The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth ::

“Suppose the Greeks, instead of representing their own warriors as they fought at Marathon, had left us nothing but their imaginations of Egyptian battles?” —Ruskin.

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Few poems in this division of the work can be said to have originated in my own experience. I resisted the temptation to write from other people's accounts as long as I could, but the excitement of the war fairly compelled me to relieve myself in verse. The reader will think it strange that the devoted heroism of the Light Brigade called forth no more than a passing allusion. The truth is, I possessed Tennyson's magnificent lines on the same subject before they were published; and thought it more becoming, as well as more prudent, to retire from the contest.

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THE PILLAR OF PEACE.

Within the Palatine of Lancaster,
The peasants from the hills do congregate
To labour in the valleys, and have built
In barren lands such towns of industry,
That they thereby have made themselves a power
Which none who rule in England may despise.
To them is Peace no dream of sentiment,
But of their system an essential part,
And to their welfare a necessity.
Thus when the wars of the French Conqueror
Seemed at an end, and that gigantic spirit,
Like an Arabian afrit bottled up,
And sealed for ever with a talisman,
Had been compressed in Elba by his foes,
It so rejoiced these men, that they combined
To raise a pillar on a mountain-peak;
Not in the exultation his defeat

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Might well have caused—but to commemorate
The restoration of their sovereign Peace
Unto her throne, usurped by cruel War.

A mountain lies between me and the peak
Whereon that pillar stood; and in my youth
I often climbed a cliff, whose highest ridge
I knew that I had reached, when in the east,
Above the blue waves of the rounded land,
Rose that strong pillar in the lofty winds.
Its hour had not arrived, and it defied
The storms that raged whilst Europe was at peace:
But when the Czar's ambition burst its bounds,
Pouring armed legions into Turkish lands,
And cruel slaughter on the villagers,
A fissure in its masonry increased,
Until its stair grew perilous.

At last,
The very night the Czar's ambassador,
When all our hopes of settlement had failed,
And diplomats exhausted all their arts,
Broke off his old relations with our court,
And, by departing, menaced us with war,—
That very night, beneath the windy sky,
A roar like thunder echoed in the hills,
And startled in their beds the peasantry;
Who on the morrow, when they went to work,
Beheld the sun rise through a cloud of blood

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Behind the eastern hill; but his red disk
Shone unobstructed where the sign had been
Of happy peace. The pillar of their hope
Lay like a cairn above the grave of Peace;
And thence they drew an omen of their woes,
And went to labour with dejected hearts
To earn the precious bread of scarcity.

Stoodley Pike was erected by subscription in 1814 to commemorate the General Peace. It was an interesting object from the Lancashire and Yorkshire railway, standing as it did on one of the principal eminences in the neighbourhood of Todmorden. On the night of the 8th of February, 1854, (the day on which the Russian Ambassador left London, when our diplomatic relations with the court of St. Petersburg were finally suspended), this monument of Peace fell with a loud noise. The coincidence was certainly a remarkable one.

290

MARSHAL ST. ARNAUD.

The heroes that the sculptor hews
Are men of giant frame;
And when we see their marble bulk,
Who wonders at their fame?
If we had come from such a mould,
We might have been the same.

But since we have to toil and bear,
We say, “there is no scope
For greatness in this life of ours;”
And so we moil and mope,
And sink at once to lower aims,
And lose the light of hope.

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But though you suffer—even though
Death stare you in the face,—
There may be some great task for you
Before you leave your place;
So live till that is well fulfilled,
Then go with better grace.

By him who won the Alma heights,
And when the cannon's roar
Subsided, had the foe to meet,
Whose cruel marks he bore—
A silent foe that laid him low
At last for evermore;

By him who crushed his inward pain,
And bravely to the last
Bore up—bear up with fortitude,
Until your strife is past!
Bear up! the trial is not long,
When life runs out so fast.

Health, strength, the sprightliness of youth,
He had no more than you;
He rode, a living skeleton,
And saw the battle through!
My friends! there is no task on earth
A brave soul cannot do.

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And Death himself respected him,
Though he would have him soon;
And on his right hand and his left
There stood a brave dragoon,
And held the Marshal on his horse
To hear the merry tune—

The merry music of the guns,
The shouting on the height,
The dull, metallic clash of steel,
When hand to hand they fight,
And the last volleys that pursue
The vanquished in their flight.

He heard it all; the bullets hailed
Around him, but in vain;
For it was right the world should know
The strife he did sustain:
Not thus was he to end at last
His bitter years of pain.

He died a nobler death—he proved
What he had suffered long.
He died a nobler death than those
Who go to battle strong,
And fall without a pang, and leave
Bright epitaphs in song.

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And when the living in the camp,
The dead upon the field,
Slept soundly—in the Marshal's tent
His last despatch he sealed,
Telling his army's fortitude—
His own he kept concealed.

Brave Marshal! he could leave his home—
His wife—his country—all
That smooths the pillow at the last,
And lets the weary fall
Into the bed whose counterpane
Is the dark velvet pall.

He knew he had not long to live,
And yet “what months remain
To me of life,” the Marshal said,
“Shall take me once again
Into the field of battle—there
To end this life of pain.”

Brave Marshal! to the shores of France
A mournful vessel bears
The soldier taking rest at last,
And free from all his cares.
And freshly green is the laurel wreath
The dead man calmly wears.

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Two nations mourned his noble death;
And on the funeral day
The flags of France and England
Upon his coffin lay:
O may they never part until
The nations pass away!

Beneath their broad united shade
The men of Alma died;
Oh, never may our enemies
Such friends again divide,
Whose weakness is to be at war,—
Whose strength to be allied!

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FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

Learning could not crush thy heart,
Thou art gentle woman still;
All thine aim, her better part
Well and truly to fulfil.

All the pleasures of thy sex,
All its little gauds and toys,
Never did thy soul perplex—
Thou hast far sublimer joys.

O sweet lady! thou indeed,
Where thy saintly virtues shine,
Dost exalt thy Christian creed
By those holy works of thine.

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Thou shalt have a foremost place
In the annals of our time:
They have much of mean and base,
Something also of sublime.

Many a soldier, old and grey,
Afterwards shall tell the tale
How he watched you as he lay,
Holy Florence Nightingale,

Walking through the wards at night,
Crowded corridors of pain!
How he watched your lessening light
Like a star, till lost again!

Fragile bodies often hold
Hearts devoted, brave, and true;
Fragile bodies, hero-souled,
Mighty tasks can struggle through.

Whilst another frame endures
Sickness, you forget your own:
Some, with less excuse than yours,
Would have lived for self alone.

Lady! thus a rhymer pours
Idle music in thine ear;
But thy spirit where it soars
Sweeter sounds must often hear.

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Sweeter far than poet's tongue,
Or the murmurs of the crowd,
Is the heavenly music sung
In the conscience clear and loud.

Angels' voices, day and night,
Cheer thee on through toil and pain;
In thy bosom burns a light;
Aids unseen thy strength sustain.

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THE SHIP OF MISERY.

Fifteen hundred wounded men
Are her merry passengers;
Never ship went on a trip
Less enjoyable than hers.
After Alma's bloody day
She takes the wounded far away.

Fifteen hundred wounded men!
Scarce a surgeon for them all!
Broken bones—pain and groans—
Wounds of bayonet and ball.
Wretched ship! she has on board
Firstfruits of the reaping sword.

Fifteen hundred wounded men
Lying groaning in the dark.
Many a night must take its flight
Ere the wretches disembark.
As the worn-out surgeon goes
Past them, how they clutch his clothes!

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Fifteen hundred wounded men
Darkly borne across the waves!
Envying those their repose
Who rest at Alma in their graves.
Many a sufferer gets his wish
When his body feeds the fish.

Fifteen hundred wounded men
Lying putrid in their beds!
Heaves the sea! O misery!
How it 's swimming in their heads!
No one heeds his neighbour's groan,
Each has sufferings of his own.

Fifteen hundred wounded men!—
No! not fifteen hundred now!
Wounds untended, often ended
In sweet slumber—you know how.
When the ship at anchor rode,
What a cargo to unload!

Jack looked pale—it turned him sick—
Pitch the blankets overboard!
All the road to that abode
Where lay the victims of the sword,
Strewn with mutilated men
Gone too far to rise again.

300

AFTER A BATTLE.

When England feared invasion, and the man
To whom we owe the friendly aid of France
Was slandered and abused by all our prints,
The clowns in rustic districts, and the hands
Of mills and foundries in our crowded towns,
Were all invited by the Government
To serve as soldiers one month out of twelve;
So that if ever on our native shores
Invading armies landed, there might be
A population fitly trained and armed
To meet the invader and defend our homes.
Then I, and other idlers like myself,
Gave up a certain portion of our time
To change a thousand men of Lancashire
From rough, uncouth civilians into pawns,
Steady upon the chessboard of the field—
Well-disciplined battalions. Of this force

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We were the captains, and we had our work.
But soon by constant drilling, day by day,
And sifting of the refuse, we became
More soldier-like; and in the second year
Of our enrolment it occurred to me
To gain a new impression.

Every day,
When we were wearied with battalion drill,
With marching twenty times across the field,
And forming squares, preparing to resist
Imaginary squadrons, with four fronts
Of thickly glistening bayonets, firing blank
On the blank wind, or charging it in line,—
When we were tired of these heroic toils,
The bugle sounded, and we grounded arms.
Then suddenly the green field in the sun
Was sprinkled with red jackets, for the men
Reclined to rest their limbs; we officers,
Forming a little group upon the grass,
Discussing pay, accounts, and stoppages,
And all the business of our companies.
And once, as we remarked about the men,
How in repose they took so many ways
Of gaining rest, that all the thousand men
Displayed a thousand attitudes, a thought
Occurred to one which I shall not forget:
He said, “They 're like the wounded and the dead
After a battle—left upon the field.”

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Then suddenly I pictured to myself
A thousand helpless creatures lying there,
Dead, or in pain. The stillness of repose
Grew deathlike, and the motion of a limb
A tortured writhing; so I looked and looked,
And let imagination do its work.

It was an awful fancy—thickly strewn
The corpses of our men; and I went forth
In thought among the dead to recognise
The features that I knew. The baleful sun
Rotted the bodies, and with divers wounds
Too horrible to think of or describe,
The living also putrified and stank;
And here and there a wandering carrion soul
Plundered the dead and dying—groans of pain

My dread illusion was destroyed at once;
Our band struck up, and all my wounded men,
Aye, and the dead, sprang lightly to their feet,
And flocked to hear the music; and the sun,
No longer baleful, kissed the brazen horns.

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THE CHILD-SOLDIER.

A little boy stood on the field,
A little English boy;
It was a merry game, thought he,
And he was brisk with joy.
The battle seemed but sport to him,
And every ball a toy.

He was a British Grenadier,
And he was ten years old;
And therefore what had he to fear,
A soldier brisk and bold?
The little lad was bravely clad
In English red and gold.

Undaunted when the iron balls
Were bowled along the ground,
He marched unhurt where six-foot men
Their graves of glory found;
He marched along with a stalwart throng
To the cannon's awful sound.

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But when the battle had been fought,
And on the field at night
Lay fifteen hundred Englishmen
In miserable plight,
The little lad would take no rest,
Though wearied with the fight.

But, stepping over many a corpse,
His comrades saw him go,
And risk his life by passing close
To many a wounded foe.
“What means the lad? He must be mad
To court destruction so!”

They watched him. He was gathering wood.
It warmed their hearts to see
That fearless lad—of broken stocks
A heavy load had he.
He made a fire upon the field,
And boiled a can of tea.

Cold, cold, and stiff the wounded lay;
Yet still one cheerful spot—
One fire was blazing brightly near—
One kind friend left them not:
And grateful were those pleasant draughts
He brought them—steaming hot.

