 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
THE HAVELOCK.
On southern uplands I was born,
Kissed by the lips of the golden morn;
Strong, and tall, and straight was I,
And my white plumes danced as the wind went by,
Till the hills above and the vales below
Seemed drowned in a mist of drifting snow.
Kissed by the lips of the golden morn;
Strong, and tall, and straight was I,
And my white plumes danced as the wind went by,
Till the hills above and the vales below
Seemed drowned in a mist of drifting snow.
But by and by my plumes were stripped
By negroes lusty and dusky-lipped,
And they bore me off to a darksome mill,
With jaws and teeth that never were still;
And there I was mangled and whirled about,
Till it chewed me up and it spat me out.
By negroes lusty and dusky-lipped,
And they bore me off to a darksome mill,
With jaws and teeth that never were still;
And there I was mangled and whirled about,
Till it chewed me up and it spat me out.
76
Bagged and bound with canvas and rope,
I hung on the edge of a dizzy slope,
Till I saw the panting steamer glide
Close to the edge of the terrible slide,
When they pushed me over and let me go,
And swift as a bullet I plunged below.
I hung on the edge of a dizzy slope,
Till I saw the panting steamer glide
Close to the edge of the terrible slide,
When they pushed me over and let me go,
And swift as a bullet I plunged below.
So down the river they bore me then,
And passed me over to trading men,
And bartered me off, and shipped me to sea,
From the crowded wharf of the long levee;
And so we sailed for many a day,
Till the mud of the Mersey around us lay.
And passed me over to trading men,
And bartered me off, and shipped me to sea,
From the crowded wharf of the long levee;
And so we sailed for many a day,
Till the mud of the Mersey around us lay.
Through dingy factories then I passed,
Where flickered the shuttle flashing fast;
And British fingers all wan and thin
With labor, and hunger, and drink, and sin,
Twisted my threads, in the fetid gloom,
And wove them close on the whirring loom.
Where flickered the shuttle flashing fast;
And British fingers all wan and thin
With labor, and hunger, and drink, and sin,
Twisted my threads, in the fetid gloom,
And wove them close on the whirring loom.
So back to my country I came again,
Fit for the uses of busy men;
And the time went by, till one summer day
In a beautiful maiden's lap I lay,
While with scissors, and thimble, and needle, and thread,
She fashioned me thus for a soldier's head.
Fit for the uses of busy men;
And the time went by, till one summer day
In a beautiful maiden's lap I lay,
While with scissors, and thimble, and needle, and thread,
She fashioned me thus for a soldier's head.
For the light of battle was in the sky,
And the armed thousands were hurrying by,
And the brawny farmer and slender clerk
Were side by side in the holy work;
For a wondrous fire through the people ran,—
Through maid, and woman, and child, and man.
And the armed thousands were hurrying by,
And the brawny farmer and slender clerk
Were side by side in the holy work;
For a wondrous fire through the people ran,—
Through maid, and woman, and child, and man.
77
Ah! 't was a tender and sorrowful day
When the soldier lover went marching away;
For that selfsame morn he had called her bride,
As they stood at the altar side by side;
Then with one long kiss and a hushed good-by
He went with his comrades to do or die!
When the soldier lover went marching away;
For that selfsame morn he had called her bride,
As they stood at the altar side by side;
Then with one long kiss and a hushed good-by
He went with his comrades to do or die!
To-day I am on the selfsame earth
That nourished my parents and gave me birth;
But the waving snow is no longer there,
And muskets flash in the sunlit air,
And the hillside shakes with the heavy tramp
Of the hostile armies from camp to camp.
That nourished my parents and gave me birth;
But the waving snow is no longer there,
And muskets flash in the sunlit air,
And the hillside shakes with the heavy tramp
Of the hostile armies from camp to camp.
And the head that I cover is thinking now
Of the fair hands that placed me upon his brow,
And wonders whether, in the coming fight
That will redden these southern slopes to-night,
I shall safely ride through the stormy fray,
Or ownerless lie in the crimson clay.
Of the fair hands that placed me upon his brow,
And wonders whether, in the coming fight
That will redden these southern slopes to-night,
I shall safely ride through the stormy fray,
Or ownerless lie in the crimson clay.
And northward far, at the selfsame time
That he dreaming stands in this sunny clime,
The hands that made me are raised in prayer,
And her voice ascends through the silent air;
And if pureness and goodness have power to charm,
The head that I cover is safe from harm.
That he dreaming stands in this sunny clime,
The hands that made me are raised in prayer,
And her voice ascends through the silent air;
And if pureness and goodness have power to charm,
The head that I cover is safe from harm.
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |