode the waves
Of war, that heaved magnificent in storm.
The noble prophecy of ripened age
Was on her youthful brow; fulfilment comes.
She lifts the Ark of Freedom in her arms,
Safe through the deluge of a warring world.
A little while and we shall yet return

335

Each to his Fatherland like kings to conquest.
Light breaks there, in the East, 'twill soon be day,
And we shall see that God through all the dark
Did combat for us with the visor down.
Fight on, you faithful, Heaven's glooming look
Frowns only on the wrong. This dark shall break
In resurrection hour! The chariot-wheels
Of coming Vengeance spin too swift for sight:
The Nemesis of Nations only waits,
Until the glass of Destiny runs out,
To wake the Murderers with her whip of fire,
Caught by the hair in sudden hands of Hell;
While in a ruddy rain old Earth laughs up.

“O, we shall see a sight ere England's Sun
Goes down behind her hills of gathered gold!
When Spring's young hopes seem dead and her sweet buds
Are in the dust, our Autumn-fruitage comes!
The time of times, the year of years is nigh.
But no more Words! Like Weeds they sap the soul
Of richness that should fill the fruit of deeds.
Henceforth let lips be dumb, as Bravery—
Her parley done—had shut the gates to ope not
Save for the shouts that chariot Victory forth.
We are all ready! We have waited long!
God strikes the hour, and let the trumpet ring.”

1853–4.

336

ENGLAND GOES TO BATTLE.

Now, glory to our England,
She arises, calm and grand,
The ancient spirit in her eyes,—
The good sword in her hand!
Our royal right on battle ground
Was aye to bear the brunt:
Ho! brave heart! with one passionate bound,
Take the old place in front!
Now, glory to our England,
As she rises, calm and grand,
The ancient spirit in her eyes—
The good sword in her hand!

Who would not fight for England?
Who would not fling a life
I' the ring to meet a Tyrant's gage,
And glory in the strife?
Her stem is thorny, but doth burst
A glorious Rose a-top!
And shall our proud Rose wither? First
We'll drain life's dearest drop!
Who would not fight for England?
Who would not fling a life
I' the ring, to meet a Tyrant's gage,
And glory in the strife?

To battle goes our England,
As gallant and as gay
As Lover to the Altar, on
A merry marriage-day.

337

A weary night she stood to watch
The clouds of dawn up-rolled;
And her young heroes strain to match
The valour of the old.
To battle goes our England,
As gallant and as gay
As Lover to the Altar, on
A merry marriage-day.

Now, fair befall our England,
On her proud and perilous road:
And woe and wail to those who make
Her foot-prints red with blood!
Up with our Red-cross banner,—roll
A thunder-peal of drums!
Fight on there, every valiant soul,
Have courage! England comes!
Now, fair befall our England,
On her proud and perilous road:
And woe and wail to those who make
Her foot-prints red with blood!

Now, victory to our England!
And where'er she lifts her hand
In Freedom's fight, to rescue Right,
God bless the dear Old Land!
And when the Storm hath passed away,
In glory and in calm,
May she sit down i' the green o' the day,
And sing her peaceful psalm.
Now, victory to our England!
And where'er she lifts her hand
In Freedom's fight, to rescue Right,
God bless the dear Old Land!

338

TROOPS LEAVING EDINBURGH.

For Freedom's battle march Auld Scotland's men,
And Edinburgh streets are piled with life to-day.
High on her crags the royal City sits,
To watch the files of war far-winding out,
And with the gracious golden Morning smiles
Her proudest blessing down.

Old Arthur's Seat
Flings up his cap of cloud for brave success;
While the Sea flashes in the sun, our Shield,
So rich in record of heroic names!
But the old Castle standeth still and stern,
As some scarred Chief who sends his boys to battle:
Hath done so many a time as staidly calm.

The gay Hussars come riding through the Town,
A light of triumph sparkling in their eyes;
The Music goeth shouting in their praise,
Like a loud people round the Victor's car;
And Highland plumes together nod as though
There went the Funeral Hearse of a Russian host:
The bickering bayonets flutter wings of fire,
And gaily sounds the March o' the Cameron Men.

The War-steeds sweeping—men to battle going—
The wave of Beauty's hand—meed of her eyes—
The kisses blown from dainty finger-tips—
The banners with old battle-memories stirred—
The thrilling Pibroch, and the wild war-drum,
The stern sword-music of our grand Hurrah,
And answering cheer for death or victory—
All make me tingle with a triumph of life,
And I could weep that I am left behind,

339

To see the tide ebb where I may not follow.
And there our gallant fellows march afield;
To win proud death, or larger life, they leave
Home's rosy circle ringed with blessings rich,
For the far darkness and the battle-cloud,
Where many have fall'n, and many yet must fall
In spurring their great hearts up to the leap,
For such brave dashes at unconquered heights.
The shadow of solemn Sorrow falls behind,
Where sobbing Sweethearts look their loving last,
Or with tight lips hold in the bursting heart;
And weeping Wives lift up the Little Ones.
The sun sets in their faces, life grows gray,
And sighs of desolation sweep its desert.
The winter of the heart aches in the eyes
Of Mothers who have given their all, their all.

And yet methinks the Heroic Time returns,
Such look of triumph lit the meanest face
To-day: there seemed no heart so earthy but
Had some blind gropings after nobler life,
With hands that reached toward God's Gate Beautiful.
Our Britain bright'ning through the battle-smoke
Has touched them with her glory's lovelier light.
And though their darlings fall, and though they die
In this death-grapple in the dark with Wrong;
The memory of their proud deeds shall not die.
They may go down to dust in bloody shrouds,
And sleep in nameless tombs. But for all time,
Foundlings of Fame are our beloved Lost.
For me, this day of glorious life shall be
One of the starry brides of Memory,
Whose glittering faces light the night o' the soul.

340

DOWN IN AUSTRALIA.

Quaff a cup, and send a cheer up for the Old Land!
We have heard the Reapers shout,
For the Harvest going out,
With the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land;
And our Message shall be hurled
Ringing right across the world,
There are true hearts beating for you in the Gold Land.

We are with you in your battles, brave and bold Land!
For the old ancestral tree
Striketh root beneath the sea,
And it beareth fruit of Freedom in the Gold Land!
We shall come, too, if you call,
We shall Fight on if you fall;
Shakspeare's land shall never be a bought and sold Land.

The standard of the Lord wave o'er the Old Land!
For the waiting world holds breath
While she treads the den of Death,
With the peaceful sleeve stripped up from her bare bold hand;
And her rose in blood must bloom
On the bosom, and the tomb
Of her many Heroes fallen for the Old Land.

341

O, a terror to the Tyrant is that bold Land!
He remembers how she stood,
With her raiment rolled in blood,
When the tide of battle burst upon the Old Land;
And he looks with darkened face,
For he knows the hero race
Strike the Harp of Freedom—draw her Sword with bold hand.

Let thy glorious voice be heard, thou great and bold Land!
Speak the one victorious word,
And fair Freedom's wandered Bird
Shall wing back with leaf of promise from the Old Land;
And the people shall come out
From their prison with a shout
For the spring that greeneth in the Future's Gold Land.

When the smoke of Battle rises from the Old Land,
You shall see the Tyrant down!
You shall see her lifted crown
Wears another peerless jewel won with bold hand:
She shall thresh her foes like corn,
They shall eat the bread of scorn;
We will sing her song of triumph in the Gold Land.

Quaff a cup, and send a cheer up for the Old Land!
We have heard the Reapers shout,
For the Harvest going out,
Seen the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land;

342

And our answer shall be hurled
Ringing right across the world,—
All true hearts are beating for you in the Gold Land.

FRANCE AND ENGLAND.

Like a stern old friend, War grimly comes
To the temple of peaceful Life;
With the well-known nod of his beckoning plumes,
He hurries us into the strife.
And we meet once more, in the fields of fate,
With our chivalrous Enemy,
Who knows, by the grip of our hands in hate,
What the strength of our love may be.

We have dashed together like waves and rocks!
We have fought till our shirts grew red!
We have met in the shuddering battle-shocks,
Where none but the freed soul fled!
Now side by side, in the fields of fate,
And shoulder to shoulder, are we;
And we know, by the grip of our hands in hate,
What the strength of our love may be.

Then gather ye, gather to battle, ye Braves,
In the might of your old renown!
And follow ye, follow ye, over the waves,
Where Liberty's sun went down!
By the bivouac-fire, in the battle-shower,
Remember your destiny grand,
To set in the thrones of their future power
The peoples of many a land!

343

Till the last fettered nation that calls us is free,
Let us fall upon Tyranny's horde!
Italy, Poland, and Hungary, see,
With their praying hands seek for a Sword.
Till the Storm-God is roused in each suffering land,
Let us keep the war-standard unfurled!
And till Freedom and Faith shall go hand-in-hand,
Let us march through the welcoming world.

AFTER ALMA.