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And so he passed the midnight hours
With hell on every side;
And during that long dreadful night,
In suffering hundreds died:
But some were saved by the soldier-lad
And the comforts he supplied.

At Balaklava, and the height
Of Inkerman—the grave
Of thousands—this heroic child
Fought bravely with the brave.
Hemmed round by Russian bayonets,
He still survived to save

The lives of others afterwards;
And there are those who say,
That, but for that good-hearted boy,
They must have died that day,
When on the field of Inkerman
The helpless wounded lay.

The hero of this little ballad (which is merely a plain statement of facts) is Thomas Keep, of the third battalion of Grenadier Guards, under the command of Col. Thomas Wood. He saved the lives of Serjeant Russell and others, and has been recommended by Colonels Robinson and Wood. His personal bravery in the field might be in part the effect of example and excitement, but it is impossible to praise too highly his self-sacrificing devotion to the wounded, and his active exertions in their behalf. If I had the enviable power, possessed only by great poets, of conferring fame on others, this gallant boy should be an enduring example of the best qualities of genuine English boyhood.

306

TO GENERAL SCARLETT,

LEADER OF THE HEAVY CAVALRY AT BALAKLAVA.

We knew that there was more beneath
That quiet countenance of yours;
We vaguely thought, “He will reveal
The greatness circumstance obscures,
If ever Fortune's sun shall gleam
Upon the hardy, hidden flower.”
It gleamed—your germ of chivalry
Has bloomed to glory in an hour!

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I see you wave a glittering sword—
Along your massive squadrons ride,
And point across the narrow plain
To hosts upon the other side;
Then take your place and give the word,
And—louder than the trumpet—hear,
In answer from your gallant men—
A willing—hearty—English cheer!

Behind the grey-clad Muscovites
A clump of lances glimmering shone;
The English trumpets sound again—
Then hush the anxious lookers-on!
The Russian lines were long and deep,
Long lines and deep both front and rear;
Away goes Scarlett with the Greys!
And who shall check his dread career?

Three armies watch you! Thundering on
Across the plain your horsemen ride:
What grand sensations thrilled you then—
Sensations sweet to soldier pride!
To lead the flower of chivalry—
To feel your charger bound beneath
The terrible joy of glorious war,
Too full of life to think of death!

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They say it is a fiendish joy,
Not human feelings, that they feel,
Who ride “like devils dressed in red,”
With heads of brass and stings of steel.
I know not what you felt yourself
Beneath that plume of flowing white,
I only know that you displayed
The courage of an English knight.

I see your plume of flowing white;
I see the glimmer of your sword
Far off, and faint—and less—and less—
Till lost amid a savage horde.
Yes, they have met—their blades are wet—
O God, preserve each brave dragoon!
From gloomy masses broken through,
I see the red emerging soon.

Exhausted—scattered—almost lost—
They ride against the second line.
Behind them close their shaken foes—
They must be foiled in that design!
Another mass of living men
Is hurled against them—brief the fight—
They turn—well thrashed—not every steed
Will reach Sebastopol to-night!

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A mighty feat had been performed
In that arena! On the hill
A crowd of breathless watchers stood,
In solemn silence wrapt—until
The Russians fled before our men;
And then they took a little pause
To breathe—and then from every lip
There burst a shout of loud applause.

Returning from a short pursuit,
With dinted helmet—wounded arm—
A slight and gentle virgin-wound,
A wound of honour more than harm—
You rode in triumph, and your chief,
The grey old friend of Wellington,
Despatched a special messenger
To meet you, and to say, “Well done!”

It was a glorious hour for you!
They say your eye was proudly bright,
And that upon your sun-burnt cheek
There flushed a bloom of deep delight,
When, bowing with a soldier's grace,
You thanked your chieftain for his praise,—
Words that would reach your native land,
And those you loved, ere many days.

