Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Our English hearts beat high with joy,
As it passed from town to town,
The tale that was borne on the swift-winged wires
Of the battle fought and won.

Loud praised we them—the victor host,
Forearmed by Heaven's decree
To quell the proud oppressor's boast,
To bid the slave go free.

Through many a lordly palace-hall
Rung out the tale of mirth,
And toil-stained hands were clasped in prayer
By many a cottage hearth.

And old men wept for very joy
To hear of England's fame,
And infants' stammering lips were taught
To murmur Alma's name.

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But soon a sadder tale was told,
And for fear men held their breath,
As each day's catalogue unrolled
Its messages of death;

Of the warrior-boy who had stood unmoved
Where the strife swept deadliest by,
Who, without a murmur, laid him down
In his triumph-hour to die;

Of the ranks like fresh ripe corn cut down,
When the raging batteries pealed;
Of the heroes who fighting hand to hand
Were slain on that blood-red field.

Through many an English home was hushed
The voice of Christmas mirth;
And orphan tears of anguish gushed
By many a widowed hearth.

Bright though the fame of victory wrought
In the unequal fight,
How dread in memory is the thought
Of that Crimean night!

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The stars shine coldly from on high,
The flood rolls far beneath
Ruddy with slaughter, breaks no sound
The silentness of death.

Nought save the vulture's carrion cry
To mock the dying brave,
And the voice, borne on the night-wind's sigh,
Of Alma's rushing wave;

And, faintly breathed from dying lips
To dying comrades round,
The murmurous wail of thirst unslaked
Save from the gushing wound.

O still, while deep in English hearts
Are treasured England's dead,
For the brave on the battle-field laid low
Shall her grateful tears be shed.

While yet the old historic names
Of Cressy and Poictiers,
Of Trafalgar and Waterloo
Ring music in our ears;

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As their renown from sire to son,
A long tradition, ran,
Mid England's household names shall live
Alma and Inkermann!

Of Alma, and the brother might
Of France and England's host,
Of Balaclava's dear-bought fame,
Of Eupatoria's coast,

Shall our sons' sons exulting tell,
Praising the well-fought fight;
Praising the noble dead who fell
For Freedom, Truth, and Right.

III. Our Fallen Heroes.

Not here do we sound the requiem note
For the brave who nobly fell;—
Borne far o'er the Black-Sea waters float
The echoes of their knell,

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Far, far from the haunts of other days,
'Neath the cold Crimean sod,
Their bodies were laid with a nation's praise,
And their spirits returned to God:
But like churchyard flowers their memory blooms
Unexhausted still round their ancient homes.

Scarce seems it one short hour hath flown
Since ye dwelt beside us here,
Scarce yet had we missed the familiar tone
That swelled our school-boy cheer;
We seemed to feel you by our side
On the forms where we sit now,
Unmindful of the manlier pride
That flushed each warrior brow,
Till the news came borne on the Eastwind's breath
That the voice we had loved was stilled in death.

And, oh, when we met on our festal day
And the chant rose full and high,
We thought of our comrades far away
Who had laid them down to die;

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We thought how the blazoned scroll should record
The letters of each name,
And the light from the storied window poured
Should mind us of your fame,
We knew that your presence would still be felt,
As we knelt at the shrine where our lost ones knelt;

And we solemnly pledged us ne'er to forget,
As the circling years rolled by,
How alone we can hope to redeem the debt
That is owed to your memory;
Not by twining crowns for your patriot brows
Of the laurel's fading wreath,
But by living a life whose example shows
What your lives and deaths bequeath;
By the strong resolve, and the purpose high
To do and suffer, to dare or die.