Our old War-banners on the wind
Were waving merrily o'er them;
The hope of half the world behind—
The sullen Foe before them!
They trod their march of battle, bold
As death-devoted freemen;
Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old,
Or Rome's immortal Three Men.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

With towering heart and lightsome feet
They went to their high places;
The fiery valour at white heat
Was kindled in their faces!
Magnificent in battle-robe,
And radiant, as from star-lands,
That spirit shone which girds our globe
With glory, as with garlands!

344

Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

They saw the Angel Iris o'er
Their deluge of grim fire;
And with their life's last tide they bore
The Ark of Freedom higher!
And grander 'tis i' the dash of death
To ride on Battle's billows,
When Victory's kisses take the breath,
Than sink on balmiest pillows.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

Brave Hearts, with noble feeling flushed,
In valour's ruddy riot
But Yesterday! how are ye hushed
Beneath the smile of Quiet!
For us they poured their blood like wine,
From life's ripe-gathered clusters;
And far through History's night shall shine
Their deeds with starriest lustres.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

We laid them not in Churchyard home,
Beneath our darling daisies:
Where to their grave-mounds Love might come,
And sit, and sing their praises.

345

But soothly sweet shall be their rest
Where Victory's hands have crowned them
To Earth our Mother's bosom pressed,
And Heaven's arms around them.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

Yes, there they lie 'neath Alma's sod,
On pillows dark and gory,—
As brave a host as ever trod
Old England's path to glory.
With head to home and face to sky,
And feet the Tyrant spurning,
So grand they look, so proud they lie,
We weep for glorious yearning.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

They in Life's outer circle sleep,
As each in death stood Sentry!
And like our England's Dead still keep
Their watch for kin and country.
Up Alma, in their red footfalls,
Comes Freedom's dawn victorious;
Such graves are courts to festal halls!
They banquet with the Glorious.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

346

Our Chiefs who matched the men of yore,
And bore our Shield's great burden,—
The nameless Heroes of the Poor,—
They all shall have their guerdon.
In silent eloquence, each life
The Earth holds up to heaven;
And Britain gives for Child and Wife,
As those brave hearts have given.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

The Spirits of our Fathers still
Stand up in battle by us;
And, in our need, on Alma hill,
The Lord of Hosts was nigh us.
Let Joy or Sorrow brim our cup,
'Tis an exultant story,
How England's Chosen Ones went up
Red Alma's hill to glory.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

BEFORE SEBASTOPOL.

At last we grip the Tyrant! Now
There's not a heart so lowly
But burns to strike a battle-blow,
And win a cause so holy!

347

The Brave look fearless in the eyes
Of Death, nor cry him quarter;
And grand promotion waits them, Boys,
Who fall by land or water!

To-day the ancient valour starts;
The Spirit of old story
Shall flash from out heroic hearts,
And kindle England's glory.
Wild voices wail across the sea,—
They cry from many a woe-land,—
Revenge! remember Sinope!
Revenge! remember Poland!

We seek the bed of Death, to win
Fair Freedom's dream of beauty,
Or wrest her from the Tyrant, in
The loving arms of duty.
Then gaily through the ocean-foam
Will sail our nobler Argo,
And proudly to our Island-home
Shall bear the precious cargo.

Think how their happy eyes will brim
To greet us on the beaches,
With blissful looks of love that swim
Through long luxurious reaches!
They watch us now from out the West,
But all too proud to sorrow
For us who rest on Victory's breast,
Or wear her wreath to-morrow.

Now, Soldiers, up to conquest stride,
Let not one spirit falter:
For Victory is your plighted Bride,
The breach your solemn altar!

348

Through all this bloody Cemet'ry
Behold what seed lies sleeping;
God! but thy sun should stand while we
Our harvest-field are reaping!

Now, Sailors, fight your Ships to-day
As Grenville fought the Spaniard!
If Battle's bloodiest game they play,
Have at them grip-and-poniard.
One thrilling shout for England, Ho!
Then, naked for the fight, men,
Dash in like fire upon the foe,
And God defend the Right, men!

SCARLETT'S THREE HUNDRED.

To horse, trot, gallop, and out with each blade!
To-day, Lads, we ride on a dare-devil raid
For death, or a halo that never shall fade.
Dear England for Ever, Hurrah!

An Army o'erhanging us, in the death-hush
Massed, like an Avalanche crowded to crush;
Up at them, pierce them, ere on us they rush!
Dear England for Ever, Hurrah!

Stick to old Scarlett, Lads! See how he goes
In for a near-sighted look at our foes:
Faster, men, faster, or singly he'll close!
Dear England for Ever, Hurrah!

349

Chariots of fire in the dark of death stand,
With crowns for the foremost who fall for their land:
My God, what a time ere we get hand to hand!
Dear England for Ever, Hurrah!

O the lightning of life! O the thunder of steeds!
Saddles are emptied, but nobody heeds;
All fighting to follow where Elliott leads.
Dear England for Ever, Hurrah!

Spring too now, wedge through now, and cleave crest and crown;
All one as a mowing-machine, cut them down!
For each foe round you strewn now a wreath of renown.
Dear England for Ever, Hurrah!

There's fear in their faces; they shrink from the shock;
They will open the door, only loud enough knock;
Keep turning the key, lest we stick in the lock!
Dear England for Ever, Hurrah!

Well done! Soul and steel alike trusty and true!
By Thousands they faced our invincible Few;
Like sand in a sieve you have riddled them through.
Dear England for Ever, Hurrah!

Charge back! Once again we must ride the Death-ride,
Torn, tattered, but smiling with something of pride:
Charge home; out of Hell; gory-grim; glorified!
Dear England for Ever, Hurrah!

350

One cheer for the living! One cheer for the dead!
One cheer for the deed on that hill-side red!
The glory is gathered for England's proud head!
Dear England for Ever, Hurrah!

OUR HEROES.

We blessed them for the Battle, who but marched to the Bier;
Some were riper for the Bridal—some were Fathers gray and sere;
With a kiss for Child and Wife, some went out in War's red wrack;
And to the land that gave us life, who'd grudge to give it back?

I had a gallant Brother, loved at home, and dear to me—
I have a mourning Mother, winsome Wife, and Children three—
He lies with Balaklava's dead. But let the Old Land call,
We would give our living remnant, we would follow one and all!

We speak a few weak words; but, the great hearts gone to God,
They have fought with their Swords—they passed over red-wet-shod!
While we sat at home, brave laurels for our Land they died to win;
And with smiles Valhalla lightens as our Heroes enter in.

351

They bore our banner fearless to the death, as to the fight,
They lifted England peerless to the old heroic height.
We weep not for the Heroes whom we never more shall see,—
Rather weep we were not with our England's noble Chivalry.

INKERMAN.

'Twas Midnight ere our Guns' loud laugh at their wild work did cease,
And by the smouldering fires of War we lit the pipe of peace.
At Four, a burst of Bells went up through Night's Cathedral dark,
It seemed so like our Sabbath Chimes, we could but wake, and hark!
So like the Bells that call to prayer in the dear land far away;
Their music floated on the air, and kissed us—to betray.
Our Camp lay on the rainy hill, all silent as a cloud,
Its very heart of life stood still i' the Mist that brought its shroud;
For Death was walking in the dark, and smiled His smile to see
How all was ranged and ready for a sumptuous jubilee.

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O wily are the Russians, and they came up through the mirk—
Their feet all shod for silence in the best blood of the Turk!
While in its banks our fiery tide of War serenely slept,
Their subtle serpentry unrolled, and up the hill-side crept.
In the Ruins of the Valley do the Birds of Carnage stir?
A creaking in the gloom like wheels! feet trample—bullets whir—
By God! the Foe is on us! Now the Bugles with a start
Thrill—like the cry of a wrongèd Queen—to the red roots of the heart;
And long and loud the wild war-drums with throbbing triumph roll,—
A sound to set the blood on fire, and warm the shivering soul.

The war-worn and the weary leaped up ready, fresh, and true!
No weak blood curdled white i' the face, no valour turned to dew.
Majestic as a God defied, arose our little Host—
All for the peak of peril pushed—each for the fieriest post!
Thorough mist, and thorough mire, and o'er the hill-brow scowling grim,
As is the frown of Slaughter when he dreams his dreadful dream.

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No Sun! but none is needed,—Men can feel their way to fight,
The lust of Battle in their face—eyes filled with fiery light;
And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the dark earth lay
The prophesying morning-red of a great and glorious day.

As Bridegroom leaves his wedded Bride in gentle slumbers sealed,
Our England slumbered in the West, when her Warriors went a-field.
We thought of her, and swore that day to strike immortal blows,
As all along our leaguered line the roar of battle rose.
Her Banners waved like blessing hands, and we felt it was the hour
For a glorious grip till fingers met in the throat of Russian power.
And at a bound, and with a sound that madly cried to kill,
The Lion of Old England leapt in lightnings from the hill:
And there he stood superb, through all that Sabbath of the Sword,
And there he slew, with a terrible scorn, his hunters, horde on horde.

All Hell seemed bursting on us, as the yelling legions came—
The Cannon's tongues of quick red fire licked all the hills a-flame!

354

Mad whistling shell, wild sneering shot, with devilish glee went past,
Like fiendish feet and laughter hurrying down the battle-blast;
And through the air, and round the hills, there ran a wrack sublime
As though Eternity were crashing on the shores of Time.
On Bayonets and Swords the smile of conscious victory shone,
As down to death we dashed the Rebels plucking at our Throne.
On, on they came with face of flame, and storm of shot and shell—
Up! up! like heaven-scalers, and we hurled them back to Hell.

Like the old Sea, white-lipped with rage, they dash and foam despair
On ranks of rock, and what a prize for the Wrecker Death was there!
But as 'twere River Pleasaunce, did our fellows take that flood,
A royal throbbing in the pulse that beat voluptuous blood:
The Guards went down to the fight in gray that's growing gory red—
See! save them, they're surrounded! Leap your ramparts of the dead,
And back the desperate battle, for there is but one short stride
Between the Russ and victory! One more tug, you true and tried—

355

The Red-Caps crest the hill! with bloody spur, ride, Bosquet, ride!
Down like a flood from Etna foams their valour's burning tide.

Now, God for Merrie England cry! Hurrah for France the Grand!
We charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand to hand!
He caught a shadowy glimpse across the smoke of Alma's fray
Of the Destroying Angel that shall blast his strength to-day.
We shout and charge together, and again, again, again,
Our plunging battle tears its path, and paves it with the slain.
Hurrah! the mighty host doth melt before our fervent heat;
Against our side its breaking heart doth faint and fainter beat.
And O, but 'tis a gallant show, and a merry march, as thus
We sound into the glorious goal with shouts victorious!

From morn till night, we fought our fight, and at the set of sun
Stood Conquerors on Inkerman—our Soldiers' Battle won.
That morn their legions stood like corn in its pomp of golden grain!
That night the ruddy sheaves were reaped upon the misty plain!

356

We cut them down by thunder-strokes, and piled the shocks of slain:
The hill-side like a vintage ran, and reeled Death's harvest-wain.
We had hungry hundreds gone to sup in Paradise that night,
And robes of Immortality our ragged Braves bedight!
They fell in Boyhood's comely bloom, and Bravery's lusty pride;
But they made their bed o' the foemen dead, ere they lay down and died.

We gathered round the tent-fire in the evening cold and gray,
And thought of those who ranked with us in Battle's rough array,
Our Comrades of the morn who came no more from that fell fray!
The salt tears wrung out in the gloom of green dells far away—
The eyes of lurking Death that in Life's crimson bubbles play—
The stern white faces of the Dead that on the dark ground lay
Like Statues of Old Heroes, cut in precious human clay—
Some with a smile as life had stopped to music proudly gay—
The household Gods of many a heart all dark and dumb to-day!
And hard hot eyes grew ripe for tears, and hearts sank down to pray

357

From alien lands, and dungeon-grates, how eyes will strain to mark
This waving Sword of Freedom burn and beckon through the dark!
The Martyrs stir in their red graves, the rusted armour rings
Adown the long aisles of the dead, where lie the warrior Kings.
To the proud Mother England came the radiant Victory
With Laurels red, and a bitter cup like some last agony.
She took the cup, she drank it up, she raised her laurelled brow:
Her sorrow seemed like solemn joy, she looked so noble now.
The dim divine of distance died—the purpled Past grew wan,
As came that crowning Glory o'er the heights of Inkerman.

NICHOLAS AND THE BRITISH LION.

Czar Nicholas called to North and South,
“Come, see the World's great show!
I will thrust my head in the Lion's mouth,”
And he laughed, “Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!
I am the Lion-Tamer dread—
I make the old brute quail!”
The Lion he shook his Incredulous head,
And wagged his Dubious tail.

358

O the Lion lay down in the pride of his might;
'Twas a brave, magnanimous beast!
O the Lion leaped up to his shaggiest height;
The lord of a bloody feast!
Now hold, now hold, thou desperate man,
Or thy braggart cheek may pale;
Terror is towering up in his mane,
And Vengeance tugs at his tail.

Like a statue of Satan, Nick, alas! stood,
And chuckled a low lying laugh;
“The world is my Knoutship's whipping-top;
Hot blood for wine I quaff!”
He called to North, he called to South,
“Come, see the old brute quail:
I will thrust my head in his mumbling mouth:”
The Lion he wagged his tail.

He thrust his head in the Lion's mouth:
Ho! Ho! but the sport was rare!
The Lion smelt blood in the giant's breath,
And his clenched teeth held him there.
Then he cried, from between the gates of death,
With the voice of a Spirit in bale,
“Now God-a-mercy on my soul!
Does the Lion wag his tail?”

Then each one strove to say him Yea,
But each one held his breath:
There was lightning of hell in the Lion's eyes;
His looks communed with Death!
The Giant's heart melts like snow in his mouth,
His voice is a Woman's wail;
Avengers knock at the door of his life,
In that lash of the Lion's tail.

359

A low, dread sound, as from underground,
Makes ready the realms of the dead;
And the Tamer lies tamed on the earth full-length;
That is, except—a head.
And the poor old beast, at whose aspect mild
The meanest thing dared rail,
Shakes his mane like a Conqueror's bloody plumes,
And—quietly wags his tail.

A WAR WINTER'S-NIGHT IN ENGLAND.

Wild is the wintry weather!
Dark is the night, and cold!
Closely we crowd together,
For warmth in the family fold.
A mute and mighty Shadow flies
Across the land on wings of Gloom!
And through each Home its awful eyes
May lighten with their stroke of doom.
Life's light burns dim—we hold the breath—
All sit stern in the shadow of Death,
Around the Household fire—
This Winter's-night in England,
Straining our ears for the tidings of War,
Beacon-like holding our hearts up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

Oh, talk of Britain's glory;—
Oh, sing some brave old song;—
Or tell the thrilling story
Of her wrestle with the wrong,

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Till we clutch the spirit-sword for the strife,
And into our Rest would rather fall
Down Battle's cataract of life,
Than turn the white face to the wall.
Sing O, for a charge victorious!
And the meekest face grows glorious!
As we sit by the Household fire,
This Winter's-night in England,—
Our spirits within us like steeds of War!
Beacon-like holding our hearts up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

And oft in silence solemn
We peer from Night's dark tent,
And see the quivering Column,
Like a cloud by lightning rent.
For death, how merry they mount and ride!
Those swords look keen for their lap of gore!
Such Valour leaps out Deified!
Such souls must rend the clay they wore!
How proud they sweep on Glory's track!
So many start! so few come back
To sit by the Household fire,
On a Winter's-night in England,
And with rich tears wash their wounds of War,
Where we, Beacon-like, hold our hearts up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

We thrill to the Clarion's clangour,
We harness for the fight:
With the Warrior's glorious anger,
We are nobly-mad to smite:
No dalliance, save with Hate, hold we,
Where Life and Death keep bloody tryst,

361

And all the red Reality
Reels on us through a murder-mist!
Wave upon Wave rolls Ruin's flood,
And the hosts of the Tyrant melt in blood,
As we sit by the Household fire,
This Winter's-night in England,
And our Colour flies out to the music of War,
Beacon-like holding our hearts up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

Old England still hath Heroes
To wear her Sword and Shield!
We knew them not while near us,
We know them far afield!
Look! how the Tyrant's hills they climb,
To hurl our gage in his grim hold!
The Titans of the earlier time,
Though larger-limbed, were smaller-souled!
Laurel, or Amaranth, light their brow!
Living or dead, we crown them now,
As we sit by the Household fire,
This Winter's-night in England;
From the white cliffs watching the storm of War;
Beacon-like holding our hearts up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

O! their brave love hath rootage
In the Old Land, deep and dear,
And Life's ripe, ruddy fruitage
Hangs summering for them here!
And tender eyes, tear-luminous,
Melt through the dark of dreamland skies,
While, pleading aye for home and us,
The heart is one live brood of cries!

362

Old feelings cling! O how they cling!
And sweet birds sing! O how they sing
Them back to the Household fire,
This Winter's-night in England,
Where we wait for them weary and wounded from War,
Beacon-like holding our hearts up higher,
For those who are fighting afar!

Ah, me! how many a Maiden
Will wake o' nights, to find
Her tree of life, love-laden,
Swept bare in this wild wind!
The Bird of bliss, to many a nest,
Will come back never, never, never!
So many a goodly, gallant crest
That waved to victory, low for ever!
We pray for them, we fear for them,
And silently drop a tear for them,
As we sit by the Household fire,
This Winter's-night in England,
Each life looking out for its own love-star!
Beacon-like holding our hearts up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

But, there's no Land like England,
Wherever that land may be!
Of all the world 'tis king-land
Crowned, by its Bride, the Sea!
And they shall rest in the balmiest bed,
Who battle for it, and bleed for it!
And they shall be head of the Glorious Dead,
Who die in the hour of need for it!

363

And long shall we sing of their deeds divine,
In songs that warm the heart like wine,
As we sit by the Household fire,
On a Winter's-night in England,
And the tale is told of this night of War,
When we, Beacon-like, held our hearts up higher,
For those who were fighting afar.

THE MARTYRS' HILL.

Sitting in her sorrow lone,
Still our Mother makes her moan
For the Lost; and to the Martyrs' Hill her thoughts in mourning go.
O, that desert of the Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow!

Into glory had they rode
When the tide of triumph flowed,
Not a tear would we shed for the heroes lying low.
But our hearts break for the Dead,
In their desolate Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.

Praying breath rose white in air,
Eyes were set in a stern stare,

364

Hands were stretched for help that came not as they sank in silence low:
Our dear, heroic Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.

Now the winter snows are gone,
And Earth smiles as though the Dawn
Had come up from it in flowers—such a light of grace doth glow
All about our darkened Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.

But, never, never more,
Comes the Spring that will restore
To their own love, their own land, the lost ones lying low
On the Martyrs' Hill, our Dead
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.

Till with victory God replies,
Shall our Battle storm the skies,
And our living soldiers think, as they grapple with the foe,
Of our perished, peerless Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.

365

Through a hundred battles red,
Shall their fame float overhead;
Into everlasting flowers shall their martyr memories blow.
So we crown our glorious Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of Winter snow.

OUR ENGLISH NIGHTINGALE.

“ You brave, you bonny Nightingale,
You are no summer Bird;
Your music sheathes an Army's wail
That pierces like a Sword.”
All night she sings, dear Nightingale,
With breast against the thorn;
Her saintly patience doth not fail,
She keepeth watch till morn.

“Ah, sing, you bonniest Bird of God,
The night is sad and long;
To dying ears—to broken hearts—
You sing an Angel's song!”
She sings, she sings, our Nightingale,
And weary warrior souls
Are caught up into Slumber's heaven,
And lapped in Love's warm folds.

“O sing, O sing! dear Nightingale,
For, at your magic note,
Upon Life's sea victoriously
The sinking soul will float.

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O sing, O sing! dear Nightingale,
And lure them back again,
Whose path is lost and spirit crossed,
In dark wild woods of Pain.”

She sings, she sings, our Nightingale,
She breathes a gracious balm;
Her presence breaks the waves of war,
She smiles them into calm.
She sings, she sings, our Nightingale,
Of auld Langsyne and Home;
And life grows light, the world grows bright,
And blood runs rich with bloom.

Day after day her dainty hands
Make Life's soiled temples clean,
And there's a wake of glory where
Her spirit pure hath been.
At midnight, through that shadow-land,
Her living face doth gleam;
The dying kiss her shadow, and
The Dead smile in their dream.

Brave Bird of Love, in Life's sweet May,
She rose up from the feast,
To shine above our Banner,
Like God's Angel in the East.
“Brave Bird of Life, wave healing wings
O'er that gray Land o' the Dead;
God's heaven lie round you like a shield,
Earth's blessings on your head.”

The Rose did lift her veil, and blush
At her Bower-door like a bride:
The shy brown birds came back with Spring,
In merry greenwood to hide.

367

But there she sang, our Nightingale,
Till War's stern heart grew mild,
And, nestling in the arms of Peace,
He slumbered like a Child.

CATHCART'S HILL.

They have died, our true and tried, ere our flag victorious flew
O'er the burning battle-hell, we must ride to conquest through.
But they died, our Glorified! on the field of their renown;
And they died when the pride of the Foeman's power went down.
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, 'tis a famous grave!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, the bravest of the Brave.

A wind of death was waving, like a flame, the Warrior's plume!
Stern in his shroud of fire, the Foe glared from his burning tomb!
Victory's shouts were ringing as they flashed from out the strife,
To meet God's angels bringing garlands for the Kings of Life.
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, 'tis a famous grave!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, the bravest of the Brave!

368

Bear them to that grave in a solemn march and slow,
Let Music talk in tears o'er the lost ones lying low;
They will sleep calm and deep when the battle-bugles blow;
And ye shall build their monument when next ye meet the Foe!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, 'tis a famous grave!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, the bravest of the Brave!

We quaff our cup o' the Vintage, and from darkened depths arise
The bubbles, like the tears that plead in Desolation's eyes;
Yet there's glory in our grief,—'tis a glory that shall grow
When our sorrow hath no morrow, and 'twas centuries ago.
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, 'tis a famous grave!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, the bravest of the Brave!

Bury them on Cathcart's Hill,—their glory from its crest
Shall flame, a Terror to the North, a Watch-fire to the West!
Cross their hands and lay their brands upon the martial breast,
They have won the proud “Well done,” lay them down to their rest.
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, 'tis a famous grave!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, the bravest of the Brave!

369

THE COALITION AND THE PEOPLE.

O suffering people! this is not our fight
Who called a holy Crusade for the Right!
The Despots' bloody game our Tricksters play,
And stake our future chance by chance away.
Not Whigs! not Tories! we want English Souls,
Through which there yet reverberates and rolls
Some echo of old greatness; trusty hands
To bear our Banner over Seas and Lands.
Our good Ship may be driving on the rocks;
We need a Compass, and not Weather-Cocks!
We have had Leaders who strode forward all
On fire to serve her at their Country's call;
Who did not stoop, till blind, for place or pelf,
Their whole life burned a sacrifice of Self!
Who 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 Despot's smile;
The Quakers who would set our dear green Isle
Spinning their Cotton till the Judgment Hour,
With Ocean turning round for Water-power.
They pander to this Plunderer of the night;
Confused their little sense of Wrong and Right,
And they would bow our England's forehead 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.
We cannot leave our Land for watch and ward
To those who know not what a gem they guard;

370

Who would 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 the frogs reign in darkness; croak all night,
And call the Stars false Prophets of the Light.

O darkened hearts in Homesteads desolate!
O wasted bravery of our vainly great!
The Flower of Men fall stricken from behind:
The Knaves and Cowards stab us bound and blind.
With faces turned from Battle, they went forth:
We marched with ours flint-set against the North.
They shuffled lest their feet should rouse the dead:
We went with Resurrection in our tread.
They trembled lest the world might come to blows:
We quivered for the tug and mortal close.
They only meant a mild hint for the Czar:
We would have surfeited his soul with War.
While they were quenching Freedom's scattered fires,
We kindled memories of heroic Sires.
They'd have this grand Old England cringe and pray,
“Don't smite me, Kings; but if you will, you may.”
We'd make her as in those proud times of old,
When Cromwell spoke, and Blake's war-thunders rolled.
They on the passing powers of Darkness fawn;
With warrior-joy we greeted this red Dawn.
To crowned blood-suckers they would bind us slaves,
We would be free, or sleep in glorious graves.

371

State-Spiders, Here or There, weave webs alike;
These snare the victims, while the others strike.
The Dwarfs drag our great Banner in the mire:
We ask for Men to bear it high and higher.
O stop their fiddling over War's grim revel,
And pitch them from your shoulders to—the Devil.

ALL OVER.

Fades the New Aurora
That so glorious shone afar;
We but saw its fair face smiling
In the ruddy waves of war.
The Peace-fool to his pillow
Now may sneak, and sleep:
But a glory gone for ever,
We must weep; let us weep.

Sleep the buried thunders;
Their reverberations cease:
And the grim old War-God
Must smile—a painted Peace.
Wild eyes are mad-house windows
Of Souls that plead in vain!
Over their old dark sorrow
Greeneth the soft spring-rain.

Had we struck for Freedom
One immortal battle-blow,
Like the men who rose for England,
Two hundred years ago,—
The dead Nations lying
Where they fought and fell of old,

372

Would have risen from their prison
With their buried flags unrolled.

Cowards in the Council!
Heroes in the field!
Is our short sad story
By the blood of Martyrs sealed.
On those lone Crimean ridges
In the night our dead arise;
Hear the Norland winds come wailing
With their curses, and their cries!

Sublime in all her suffering;
In the fight so brave!
Poor old England's victories
Bow her to the grave.
And is the world to see her
Low and lonely lie
Chained to her rock, while Tyrants mock,
As they go riding by?

ENGLAND AND LOUIS NAPOLEON.

There was a poor old Woman once, a daughter of our nation,
Before the Devil's portrait stood in ignorant adoration.
“You're bowing down to Satan, Ma'am,” said some Spectator civil:
“Ah, Sir, it's best to be polite, for we may go to the Devil.”
Bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

373

So England hails the Saviour of Society, and will tarry at
His feet, nor see her Christ is he who sold him, cursed Iscariot.
By grace of God, or sleight of hand, he wears the royal vesture,
And at thy throne, Divine Success! we kneel with reverent gesture,
And bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

O when the Sun is over us, we venerate the sunlight;
But when Eclipse is over it, we venerate the dunlight.
No matter what is uppermost, upon All-fours we revel,
And when Hell triumphs over Heaven—conciliate the Devil,
And bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

Ah, Louis, had you come to us despisèd and rejected,
You might have gone to—Coventry, unnoticed and neglected:
But as you've done one Nation so, and left another undone,
We kiss you Sire at Windsor—crown you more than king in London,
And bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

374

Our Idol's hands are red with blood, with blood his eyes are sodden,
But we know 'tis only guilty blood which he has spilt and trodden!
He wears the imperial purple now, that plotting Prince of evil;
He lets us share his glory if we bow down to the Devil;
And we bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

With hand to hilt, and ear to earth, waits Revolution, breathless,
To catch the resurrection-sound of Liberty the deathless!
We see no Danger hug us round—no Sword hang o'er us gory,
While to this mocking Mirage in the sunset of our glory
We bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

Back, back, you foolish Peoples, slink into your weeping places,
Quench Freedom's torch in tears, and put her light out in your faces:
The heart of England beats no more to the old heroic level;
The poor old Woman bows before her Portrait of the Devil.
Bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

375

THE OLD FLAG.

An Emperor babbled in his dreams,—
Ne'er sleeps the secret in his soul,—
“The Lion is old, and ready he seems
To draw my Chariot to its goal.”
With awful light the Lion's eye
Began to flame—sublime he stands!
With looks that make the Tyrant try
To hide his bloody hands.
Thank God, the advancing tide is met!
Thank God, the Old Flag's flying yet.

We love our Native Land and Laws,
And He would rather we did not!
We are Conspirators because
We are in our little green grass plot!
But let him follow up his frown,
Marshal his Myriads for the blow;
Those who are doomed to drown must drown,
The rest we take in tow!
In Cherbourg's sight their Gallows set
Beside the Old Flag flying yet.

Our Ghost of Greatness hath not fled
At crowning of the Gallic Cock;
A foreign Despot's heel shall tread
No print upon our English rock.
Here Freedom by the Lion grand
Sits safe, and Una-like doth hold
Him gently with her gentle hand;
And long as Seas enfold,
High on our topmost heights firm-set,
We keep her Old Flag flying yet.

376

To Freedom we must aye be true;
Our England must be Freedom's home;
For sake of our dead Darlings who
Went heavenward crowned with martyrdom.
'Twas She who made us what we are,
Throned on our Sea-cliffs gray and grand;
Great image of majestic care;
Fair Bride of Fatherland!
We do but pay the filial debt
To keep her Old Flag flying yet.

This little Isle is Freedom's Bark
That rideth in a perilous path:
Around us one wide sea of dark
That beats and breaks in stormy wrath.
The Despots drove poor Freedom forth,
By bloody footprints tracked her road;—
And Homeless, Homeless, else on earth
She takes to her Sea-abode!
She turns on us her eyes tear-wet;
Ah, keep the Old Flag flying yet.

Statesmen have drawn back meek and mute,
Or pardon begged from bullying foes,
Whene'er a Military boot
Was stamped upon retreating toes.
They shrink to hear Him at our gates,
This ominous thing of gloom and gore,
Though Revolution for him waits
At Danger's every door.
But little do we heed his threat!
We keep the Old Flag flying yet.

Over the praying Peoples rolled
The dark tide, and we helped them not.

377

Yet on our lifted hands, behold,
We cry, behold no bloody spot!
This famous people's heart is sound,
It fights for all that bleed and smart;
We—banned above—meet underground,
Meet in a touch of heart.
We cannot our old fame forget;
We keep the Old Flag flying yet.

We have a true and tender clasp
For Freedom's friends where'er their home,
And for her foes as grim a grasp,
No matter when or whence they come.
We like that gay light-hearted France
That into stormy splendour breaks,
When its brave music for the dance
Of Death the battle makes;
And foot to foot would proudly set
To keep the Old Flag flying yet.

But what is France? this cruel Power
That builds above her martyred dead,
Whose spirits thicken hour by hour
The air about its doomèd head?
This Death-in-Life throned on the grave,
That in the darkness waits its prey?
Like Coral-workers 'neath the wave,
It dies on reaching day.
The Sun of France hath not thus set,
But, keep the Old Flag flying yet.

France, who hath stood erect and first,
Will not lie latest in the dust:
Ere long her breath of scorn will burst
This bubble blown of bloody lust.

378

Quietly, quietly turns the tide,
And when this shore lies black and bare,
There shall be no more sea to hide
The Wrecker's secrets there.
Our lot is cast, our task is set,
To keep the Old Flag flying yet.

Save him? this Burglar of the night
Broke into Freedom's sacred shrines!
This Lie uncrowned whene'er the light
Of merciless next morning shines!
This terror of a land struck dumb,
Who fed the Furies with brave blood!
We cannot save him when they come
For his. Not if we would.
Too slippery is the hand blood-wet!
Ah, keep the Old Flag flying yet.

The Tyrant sometimes waxeth strong
To drag a fate more fearful down:
He veileth Justice who ere long
Shall see Eternal Justice frown.
The Kings of Crime from near and far
Shall come to crown him with their crown;
Under the Shadow of Doom his Star
Will redden, and go down.
And day shall dawn when it hath set;
Ah, keep the Old Flag flying yet.

Leaves fall, but lo! the young buds peep!
Flowers die and still their seed shall bloom;
From death the quick young life will leap
When Spring comes breathing by the tomb.

379

And though their graves are hushed, in stern
Heroic dream the dead men lie!
To God their still white faces turn:
The Murdered do not die.
Will God the Martyrs' seed forget?
No. Keep the Old Flag flying yet.

This triumph of the Spoken word
Is well, my England, but give heed,
The World leans on thee as a Sword
For Freedom in her battle-need.
Star of a thousand battles red,
Be thou the Beacon of the Free!
Turn round thy luminous side, and shed
God's light o'er land and sea.
Through floods, or flames, or bloody sweat,
Keep thou the Old Flag flying yet.

The splendid shiver of brave blood
Is thrilling through our England now!
She who so often hath withstood
The Tyrants, lifts her brightened brow.
God's precious charge we proudly keep
In circling arms of victory!
With Freedom we shall live, or sleep
With our dear Dead who are free.
God forget us when we forget
To keep the Old Flag flying yet.

380

ENGLAND AND LOUIS NAPOLEON.

May, 1859.

Majestic Mother! Thine was not a brow
To bend, and blindly take a tinsel Crown
From hands like His. Thy glorious Sons have won
More crowns than thou canst wear, though all the year
A fresh one glistened daily. These are crowns
Untarnishable by the breath of scorn!
The crowns that never can be melted down
And minted for the market. Thine was not
A soul to wear the fetters that made fast
His stolen throne to him, and gracefully
To drape the Imperial Purple round, and hide
The blood that splashed there, red till Judgment Day.
He stole on France, deflowered her in the night,
Then tore her tongue out lest she told the tale;
And Statesmen called him friend, and proudly held
Our Banner over him, while moneyed worldlings,
So pleased they knew not on which leg to stand,
Went on their knees, and worshipped his success,—
So prostrate in their souls, so prone in dust,
They saw not how the feet were only clay,
For all the golden Image; they forgot
How meanest reptiles crawl up tallest towers.

Our England is long-suffering, and slow
Of judgment, lulled by seeming to the last.
And they are busy dreaming their dark dreams,
While she is sleeping sound in trustful peace.
'Tis well for thee, my Country, when the day
Breaks, thou canst never match them in the dark!

381

Thine eyes are blind where Birds of night see best.
But instinct, that Veiled Prophet of the Soul,
Flashes up, startled from its seeing trance,
As though God's hand had touched it while we slept.
There's some invisible danger drawing near,
That hath not taken shape yet, but it comes.
The still small voice cries wake, my Country, wake,
And sleep no more while that Man's in the world.
The treacherous dealer will deal treacherously;
The lawless Power is still above all Law!
The Foe that cometh at the dead of night
May find the Goodman slumbering with the arms
Too rusted on the walls. Make the Sword sharp;
Watch warily, you lookers from the hill!
Arm every rampart, rock, and tower of Right,
And arm the people; thus, securely armed,
We may sit safe and hold the hands of War
In ours, he cannot strike us for the time.

Once more the War-wave surges gaily out
From Paris with its gallant armaments,
In music's pomp, and bannered pride, and dance
Of life light-hearted, and light-headed crests.
The Ghost of Buonapartè hath broken loose
With Ruin's lighted torch half hidden in
The Devil's own dark lanthorn. We shall see
The night-side of Napoleon, as he tracks
His old earth foot-prints black with rusted blood.
Alas for Italy! the Storm of War
From its fire-mountain throne sweeps burning down,
Its purple lava-mantle trails behind,
Embracing all and blasting all it folds.
A sea of soldiery breaks over her;

382

Her fair face darkens in the shadow of Swords;
Destruction drives his ploughshare through her soil,
But will he turn her old lost Jewel to light?
Another crop of young heroic life
Is ready for the Reaper; it springs fast
In such a land, so watered, with such blood.

Poor Fools! this Despot turned Deliverer is
A sneaking Cutpurse, not a Cutthroat grand,
Like him that lifted up a Sword of fire,
Whose flashes frightened nations, and went forth,
A prairie-flame consuming men as grass:
How dazzlingly his beacon-star that danced
From crown to crown did shine above the lands
He covered with his purple and his pall!
He stormed the dizziest heights, and there he stood
In sanguine glory! Like a Battle-God
Ruling the strife with face of marble calm!
The eyes of Heaven that look down on us with
The earnestness of all eternity,
Saw our old world turn blood-red mirroring Him!
Napoleon dilated till he filled
The vision of France instead of Liberty.
And such the glamour of his grandeur, She
Knew not which Image crowned the Column lifted
A heaven above her, in her love and worship.
But this Man leads her eyeless, blind in blood.
He bears a Burglar's Bludgeon, not a Sword:
Great Oath-breaker, and not World-Victor He.

