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

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.

291

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.

292

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.

293

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.

294

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!

University of Virginia Library

MARSHAL ST. ARNAUD.