The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| IX. |
| X. |
 | XI. |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
269
X. ON THE RAMPARTS
The gold sun sets above the solemn sands;
The strained sight aches across the yellow sea:
In front, around, the solitude expands,
Grim, terrible, devoid of flower or tree.
The waste seems dead;
No line of red
Upon the horizon brings the city cheer.
Fierce foes surround;
Their trumpets sound;
No answering English bugle-note rings clear.
The strained sight aches across the yellow sea:
In front, around, the solitude expands,
Grim, terrible, devoid of flower or tree.
The waste seems dead;
No line of red
Upon the horizon brings the city cheer.
Fierce foes surround;
Their trumpets sound;
No answering English bugle-note rings clear.
Upon the ramparts lo! one paces slow;
From time to time he gazes o'er the sands:
If morning brings not help, all hope must go.
He lifts to silent heaven strong urgent hands.
Is help not nigh,
O starlit sky
And Eastern moon whose white orb glitters past?
Black looms the night.
No help in sight!
Must the beleaguered city fall at last?
From time to time he gazes o'er the sands:
If morning brings not help, all hope must go.
He lifts to silent heaven strong urgent hands.
Is help not nigh,
O starlit sky
270
Black looms the night.
No help in sight!
Must the beleaguered city fall at last?
Morning! The thin mist rises in the air:
Not yet the great sun flashes from the sky.
That grim and silent watcher still is there.
To-day must bring relief, or all must die.
Gaze once again
Across the plain:
One last wild look, for now the sun shines clear.
Ha! bayonets gleam;
It is no dream;
Our England's help can reach us even here!
Not yet the great sun flashes from the sky.
That grim and silent watcher still is there.
To-day must bring relief, or all must die.
Gaze once again
Across the plain:
One last wild look, for now the sun shines clear.
Ha! bayonets gleam;
It is no dream;
Our England's help can reach us even here!
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |