The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

The night comes on, and o'er the field
The moon shines bright on helm and shield;
But there are many on that plain
That shall not see her light again;
She looks serene on countless bands
Of mailéd breasts and steel-bound hands,
And shows a thousand faces there
Of courage high, and dark despair.
All mingled as the legions lie,
Wrapt in their dreams of victory,
A lowering sound of doubt and fear
Breaks sudden on the startled ear,
And hands are clenched, and cheeks are pale,
And from bright blade and ringing mail
A thousand hands, with busy toil,
Clean off each ancient stain or soil;

Or spots of blood, where truth may read
For every drop a guilty deed.

Survey the crowds who there await
In various mood the shock of fate,
Who burn to meet or strive to shun
The dangers of to-morrow's sun:
Look on the husband's anxious tears,
The hero's hopes, the coward's fears,
The vices that e'en here are found,
The follies that are hovering round,
And learn that (treat it as you will)
Our life must be a mockery still.
Alas! the same caprices reign
In courtly hall or tented plain;
And the same follies are revealed
In ball-room and in battle-field.

Turn to yon open tent, and see
Where, drunk with youth and Burgundy,
Reclines, his midnight revel o'er,
The beau of battle, Theodore.
Before him on his desk he lays
The billet-doux of other days;
And while he reads, his fancy lingers
On those white hands and witching fingers
That traced the darling signatures,—
The “yours till death” and “truly yours;”

And as by turns they meet his eye
He looks, and laughs, and throws them by,
Until perchance some magic name
Lights up a spark of former flame;
And then he ponders in his trance
On Mary's love-inspiring glance,
On Chloe's eye of glittering fire,
And Laura's look of fond desire:
Poor Theodore! if valiant breast,
And open heart, and song, and jest,
And laughing lip, and auburn hair,
And vow sent up by lady fair,
Can save a youthful warrior's life,
Thou fall'st not in to-morrow's strife.

Look yonder; on the dewy sward
Tom Wittol lies, a brother bard;
He lies, and ponders on the stars,
On virtue, genius, and the wars;
On dark ravines and woody dells,
On mirth and muses, shot and shells;
On black mustachios, and White Surrey,
On rhyme and sabres, death and Murray;
Until at last his fancy glows
As if it felt to-morrow's blows;
Anticipation fires his brain
With fights unfought, unslaughtered slain,

And on the fray that is to be
Comes forth a dirge or elegy;
And if he meets no heavier harm
To-morrow from a foeman's arm
Than cracked cuirass or broken head,
He'll hasten from his fever's bed,
And, just broke loose from salve and lint,
Rush like a hero into print,
Heading his light and harmless prattle,—
“Lines—written on a Field of Battle.”
Thou favoured bard, go boldly on!
The Muse shall guard her darling son;
And, when the musket's steady aim
Is levelled at the pet of fame,
The Muse shall check the impious crime,
And shield thee with a ream of rhyme;
But if 'tis doomed, and fall thou must,
Since bards, like other men, are dust,
Upon the tomb where thou shalt sleep
Phœbus and Mars alike shall weep,
And he that loved, but could not save,
Shall write “Hic jacet” o'er thy grave.

What wight is that, whose distant nose
Gives token loud of deep repose?
What, honest Harry on the ground?
I' faith thy sleep is wondrous sound

For one who looks, upon his waking,
To “sleep the sleep that knows not breaking!”
But rest thee, rest, thou merriest soul
That ever loved the circling bowl!
I look upon his empty cup,
And sudden tears uncalled spring up;
Perchance in this abode of pother
Kind Harry may not drain another;
But still our comrades at the Bell
Of Harry's prowess long shall tell,
And dignify with well-earned praise
The revelry of other days;
And then the merry tale will run
On many a wager lost and won,
On many a jest and many a song,
And many a peal of laughter long
That from our jovial circle broke
At Harry's toast or Harry's joke.
Again, at fancy's touch restored,
Our old sirloin shall grace the board;
Again, at fancy's touch shall flow
The tap we drained an age ago:
And thou, the soul of fun, the life
Of noisy mirth and playful strife,
Mayst sleep in honour's worm-worn bed
The dreamless slumber of the dead;
But oft shall one sad heart at least
Think on the smile, that never ceased

Its catching influence, till the earth
Closed o'er the lips that gave it birth:
I'll pour upon thy tranquil rest
The hallowed bowl of Meux's best,
And recollect, with smile and sigh,
Thy “beer with E, and bier with I.”

Dazzle mine eyes? or do I see
Two glorious suns of Chancery?
The pride of Law appears the first,
And next the pride of Moulsey Hurst.
Faithless and fee-less, from the bar
Tim Quill is come to practise war:
Without a rival in the ring,
Brown Robert “peels” for Church and King.
Thus ever to your country's fights
Together go, ye kindred knights!
Congenial arts ye aye pursued;
Daylight ye studied to exclude;
And both of old were known to Crib,
And both were very apt to fib!
Together go; no foe shall stand
The vengeance of our country's brand,
When on his ranks together spring
Cross-buttocks—and cross-questioning!

Sir Jacob arming! what despair
Has snatched him from his elbow-chair,

And hurried from his good old wine
The bachelor of fifty-nine?
What mighty cause has torn him thus,
Unwilling, from suburban rus,
Bade him desert his one-horse chaise,
His old companions and old ways,
Give up his baccalaurean tattle,
And quit the bottle for the battle?
Has he forgot in martial ardour
His wig, his teapot, and his larder?
Has he forgot—ungrateful sub.—
Champagne, backgammon, and the club?
Has he forgot his native earth,
His sofa, and his decent hearth?
Has he forgot his homely fare,
And her, the maid with yellow hair,
That dressed the meat and spread the board,
Laid fuel on the fire, and poured
In stream as sparkling as her eye
From its green gaol the Burgundy?
That Hebe, in thy native town,
Looks from her latticed window down,
And, when the newsman paces by,
Runs, with a sharp and fearful cry,
And cheek all pale, and eye all wet,
To seek thy name in the Gazette.
What fate has bid her master roam,
In exile from his cheerful home?

What! has his landlord turned him out!
Is he gone mad with love—or gout?
Has death imposed his finger bony
Upon his mistress—or his crony?
Have sober matrons ceased to praise
The lover of their youthful days?
Are belles less eager to command,
With wink and smile, his ready hand?
Fears he the sudden dissolution
Of club-house—or of constitution?
Has the last pipe of hock miscarried?
Has—I forget!—last week he—married.

Thou too thy brilliant helm must don,
Etona's wild and wayward son,
Mad merry Charles. While beardless yet
Thou look'st upon thy plume of jet,
Or smilest, as the clouds of night
Are drifted back by morning's light,
Thy boyish look, thy careless eyes,
Might wake the envy of the wise.
Six months have passed since thou didst
Unwilling through Etona's grove,
Trembling at many an ancient face
That met thee in that holy place;
To speak the plain and honest truth,
Thou wast no scholar in thy youth:

But now, go forth! broke loose from school,
Kill and destroy by classic rule,
Or die in fight, to live in story,
As valiant Hector did before ye.
On, on! take forts and storm positions,
Break Frenchmen's heads instead of Priscian's,
And seek in death and conflagration
A gradus to thy reputation:
Yet when the war is loud and high,
Thine old mistakes will round thee fly;
And still, in spite of all thy care,
False quantities will haunt thee there;
For thou wilt make, amidst the throng,
Or ζωη short, or κλεος long.

Methinks I know that figure bold
And stalwart limbs of giant mould!
'Tis he! I know his ruddy face,
My tried staunch friend, Sir Matthew Chase.
His snore is loud, his slumber deep,
Yet dreams are with him in his sleep,
And fancy's visions oft recall
The merry hunt and jovial hall,
And oft replace before his sight
The bustle of to-morrow's fight.
In swift succession o'er his brain
Come fields of corn, and fields of slain;

And, as the varying image burns,
Blood and blood-horses smoke by turns;
The five-barred gate and muddy ditch,
Smolensko and the spotted bitch,
Parisian puppies—English dogs—
“Begar” and “damme”—beef and frogs,
In strange unmeaning medley fly
Before poor Nimrod's wandering eye.
He speaks! what murmuring stifled sounds
Burst from his throat?—“Why, madam!—zounds!
Who scared me with that Gorgon face?—
I thought I saw my Lady Chase!”

And thou too, Clavering! Humour's son!
Made up of wisdom and of fun!
Medley of all that's dark and clear,
Of all that's foolish, all that's dear,
Tell me, what brings thee here to die,
Thou prince of eccentricity?
Poor Arthur! in his childhood's day
He cared so little for his play,
And wore so grave and prim a look,
And cried so when he missed his book,
That aunts were eager to presage
The glories of his riper age,
And fond mamma in him foresaw
The bulwark of the British law,

And Science from her lofty throne
Looked down and marked him for her own.
Ah! why did flattery come at school
To tinge him with a shade of fool?
Alas, what clever plans were crost!
Alas, how wise a judge was lost!
Without a friend to check or guide
He hurried into fashion's tide;
He aped each folly of the throng,
Was all by turns, and nothing long;
Through varying tastes and modes he flew,
Dress—boxing—racing—dice—virtù;
Now looking blue in sentimentals,
Now looking red in regimentals,
Now impudent, and now demure,
Now blockhead, and now connoisseur,
Now smoking at the Jolly Tar,
Now talking Greek with Dr. Parr;
A friend by turns to saints and sinners,
Attending lectures, plays, and dinners,
The Commons' House and Common Halls,
Chapels of ease and Tattersall's;
Skilful in fencing and in fist,
Blood—critic—jockey—Methodist,
Causeless alike in joy or sorrow,
Tory to-day, and Whig to-morrow,
All habits and all shapes he wore,
And loved, and laughed, and prayed, and swore;

And now some instantaneous freak,
Some peevish whim, or jealous pique,
Has made the battle's iron shower
The hobby of the present hour,
And bade him seek in steel and lead
An opiate for a rambling head:
A cannon ball will prove a pill
To lull what nothing else can still,
And I, that prophesy his doom,
Will give him all I can—a tomb,
And, o'er a pint of half-and-half,
Compose poor Arthur's epitaph:
“Here joined in death the observer sees
Plato—and Alcibiades;
A mixture of the grave and funny,
A famous dish of Salmagundi!”