How far the tide may flood, how quick return
With wreck and ruin for its freightage home,
We know not, nor how soon the nether pit
May open and stern Nemesis rise up
For vengeance infinitely terrible!

383

As in the grim Norse myth Loke lieth bound
Down at the heart o' the world, so Tyranny keeps
A potent spirit fettered underground,
And o'er it hangs a Serpent horrible,
With eyes through which all hell crowds up to see
The poison-fire spit in that Spirit's face;
In straining waves it writhes along to squeeze
Its soul of venom into every drop:
And there sits Wife-like Patience at the side,
Catching the poison till her cup will hold
No more, and she must empty it. Ah then
The poison burns! and with one great heart-heave
That Spirit's bonds are burst! an Earthquake's born.

These Despots do but throw with loaded dice;
They lose or win by other will than theirs!
A Goddess blind leads worshippers as blind.
Henceforth we have no part in this man's lot,
No faith in him; he goes his way, we ours:
If we were true to him we must be false
To all our dearest deeds and noblest dreams!
We are no close-chained Mob for one to walk
Over our heads, and kiss the feet that tread!
Our welding oneness binds up all our wounds,
And one heart and one breath make healing life.
We trust in God, and mean to hold our own.
We are not stainless; there are wrongs on wrongs
Crying for Right! the patient heavens have looked
On many a failing sadly! England's Star
Hath winked on many a crime, and through the gloom
Suffering still doggeth Sin, to strike at last.
May God forgive us, we are apt to grow

384

Unmindful of our blessings, and forget
That this is England, and forget how He
Hath wrought for England; that the sacred Ark
Rests on this Ararat; we dare not face
The world with that same faith we dare profess
Kneeling to God. And so at times we need
A hint from Heaven, and these are often stern.
May God forsake not England, but in need
Look smilingly upon her!

We at least
Will never run beside this Tyrant's car
Of triumph, glorying in the dust we raise!
Our voice at least shall cry aloud his fall,
Though but a lonely trumpet in the night,
And spare not him who plots against us all.

O Statesmen, ye who lead this noble land,
May you prove wise and worthy! Great good Men,
With hearts that beat to high heroic measures,
And strength still equal to the sternest time;
With faith to fight and patience to work on,
Still knowing these live longer than a Lie!
The pyramid of our power is not complete
Until it touches heaven for its crown!
And if the Bloody Star should turn this way
Its red eye of destruction, fierce to see
The pride and prowess of our might go down
With England for funereal pyre; then give
No quarter to the foes that aim at us!
Through fire and foam flash on them, and strike home
Like Lightnings of the Lord! fuel the flames
Of Battle with the Revolution's wrecks

385

That drift upon our shores. In Tyrant-land
A young Deliverer lies a-dream, and sees
Such splendours in his vision only eyes
When veiled can look on! tell him the time's come!
He will arise and stretch his hand and snatch
The Sword. It will be Resurrection Day!
The Tyrant's fortresses and palaces
Built with the Headsman's scaffold will dissolve;
The piles of ghastly, gory heads shall turn
To flaming-sworded Spirits! the dry bones
Will stir and rise up, and the Dead shall live.

You Lovers of our England, do but look
On this dear Country over whose fair face
God drooped a bridal veil of tender mist,
That she might keep her beauty virginal,
And He might see her through a softer glory;
So very meek and reverent doth she stand
Within this shadow soft of Love Divine,
More lovable, and not as brighter lands
Whose bolder beauty stares up in heaven's face.
Look on her now, this jewel of the world,
Set in that marriage-ring of circling sea!
She smiles upon her Image in its calm,
Like some proud Ship that floateth in its shadow.
And as a happy Lover clasps his Bride,
The fond Sea folds her round, and his brimmed life
Runs rippling to her inmost heart of hearts,
Until it swims a-flood with happiness;
And all the waters of her love leap back
To him exultant from a thousand hills.
From his salt virtue comes her northern sweetness.
How his rough kisses make her roses bloom!

386

Once in his rousèd wrath he lifted up
A mighty Armada in his arms, and dashed
It into sea-drift at his Mistress' feet.
And still he threatens with his voice of storms
The plots of all Invaders; still he keeps
Eternal watch around. How proud in peace,
The wild white horses rear and foam along
And bring to her the Harvests of the world!
How grand in war they bear her battle-line
In strength half-smiling, perfect Power crowned
With careless grace, which seemeth to all eyes
The plume of Triumph nodding as it goes;
For visible victory sits upon her brow,
And shines upon her sails.

See where She sits
Holding at heart her noble dead, and nursing
Her living Children on the old brave virtue;
Wearing the rainy radiance of the morning,
With silver sweetness swimming in her tears,
Feeling the glory rippling down from heaven,
With smiles from all her wild flowers, her green leaves,
And nooks where Old Times live their Shepherd ways.
We cannot count her heroes who lay down
In quiet graveyards when their work was done;
But mound on mound they rise all over the land
To bar a Tyrant's path, and make his feet
To stumble like the blind man among tombs.
Her brave dead make our earth heroic dust;
Their spirit glitters in our England's face
And makes her shine, a Star in blackest night,
Calm at her heart, and glory round her head.
We think of all who fought, and who are now

387

Immortals in the heaven of her love;
The Martyrs who have made of burning wrongs
Their fiery chariot, and gone up to God;
The saintly Sorrows that now walk in white;
Till faces bloom like battle-Banners flushed
All over with most glorious memories.
We are a Chosen People; Freedom wears
Our English Rose for her peculiar crest,
Whoso dares touch it bleeds upon the thorn!
It may be that the time will come again
For one more desperate struggle to the death.
The eye of Evil on our England looks
With snaky sparkle still. It may be they
Will rouse the old Berserkir rage, and make
The vein of wrath throb livid on her brow,
And wake the grim Norse War-dog in her blood,
Until she springs afloat upon the sea
Like an Immortal white-winged on the air,
The joy of swiftness lightning through her veins.

Thrice hath our England swept the Seas, and cleared
Her Ocean-path, the Highways of the world,
And will again if Robbers lie in wait.
She hath stood fast when towering Nations hurled
In one vast wave their culminating power!
Through all that harvest-day of bloody death,
They charged in vain, and dashed upon the edge
Of her red sword, and fell, at Waterloo!
We kept the shamble-slopes of Inkerman!
Through blood and fire and gloom of Indian War
We swam the Red Sea, and rode out the storm!
So shall we hold our own dear land with all
The old unvanquished soul, and we shall see

388

Their changing Empires shift like sand around
The Island Rock, the footstool of the Lord,
Where Freedom also lays her head, and rest
In calm or storm the best hopes of a world.

Ah, let the Peacemen preach, but let our Peace
Be Peace white-robed and not white-livered Peace;
Be Right victorious, not triumphant Wrong!
These pallid Peacemen are to true men what
Our world might be without its Iron Ore;
But never may the grand old bravery die.
No, no! we must not let the death-fires dance
Along our heights with their funereal flames,
As Hell had thrust up many red-hot tongues
To get its lap of gore when earth is drenched.
Our green fields shall not blush in blood for us!
We will not let them pluck the old land down
To throne them in her seat; they must not wear
The Crown she raced for round the world and won.
Our Country has a name and fame might fill
The eyes of Hate and Envy with tame tears;
And they shall never lay her low while we
Are true to her in heart and head and hand.
And all who come in peace will find a home,
And all who come in war a mouthful of
Our dust in death, and Sea-beach for a grave.

Great starry thoughts grow luminous in the dark;
The Bird of Hope soars singing overhead!
We cannot fear for England, we can die
To do her bidding, but we cannot fear:
We who have heard her thunder-roll of deeds
Reverberating through the centuries;
By battle fire-light had the stories told;
We who have seen how proudly she prepared

389

For sacrifice, how radiantly her face
Flashed when the Bugle blew its bloody sounds,
And bloody weather fluttered her old Flag;
We who have seen her with the red heaps round;
We who have known the mightiest Powers dashed back
Broken from her impregnable sea-walls;
We who have learned how in the darkest hour
The greatest light breaks out, and in the time
Of trial she reveals her noblest strength;
We do not, will not, cannot fear for Her,
We who have felt her big heart beat in ours.

Hail to Thee, Mother of Nations! mighty yet
To strive, or suffer, and give overthrow!
For all the Powers of nature fight for thee.
Spirits that sleep in glory shall awake,
Come down and drive thy Car of victory
Over thine enemies' necks. Thy past renown
Shall turn to future strength. Long will they wait
Who privily lurk to stab thee when the Night
Shall cover all in darkness.

Dear old Land,
Thy shining glories are no Sunset gleams,
But clouds that kindle round some great new Dawn!

LOUIS NAPOLEON:—“À BERLIN.”

Because his Dream so gloomily dips
His Soul in the shadow of coming Eclipse,
With a tremulous clutch the Sword he grips!

390

Because the Crown felt loose on his head,
And his Throne grew shaky, once more he would tread
Secure with his foot on the face of the dead.

Because the flash of the breakers by night
Showed him Destruction so near that the white
Of its eyes made sick the Seer's sight!

Because the Heavens waxed weary of him,
Oceans of innocent blood must brim,
That his poor little Lad might be learning to swim!

Because his Boy needed Baptism of fire,
There is service of hell in a Funeral Pyre
Of Towns aflame with its heavenward spire!

Because he had Murder's new Toy to try,
A hundred thousand men must die;
We hold our breath as the Doomed goes by,

Dark with the shadow of fate on his soul;
And the storm-winds rise, and the war-clouds roll—
Avengers that hurry him on to his goal!

If he saw what I see, that Dreamer gone fey
Would double himself in the dust to pray.
Napoleon! this is the Judgment Day!

391

MÖLTKE'S PROMISE.

If only fourteen days are mine
To make all ready, I know
The French will never see our Rhine
And we shall take their rhino;
Napoleon will strike too late,
And ere his Fête-day meet his fate,
That will not tarry though he wait!

THE MITRAILLEUSE AT SAARBRÜCKEN.

What sound was that we heard? great God of Battles!
It was the Empire having the death-rattles.

A GRAVE ERROR.

He trampled Freedom underfoot;
Amid her murdered dead struck root;
He made their tomb his place of trust!
And now the blood hath turned to rust;
The Dead men crumble into dust:
His power sinks in that burial-place,
And He is caught in their embrace!

392

THE FAITH OF THE PHILISTINE.

The great Deceiver finds himself deceived:
France's bereaver is of France bereaved:
And England, half converted by his fall,
Thinks there's a God who governs after all!
This is the faith o' the British Philistine;
Failure is damnable; Success divine.

PEACE-AT-ANY-PRICE MEN.

You Seven Wise Men of Gotham, who could vote
That England in your bowl must sink or float,
You sorely need a Tonic of Cold Steel,
Who to the Beasts of Prey for Peace would kneel!
Malingerers who can basely maim the might
Of Manhood, and would rather die than fight.
The fear, for Self, makes Cowards, for others, bold:
And love of Country's sapped by lust of Gold.

You, poor white-livered bastards of our race
To rouse some English colour in your face,
Must you on either coward cheek be smitten,
Or have the blood fetched back to them flea-bitten?
Gnash your pale lips for shame! and let the bite
For a moment hide the coward out of sight.
Alas! nor bite would bring, nor blow could start,
True English blood where there is none at heart.

393

But, we are Peacemen, also; crying for
Peace, peace, at any price—though it be War!
We must live free, at peace, or each man dies
With death-clutch fast for ever on the prize.

THE SECOND EMPIRE.

It had not life enough to die at last,
Nor weight enough to fall; it simply passed:
A Shadow great calamity had cast.

Gone, like a dance of gnats from sunset streams!
We saw it, with these eyes; and now it seems
Dim as a fragment of forgotten dreams.

A mist of blood, it rose up in the night;
A mist of glamour blurred the common light;
A mist of lies, it vanishes from sight.

For Eighteen years we watched where'er life stirred;
Waited and listened, but we never heard
God speak. It went without a warning word!

One flash of Heaven; and all the Pageantry
Of Cloudland crumbles; all the Ephemeræ flee
From the still presence of Eternity!

One ray of risen Liberty hath shone,
And like a name writ in the Sighs breathed on
A Prison Window-pane, the Empire's gone.

394

A PLEA FOR THE REPUBLIC.

You have delivered our afflicted earth
Of that Napoleonic After-birth,
Begot of horrible rape and hideous wrong,
With which abortion France hath travailed long;
But do not bleed to death a gallant nation
Suffering the Cæsarean operation!

Burn out of earth all record of his hand:
Right to the soul of us efface the brand!
Let all men see that Paris hath arisen
To erect her throne on ruins of her prison!
Each beauty blast that decked her as his Slave;
But do not bury us in the Empire's grave.

You came with Resurrection in your tread!
Was it for Second death you woke the dead?
You rolled the Gravestone of the Soul away,
Is it to thrust us deeper from the day,
Because you were so wronged, while we were bound
Blind in a dungeon, worse than underground?

His Slaves, his Hirelings, shouted for the war,
But we went chained to Cæsar's battle-car;
Dumb for the sacrifice, were safely gagged,
And in his dust-cloud to the conflict dragged.
We voted “Yes,” but that the Tyrant knew
Meant liberty at home, not war with you.

395

Ah, do not bid our young Republic die!
Now you have rooted out the cancerous Lie,
And freed us from the curse that drained our blood
And spirit more than all your battle could;
Do not put out our struggling, only light,
Whereby we still distinguish wrong from right.

We offer you a Conquest, loftier yet
Than any you have reached with hands red-wet;
Or any you can win, e'en though we stood
And slew and slew till both were blind with blood;
Our little fields made one vast heaving tomb;
All heaven one black pall of smoking gloom.

O, Men! is it not shame enough that we
Have suffered wrongs so great, so helplessly:
So past all common signs of wrong for years
Of wrong too deep for words—too stern for tears?
Think how we were betrayed by Him who hath made
Our streets straight; cleared them for your Cannonade!

We can but rise up from the dust to kneel;
Trying to gain our feet once more we feel
What hurts we got when down—knocked out of breath,
Kneeled on, heart-crushed, and knuckled nigh to death;
As some poor Madman, who hath dropped and swooned,
Is maimed where none can see his mortal wound.

396

Be generous, Germans! we will take the print
Of kindness deeper than the fierce sword-dint;
A wounded Nation watches—waits to see
The advent of your Red-cross Chivalry:
As the dark spirit of the passing Storm
Springs up divine, and lo! the Rainbow's form!

We hail you, Brothers, who have broke our bands;
As Brothers we stretch forth to you our hands:
Brothers beside you we would freely march
In peace, beneath glad heaven's triumphal arch:
As Brothers we have Our great part to play
When Kings and Emperors have passed away!

LOUIS NAPOLEON AND SOME COCKNEY WORKING-MEN.

Slaves that make Tyrants recognize their own.
Safe at the heart of you they have their Throne
And wave the Banner that will not go down;
Your blindness is an everlasting Crown;
The self-forged fetters of the Soul are yours;
You make a Dungeon of all Out-of-doors!

Your mind is just the mould that will re-cast
The Image God—the great Iconoclast—
For ever breaks. The Tyrant lifted o'er ye
Is but the Slave's own self seen in its glory,
And this Man, most abjectly fallen, will
Be Emperor of Snobs and Flunkeys still.

397

The Seaweed on our shore's securely tossed,
But there's a Nation wrecked. What of the Lost?
Poor France, that from the Imperial fetters freed,
Tears at her flesh they chafed so till it bleed,
France must be smelted in the fires of War,
To rid her of His image stamped on her,—
He who coined her in his likeness, sealed her shame,
Branding her with his features and his name.

This is your Hero! let me ope your dim
Dust-blinded eyes, for one true look at him!

To conquer Europe, bid all fears to cease,
As Emperor he proclaimed his Empire Peace.
The Eagle that he mounted was the tame
Dirt-draggled fowl of Boulogne; not the same
Old Bird of glory, with its wings of flame,
That perched on all the Pinnacles of Fame.

And yet, 'tis at your peril you believe
Those who are truthful only to deceive!
He found a troubled world would doubt his word.
At length—full length—he drew the famous sword
Of France—Napoleon's sword. Ex-calibre!
To prove, in deed, the Empire was not War:
Then flung away its scabbard: rushed to meet
The Foe, and—laid the weapon at his feet.
From Coup d'État to Coup de Grâce you see
The Empire was not War—'twas Butchery.

Nature but made him a Conspirator,
Not General. She is answerable for
A great empiric: not an Emperor.

398

He should have kept his secret safe and far
From the stern lightning-eyes of searching War.
His place was not the front of battle, where
In slaying one another men play fair;
Safe in the rear it was his rôle to stand,
With dagger and dark-lantern in his hand,
And strike at unarmed captives from behind,
And only strike at such as he could bind.
He should have throttled France again by night
Quietly, while she slept, without a fight!
Behind his Mitrailleuse he might have slunk,
And massacred once more with soldiers drunk.
Why come forth in the light to let us see
The immeasurable incapacity?
Why drop the midnight mask, knowing so well
His nothingness if not inscrutable?
Why daze himself by day—look like a stark-
Blind fool—with such a genius for the dark?

He must not be stamped out, now he is down,
Even though the Sword, into the War-scale thrown,
Be followed by his Sceptre and his Crown.
He must not slink from sight!

When he is dead,
Take him, O Earth! like those half-burièd
And wholesale-murdered in Montmartre, with head
Exposed, to be identified with dread.
Outside Time's travelling Show, let him be seen
As Fieschi on the throne, with his Machine,
Firing at Freedom—grinding on that grim
Gun-barrel-organ, turned to war by him,—
Making infernal music for the dance
Of Death: the flight in which he led poor France.

399

A figure so grotesque, such cause must give
For horror, as will earn its right to live!

And You, who are supposed our blood to share,
Unworthy of the English name you bear,
You mob his gates, you wag the tail, and stand,
Proud to be patted by him, and lick his hand;
Lickspittles (He was spat forth by his land),
Mouth-watering with the slaver of the slave!
(A different licking German freemen gave).

Good friend of France? He made her flourish? So
Heat without light will make the fungi grow;
He puffed her up as creatures of decay
Raise the Oak-galls that eat the life away.
He sapped her, made her rotten to the root,
And, at the breath of War, down fell the fruit.
Good friend of England he could never be
Who was born-natural foe to Liberty.
Get up, go home, be henpecked by your Wives
And sat on the remainder of your lives;
The “evil” that you suffer from is such
As is not cured by any Royal touch.
If Hell grew sick, and heaved the Devil out,
Fools, on all-fours, like you, would fawn and shout
Congratulations on his glorious reign,
And wish him joy in making Hell again.

400

THE TWO NAPOLEONS.

One shook the world with Earthquake. Like a fiend
He sprang exultant—all hell following after!
The Other, in burst of bubble and whiff of wind,
Shook the world too,—with laughter!

The One out-wearied wingèd Victory!
So swift he went, his Spirit would out-fly her;
The Other wore her out with waiting; he
So failed to keep up by her!

One bitted France like some wild beast; and when
He had mounted, reined and rode until he tamed it;
The Other threw it down by stealth, and then
Most infamously maimed it.

The First at least a splendid Meteor shone!
The Second fizzed and fell, an aimless rocket;
Kingdoms were pocketed for France by one,
The other picked her pocket.

Such as it was, Napoleon gave her all
The dazzle of his glory to bedeck her!
The other spread his gloom for a funeral Pall,
Like Glory's Undertaker.

That showed the Sphinx in front, with Lion-paws,
Cold lust of death in the sleek face of her,—
This the turned, cowering tail and currish claws,
And hindermost disgrace of her.

401

In the eyes of France, one shook down showers of stars
As jewels for her breast; this breaks her heart—a
Vain dream to think of Buonapartè's Wars
Without your Bounapartè.

One took the World as 'twere his natural throne,
And God Himself had crowned him at its portal!
But for his Second-Hand Napoleon
The Lie had been immortal.

That was a living thing, whose Shadow made
The heart of Nations shiver; This was never
More than the shadow of a Dead man's Shade
The world shakes off for ever.

402

THE ABOLITIONIST TO HIS BRIDE.

Sad I come for thy caresses, bonny bride, bonny bride,
For my nestling brow is bound with crown of thorn;
And the more thy leal heart presses, bonny bride, bonny bride,
Is thy true and tender bosom pierced and torn.

I have gloomed thy girlish gladness, bonny bride, bonny bride,
Made thee tearful in thy Wifehood's dewy dawn,
Given thy voice a soul of sadness, bonny bride, bonny bride,
Set thy dainty cheek's ripe beauty waxing wan.

The wild light of 'wildered sorrows, bonny bride, bonny bride,
Is the lustre that comes flashing to thine eyes,
As of hopes that know no morrows, bonny bride, bonny bride,
Or from sunken suns that set no more to rise.

My poor heart hath put on mourning, bonny bride bonny bride,
For the death of sweet and saintly Liberty;

403

It was down the Traitor's Turning, bonny bride, bonny bride,
That they smote her in the Country of the Free.

Where the Ark of Freedom rested, bonny bride, bonny bride,
When the May-Flower rode out bravely o'er the Flood;
Where the Bird of Freedom nested, bonny bride, bonny bride,
In the land our Fathers bought with precious blood.

They have broken every promise, bonny bride, bonny bride,
False as hell to League, and Covenant, and vow;—
Torn the Babes of Freedom from us, bonny bride, bonny bride,
Grim as Herod! and like Herod they shall bow.

In the mire our Banner's trailing, bonny bride, bonny bride;
It but symbols bloody stripes and bitter tears,
To a world of Tyrants hailing, bonny bride, bonny bride,
And a world of Slaves that groans, a Hell that cheers.

Our good Bark is heavily wearing, bonny bride, bonny bride,
And the hungry sharks they track us through the sea,
With their cruel keen eyes glaring, bonny bride, bonny bride,
For the burial of embalmèd Liberty.

404

How the darkness round us presses, bonny bride, bonny bride!
By the dying watch-fire hearts sit dark and dumb;
And we strain and make blind guesses, bonny bride, bonny bride,
Of the morning and the morrow that shall come.

O, 'twill be a fearful waking, bonny bride, bonny bride,
Should the faces of our Brothers dawn in view,
With the light above us breaking, bonny bride, bonny bride,
And the earth beneath us wet with crimson dew.

We are weak, and win derision, bonny bride, bonny bride,
All too weak to crush the Serpents that we clasp;
But I see in solemn vision, bonny bride, bonny bride,
The young Heroes who shall kill them in their grasp.

See the Flag of Freedom dancing, bonny bride, bonny bride,
On the Fortresses and Ruins of old Wrong—
See the Slave's proud eyes up-glancing, bonny bride, bonny bride,
With the heart that breaks no more, save into song.

405

See the hills of earth that whiten, bonny bride, bonny bride,
With the feet of angels coming down to men!
See the homes of earth that brighten, bonny bride, bonny bride,
With the beautiful that vanished, come again.

There's a long road, wild and dreary, bonny bride, bonny bride,
Through the winding ways of Sorrow's Wilderness!
And a-many will fall weary, bonny bride, bonny bride,
And but few the honeyed Land of Promise press.

Yet we'll battle on with bravery, bonny bride, bonny bride,
We will battle on as sabbathless as Doom;
We shall leave the land of Slavery, bonny bride, bonny bride,
And the Victor's wreath will crown the Martyr's tomb.

1855.

AN IMPERIAL REPLY.

'Tis glorious, when the thing to do,
Is at the supreme instant done!
We count your first fore-running few
A thousand men for every one!
For this true stroke of Statesmanship—
The best Australian Poem yet—

406

Old England gives your hand the grip,
And binds you with a coronet,
In which the Gold o' the Wattle glows
With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.

They talked of England growing old:
They said she spoke with feeble voice;
But hear the virile answer rolled
Across the world! Behold her Boys
Come back to her full-statured Men,
To make four-square her fighting ranks.
She feels her youth renewed again,
With heart too full for aught but “Thanks!”
And now the Gold o' the Wattle glows
With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.

“My Boys have come of age to-day,”
The proud old Mother smiling said.
“They write a brand-new page to-day,
By far-off futures to be read!”
Throughout all lands of British blood,
This stroke hath kindled such a glow;
The Federal links of Brotherhood
Are clasped and welded at a blow.
And aye the Gold o' the Wattle glows
With Shamrock, Thistle, and the Rose.

Sydney, 1885.

THE BOY'S RETURN.

Wives, Mothers, Sweethearts sent
Their dearest; waved their own defenders forth;
And, fit companions for the bravest, went
The Boys, to test their manhood, prove their worth

407

As Sons of those who braved
All dangers; to Earth's ends our Flag unfurled,—
The old Pioneers of Ocean, who have paved
Our Pathway with their bones around the world!

To-day the City waits,
Proudly a-thrill with life about to be:
She welcomes her young warriors in her Gates
Of Glory, opened to them by the Sea.

Let no cur bark, or spurt
Defilement, trying to tarnish this fair fame;
No Alien drag our Banner through the dirt
Because it blazons England's noble name.

Upon the lips of Praise
They lay their own hands, saying—“We have not won
Great battles for you, nor Immortal bays,
But what your Boys were given to do is done!”

When Clouds were closing round
The Island-home, our Pole-star of the North,
Australia fired her Beacons—rose up crowned
With a new dawn upon the ancient earth.

For us they filled a cup
More rare than any we can brim to them!
The patriot-passion did so lift men up,
They looked as if each wore the diadem!

Best honours we shall give,
If to that loftier outlook still we climb;
And in our Unborn Children there shall live
The larger spirit of this great quickening time.

408

To-day is the Women's day!
With them there's no more need o' the proud disguise
They wore when their young heroes sailed away;
Soft smiles the dewy fire in loving eyes!

And, when to the full breast,
O mothers! your re-given ones you take,
And in your long embraces they are blest,
Give them one hug at heart for England's sake—

The Mother of us all!
Dear to us, near to us, though so far apart;
For whose defence we are sworn to stand or fall
In the same battle as Brothers, one at heart:

All one to bear the brunt;
All one we move together in the march,
Shoulder to shoulder; to the Foe all front,
The wide world round; all heaven one Triumph-Arch!

One in the war of Mind,
For clearing earth of all dark Jungle-Powers;
One for the Federation of Mankind,
Who will speak one language, and that language ours.

Sydney, 1885.