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

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!

307

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!

308

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!

309

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.

310

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.

University of Virginia Library

TO GENERAL SCARLETT,

LEADER OF THE HEAVY CAVALRY AT BALAKLAVA.