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Your knighthood is as bright as theirs
Who won their spurs at Agincourt;
And, set against that brilliant day,
Your former life seems dark and poor.
It is not so. In those long years,
Though unproductive to the world,
You wrought the banner of your fame,
In time of peace ignobly furled.

And I have seen you, year by year,
Wait calmly for that glorious hour;
Wait, till the prime of life was past—
Still hopeful, husbanding your power.
The noble lesson you have taught
Is, “Learn to labour and to wait;”
And I am thankful for your sake
The guerdon has not come too late.

Addressed to Brigadier-General (since Major-General) the Honourable J. Y. Scarlett, on reading the account in “The Times” of the successful heavy cavalry charge at Balaklava, which he headed in person.

The battle of Balaklava took place on the anniversary of Agincourt. This stanza anticipates the Order of the Bath for General Scarlett. It has since been conferred upon him.

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SIR DE LACY EVANS

AT INKERMAN.

“On the heights of Inkerman you displayed that undaunted courage and chivalrous conduct which have called forth the admiration of your country; when, rising from a bed of sickness, you hastened to assist with your counsel and experience the gallant officer in temporary command of your division, and refused to withhold from him the honours whilst you shared with him the dangers of the day.” —The Speaker of the House of Commons to Sir De Lacy Evans.

In a heavy fog their watch they kept
On the heights of Inkerman,
Down their bayonets coldly the raindrops crept
When that dreary day began.
Up through the mist from the leaguered town
The bells of the churches pealed,
And the pickets from the heights looked down
Where the valley lay concealed.

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In the dead of the night, ere the dawn was grey,
The sound of artillery wheels
Rumbled faintly—“They come this way,”—
Uneasy the sentry feels.
“'Tis the arabas on the road below,”
Deceived, the soldiers said;
For they heard not the voice of their cautious foe,
Nor his army's stealthy tread.

In the city at midnight a solemn mass
Was sung by bishops seven,
Who promised that those who fell should pass
At once to the joys of heaven.
The Emperor sent his own dear son
To encourage the troops—said he,
“The besiegers before the year is done
Must be driven into the sea!”

In the fleet that anchored near the shore
In Balaklava bay,
Roused by the cannon's opening roar
From the sick-bed where he lay,
A pale knight rose at the sound of war,
Like a hunter at the horn,
For glorious music rolled afar
That dark November morn.

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With an anxious heart the sick knight rode,
For he knew one point was weak;
And long ere then did his fears forebode,
And he spoke when he ought to speak.
But his good advice was thrown away,
And the men were tired and few,
That in the cloud defenceless lay
When the balls came flying through.

Arrived on the field, he refused to take
From his junior's faithful hand
His brave division; and still for its sake
Advised, though he would not command.
The danger he shared, but the post and name
Of a leader resigned to his friend,
Though he rose from a sick-bed and painfully came
To be with them until the end.

With their bayonets crossed in deadly strife,
Closely, breast to breast,
Steady and stern they fought for life
On the mountain's awful crest:
And down in many a deep ravine,
And many a lonely glen,
Were bloodiest contests held unseen
By bands of desperate men.

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'Twas a terrible day, yet calm and pale
The sick knight saw it through;
But a time must come when the strong limbs fail,
If the spirit fails not too:
And he said, “I am old, I have earned repose,
Let me die in my native land!”
And this chivalrous effort marked the close
Of the hero's long command.

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THE ALLIES IN THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

April 20th, 1855.

Down from his niche with England's Queens and Kings
Looked Cromwell on a strange event to-day;
For under the broad shadow of the screen
There passed a ruler, who, like him, had pressed
And edged his way into the foremost rank
Amongst the heirs of thrones.

He passed along;
And at his side there walked a regnant Queen,
Fair England leaning on the arm of France,
Allied for war—our Queen with Bonaparte!
And after them their consorts, and the train
Of courtiers who attach themselves to crowns.

Then down the long perspective of the nave
They looked, and every detail in the sun
Became a sparkling gem—the marble pools,
With tall glass fountains, under whose bright showers

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Refreshed and cool, young water-lilies float—
Green orange-trees in stately avenues—
White statues shining out against the green,
And the rich crimson cloth upon the floor,
With the aërial tinting of the roof,
And the deep blue of heaven over all,
Made it a feast of colour.

By the marge
Along the pool of lilies they passed on,
Into that lovely dwelling which was built
To show the people how in former time,
Before volcanic ashes made a tomb
Of their gay town, the old Pompeians lived.
Upon the threshold, in mosaic stones
Set in the pavement, stands a furious dog;
And, underneath, the legend “Cave canem.”
But in the other entrances you meet
A kinder welcome—“Salve!” In the hall,
Beneath the oblong opening in the roof,
Through which the sunlight falls, a shallow pool
Of marble holds the rain and cools the house:
It is so clear and shallow, that you see
Its fair mosaics bright with many hues
Of coloured marbles—there the gold fish swims.
Close to this pool a graceful statue stands.
Most delicate and fanciful, and light
Are all the decorations; every hue
Intense and brilliant. Round the entrance-hall

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Are little cells to sleep in—such confined
And narrow chambers as you rarely see.
They did not know the luxury of sleep,
Because their days were bright; but we, to whom
The very beams of day are thick with cares,
Build spacious chambers for the rest we love.
Past the great hall, and at the other end
Of this strange mansion, is the peristyle—
A hall of columns with a little garden,
A little, lovely garden of four beds,
Brilliant with many hyacinths; and there
Amongst the flowers a white fawn stands for ever,
And to its nostrils sweetest odours rise;
And still it feeds not.

In the dining-room
The couches are all ready for the guests;
But we are of another place and time,
And may not banquet with the unseen host
Of this fair mansion whom our fancy paints.

Thence to the Central Transept, where the roof
Springs nearest heaven; and through its arch the sun
Looks on the great Twin Brethren—mighty forms—
Rugged—colossal—they who hold their steeds
In the vast transept, those white steeds of war,
Which at the Lake Regillus did appear,
Bearing their princely riders to the fight,
When gods allied with Rome, as legends tell.

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Then down the transept to the balcony
That overlooks the gardens. When they came,
The monarchs and their consorts, to receive
The greetings of the people, such a sight
As they beheld no monarch's eye before
Had ever witnessed. All the sloping hill
Beneath laid out in spacious terraces,
With marble statues on the balustrades
At intervals, and great broad flights of stairs,
And two long wings projecting at each side
That end in lofty towers transparent, light,
And crystalline, the colour of the sky.
Then on the spacious terraces the throng
Of twenty thousand people, gaily dressed
In festal garments, raised a mighty shout
Of welcome to the Emperor!—loud cheers
That rose and fell with glorious energy!
And all that surging sea of human life
Ceased not its deep-voiced music of applause
Whilst he stood gazing from the balcony
Upon the scene before him. Rich and broad
The landscape spread—the air so clear and bright,
That every detail was distinctly seen,
Even to the spires of distant villages
That slept in the deep woodlands far away.
Napoleon's hardness yielded, and the face
Of his sweet Empress beamed with radiant smiles.
It was indeed an animating sight,

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Most full of life and sunshine, when the bands
Upon the terrace played the song of France,
Composed, they say, by Queen Hortense, whose son
Stood listening to the old familiar air
At that proud moment; and his mother's voice
Came sweetly with those grand, triumphant notes.

Till then the waters slumbered in the earth;
That day they rose through fountains to the height
Of their full stature—columned showers of spray,
Wherein the sun hangs rainbows. Afterwards,
In future years, when round the pleasant brink
Of their vast basins, men shall stand and hear
The music of the waters, they will tell
How, when these fountains rose into the light
For the first time, two monarchs saw their birth,
And France and England were allied in war.

The styles of all true architecture spring
From no vague, lawless fancies of the brain,
But from the life of nations; so, to teach
The people something of the powers of old
That were the strongest nations in their time,
Have many courts been copied from their works:
And through these courts the royal strangers went,
Egypt, and Greece, and Rome; and after them,
Like the enchantments of an Eastern tale,
The fairy-like Alhambra!

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Round the Court
Of Lions is a glorious colonnade
Of golden pillars, and a marble fountain
Stands in the centre. If you walk between
The pillars and the wall, and look around
Till all the intricate detail grows confused
And overpowers you, and the illumined colours,
Gold—scarlet—blue—become like gorgeous hues
At sunset, that you feel but cannot trace;
And then look through the arch into the hall
Of Justice, where the splendour still extends
In light subdued, all inexhaustible;
And still beyond, a third fair hall you see,
Fit for Haroun Alraschid in his prime—
Then, if your soul have aught of old romance,
Conceive Eugénie's thoughts when she beheld
This fair enchantment, which recalled to her
The old traditions of her native land!

The Central Transept was a glorious scene
When the great crowd had entered; and the floor
And all the upper galleries were black
With swarms of human creatures. In the midst,
Raised high above the murmuring multitude,
Upon four thrones the royal pairs sat down
To hear the mighty music of the band.
Above the two crowned heads the colours hung
Of France and England, and long banners drooped.

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Heavy with golden bees. Upon the dais,
Beneath the glorious arch that he had built,
Great in himself—and in himself alone,
Stood Paxton, farther from his start in life
Than that strong potentate the Emperor.

One incident I cannot but record.
Before the princes entered on the scene,
As I sat looking down upon the throng,
Across the open space about the dais
There walked an invalid with quiet steps,
In peaceful costume, and I heard a cry
Of “Cardigan! hurrah for Cardigan!”
Yes, that was he who led so gallantly
His brave, devoted squadrons to the guns
At Balaklava, scorning death itself,
Through the hot fire of Russian batteries,
That swept the breadth of plain they charged across.
Our best and bravest thrown away for nought,
As if their lives were worthless! O, great God!
If thou hast blinded those who rule this land,
Spare unto us the people's nobler blood!

When we returned to London, looking from
The carriage window to the glorious hill,
Crowned with a brighter, more resplendent crown
Than Athens or the seven hills of Rome,

322

I saw the blazing sun upon the height
Low down the sky; and as our speed increased,
More swiftly rolled along the level ridge
The golden disc. A crystal tower between
Fled, like the towers of airy palaces
We build in dreams; and onward rolled the sun,
On to the structure that against the sky
Stood pale and like a cloud upon the hill.
Then through that delicate fabric blazed the sun,
Moving from end to end along the nave,
And all its thousand pillars seemed to melt
Like mist before him, and the iron frame
Of the arched roof dissolved in floods of light.
So to the other tower upon the left
He passed, and broad and huge the building stood,
Dim in the distance, pale, and mountainous.

And now its courts are empty! Yet, perhaps,
Although the royal music of the band
And the vast audience are no longer there,
Not wholly silent—for the nightingales
That dwell there sing by night, when through the roof,
And down the orange avenues, the moon
Looks from her throne in heaven, and all is still.
Then to a thousand statues sings a bird,
And thinks she has a flattering audience—
Silent—attentive—breathless—a great throng

323

Hushed by the spell of her melodious voice.
The giant twins of Egypt on their thrones,
Looking above the tops of the young palms,
Smile at the little nightingale, and she
Sings sweetly as another songstress once
To living thousands on the opening day.

324

AT DOVER.

April 1855.

It is the midnight murmur of the sea,
The old sweet voice! and yet I cannot sleep,
But lie and look abroad upon the deep,
Watching the wondrous thoughts that come to me.
From dimming vapours all the stars are free;
And one is burning on the coast of France,
An earthly beacon—it will not advance
With those true stars, for whom it seems to be
A fit companion. They ascend the sky—
It sits on the horizon—there to shine
Across the waters; whilst beneath them fly
Electric currents through the sunken line
Which so unites us to our brave ally,
That we are one in instant sympathy.

325

CORRUPTION.

1855.