Allan M`Gregor! from afar
I see him, 'midst the ranks of war
That all around are rising fast
From slumbers that may be their last.
I know him by his Highland plaid,
Long borne in foray and in raid,
His scarf all splashed with dust and gore,
His nodding plume and broad claymore;
I know him by that eagle eye,
Where foemen read their destiny;

I know him by that iron brow,
That frowns not—burns not—quails not now,
Though life and death are with the ray
That redly dawns upon to-day.
Woe to the wretch whose single might
Copes with dark Allan in the fight!
He knows not mercy—knows not fear;
The pibroch has to Allan's ear
A clearer and a sweeter note
Than mellow strains that blithely float
From lyre or lute, in courtly throng,
Where Beauty smiles upon the song.
Of artful wiles against his foe
Nothing he knows, or cares to know;
Far less he recks of polished arts,
The batteries in the siege of hearts;
And hence the minions of the ton,
While fair and foolish dames look on,
Laugh at old Allan's awkward bow,
His stern address, and haughty brow.
Laugh they?—when sounds the hollow drum,
And banded legions onward come,
And life is won by ready sword,
By strength to strike and skill to ward,
Those tongues, so brave in woman's war,
Those cheeks unstained by scratch or scar,
Shall owe their safety in the fight
To hoary Allan's arm of might.

Close to the clansman's side is seen
Dame Fortune's soldier, James M'Lean.
I know him well; no novice he
In warfare's murderous theory;
Amidst the battle's various sound,
While bullets flew like hail around,
M'Lean was born; in scenes like this
He passed his earliest hours of bliss;
Cradled in war, the fearless child
Looked on the scene of blood, and smiled;
Toyed with the sabre of the Blues
Long ere he knew its hellish use:
His little fingers loved to feel
The bayonet's bright point of steel,
Or made his father's helmet ring
With beating up “God save the King.”
Those hours of youthful glee are fled,
The thin grey hairs are on his head,
Of youth's hot current nought remains
Within the ancient warrior's veins;
Yet, when he hears the battle cry,
His spirit beats as wild and high
As on the day that saw him wield
His virgin sword in battle field;—
The eve on which his comrades found him,
With England's colours wrapt around him,
His face turned upwards, and his hand
Still twined around his trusty brand.

As, spent with wounds and weak with toil,
He lay upon the bloody soil.
E'en now, though swift advancing years
Might well decline this life of fears,
Though the deep scars upon his breast
Show claim to honourable rest,
He will not quit what time has made
His joy, his habit, and his trade.
He envies not the peasant's lot,
His cheerful hearth and humble cot;
Encampments have to him become
As constant and as dear a home.

Such are the hearts of steel whom War
Binds in their cradle to his car,
And leaves them in their latter day,
With honour, medals, and half-pay,
Burthened with all the cares of life,
Repentance—asthma—and a wife.

And what am I who thus can choose
Such subject for so light a muse?
Who wake the smile and weave the rhyme,
In such a scene, at such a time?
Mary! whose pure and holy kiss
Is still a cherished dream of bliss,—
When last I saw thy bright blue eye,
And heard thy voice of melody,

And felt thy timid, mild caress,
I was all hope—all joyousness!
We parted,—and the morrow's sun—
Oh God!—my bliss was past and done:
The lover's hope, the husband's vow—
Where were they then?—ah! where wert thou?

Mary! thou vision loved and wept,—
Long years have passed since thou hast slept,
Removed from gaze of mortal eye,
The dreamless sleep of those that die.
Long years!—yet has not passed away
The memory of that fatal day,
When all thy young and faded grace
Before me lay in Death's embrace.

A throb of madness and of pain
Shot through my heart, and through my brain;
I felt it then, I feel it now,
Though time is stamped upon my brow,
Though all my veins grow cold with age,
And o'er my memory's fading page
Oblivion draws her damning line,
And blots all images—save thine.

Thou left'st me—and I did become
An alien from my house and home,

A phantom in life's busy dream,
A bubble on misfortune's stream,
Condemned through varying scenes to rove,
With nought to hope—and nought to love;
No inward motive that can give
Or fear to die, or wish to live.

Away, away! Death rides the breeze!
There is no time for thoughts like these.
Hark! from the foeman's distant camp,
I hear their chargers' sullen tramp:
On, valiant Britons, to the fight!
On, for St. George and England's right!
Green be the laurel, bright the meed,
Of those that shine in martial deed:
Short be the pang, swift pass the breath,
Of those that die a soldier's death!