Corruption filled old nations ere they fell;
And we have here such commerce as degrades
All parties—and dishonourable trades
In things that no one ought to buy or sell.
Corruption spreads—its bounds we cannot tell—
It has become a theme so trite and stale,
That, till the crown itself shall be for sale,
The world will say, “the system answers well
In church and camp—'tis simply carried out,
And saves us trouble.” Merit set in gold
Receives its due acknowledgment, no doubt;
Yet even here some honours are not sold,
And these two things, at least, you cannot buy—
The poet's laurel, and the artist's eye!

326

IMPERIAL GUESTS.

A SKETCH IN PICCADILLY, APRIL 16, 1855.

I stood upon a balcony, and watched
The ceaseless currents in the public street.
There were no houses opposite. The Park
Lay green and sunny in the afternoon;
Across it, through the trees, a stately house
Stretched, broad and vast, the palace of our Queen;
And in the distance grouped the Abbey towers,
With that huge pile whose growing youth exceeds
The sister twins already. To the left,
Far to the left, there stood another tower,
Marking the length of that vast edifice,
Wherein a thousand peers and commoners
Hold their long councils nightly. Round the Park
Some noble mansions glimmered through the trees,
The sunshine falling on their pillared fronts.

327

Watch we the ceaseless currents in the street.
The ducal chariot and cheap omnibus,
The very symbol of democracy,
Drive neck and neck. It is a motley crowd.
There goes a perfect dandy—how he sits
Beneath the leathern canopy, and holds
The reins with dainty fingers, lemon-gloved!
His horse has glorious action! close behind
His tiger clings, diminutive and neat.
A lumbering chariot, with a hammercloth
And portly coachman in resplendent hues,
Is followed closely by an orange cart,—
Pushed by the orange merchant, who sings out
His weary notes. With four black horses, plumed
With ostrich feathers, comes an equipage,
The chariot of the dead. 'Tis his last drive,
Poor fellow! down the old, accustomed street.
He passes on in peace, and hears no sound;
His friends come weeping after. Gay and bright
Rolls past an open carriage, and a youth
Looks love to eyes that light themselves at his.
The puppy, how I envy him! Here comes
A figure that would suit a rustic lane
Better than this rich throng—a country farmer,
With serious, simple face, on a fat steed
Whose tail is bound with straw. Two railway vans,
With mighty chestnut horses, trotting past,
Soon overtake the farmer's sluggish mare.

328

Then chariot after chariot to the Park
Follow in one procession, closely packed.
And girls on horseback with attendant squires
Thread the dense crowd of wheels—a pretty sight.

The crowd grows denser. All the throng on foot
Begin to pause and wait. Across the Park
Some horsemen gallop westwards, In the street
Policemen stop the lines of carriages,
And clear a way between them.

Hear you not
That distant shouting? See! the farthest crowd
Begin to wave their hats and handkerchiefs,
And scarlet gleams amongst them. Flashes come
From cuirasses and swords before we see
A single form distinctly. Louder grows
The shouting! Here they come!—the royal guard,
Their white plumes dancing high above the throng;
A courier rides before.

The Emperor
Sat with his grave and thoughtful face relaxed
Into a smile of triumph; by his side,
The beautiful Eugénie! Every one
Of that vast crowd felt deeper interest
In her—the fair young Empress—than in him,
Who took her like a king of old romance,
And raised her to his throne, where she receives
The homage due to crownèd loveliness.

329

He left this country seven years ago,
Poor, friendless, scorned—a mere adventurer;
But in his absence he has placed himself
Firmly on one of Europe's mightiest thrones,
And now returns triumphant! There are few
In modern times like him. In former days
Cromwell, perhaps, has been his prototype.

Along the river Serpentine, not far
From where that huge enchanted structure rose,
To which the world brought stores of merchandise
Before it vanished like a glorious dream—
Along the waters in the people's park
Rode troops of horsemen, on whose naked swords,
And brazen helms, and cuirasses of steel,
The evening sun glanced brightly, and I heard
A ceaseless shouting, growing faint afar.

University of Virginia Library

POEMS OF WAR.