 | Griselda |  |
285
SONGS OF THE TIME.
287
THE “TIGER.”
[_]
A letter from Odessa of June 16th states:—“A few days ago the English steamer Vesuvius ran into these roads and brought the wife of Captain Giffard, to whom General Osten- Sacken gave the permission, with a quarantine guardian, to visit the grave of her husband, who commanded the ill-fated steamer “Tiger.” — She remained twenty-four hours collecting particulars of her husband's dying moments, which were those of a hero meeting his death in his country's cause.”
Beneath Odessa's foreland,
Washed by the Russian wave,
Shattered and black an English ship
Rots in her sandy grave.
The sea-shell clogs her cannon,
The sea-worm eats her oak,
And the sea-weeds dank cling to the plank
Whence English thunders spoke.
Washed by the Russian wave,
Shattered and black an English ship
Rots in her sandy grave.
The sea-shell clogs her cannon,
The sea-worm eats her oak,
And the sea-weeds dank cling to the plank
Whence English thunders spoke.
288
Behind Odessa's foreland,
Under the Russian sky,
That noble vessel's noble chief
In bloody grave doth lie.
Not bravely in fair battle
Cut dow~ upon his deck,
But driving lost on an iron coast,
And shot on a helpless wreck.
Under the Russian sky,
That noble vessel's noble chief
In bloody grave doth lie.
Not bravely in fair battle
Cut dow~ upon his deck,
But driving lost on an iron coast,
And shot on a helpless wreck.
Unto Odessa's foreland
Who comes for vengeance due?
A legion bold in steel and gold—
A fleet with seamen true?
Oh shame! no sworn avengers,
But a gentle lady there,
Sitting alone by an uncarved stone
Weeping her wifely tear.
Who comes for vengeance due?
A legion bold in steel and gold—
A fleet with seamen true?
Oh shame! no sworn avengers,
But a gentle lady there,
Sitting alone by an uncarved stone
Weeping her wifely tear.
Oh, black Odessan foreland,
Only his widow there!
Oh, lonely, lonely sepulchre,
Only one falling tear!
Why roars no rage of cannon?
Why rings no levelled gun?
With sword and spear—not sigh and tear—
England should mourn her son.
Only his widow there!
289
Only one falling tear!
Why roars no rage of cannon?
Why rings no levelled gun?
With sword and spear—not sigh and tear—
England should mourn her son.
She to that fatal foreland
Came o'er the stormy wave;
Shall women for the one they love
Alone be bold and brave?
How, England, will thy captains
Die bravely in thy strife,
When Giffard's rest no mourner blest
But a woman and a wife?
Came o'er the stormy wave;
Shall women for the one they love
Alone be bold and brave?
How, England, will thy captains
Die bravely in thy strife,
When Giffard's rest no mourner blest
But a woman and a wife?
Far from Odessa's foreland
His vessel's jack was ta'en;
Oh! for the death its champion died
Win back that flag again.
Plant it with shot and sabre
Above the Russian's best;
And the conquering shout, as the cross flaunts out,
Shall bring him better to rest.
His vessel's jack was ta'en;
Oh! for the death its champion died
Win back that flag again.
290
Above the Russian's best;
And the conquering shout, as the cross flaunts out,
Shall bring him better to rest.
“The Press.”
291
THE VIGIL.
The Empress spent an hour and a half yesterday with the corpse.—Vide Times.
For her dead by the Black Sea water
England hath praises and prayers;
For her dead by the plague and the slaughter
France payeth pity and tears:
In the South the dead lie a-sleeping,
In the North lies sleeping the dead;
Who sits in the Northland weeping?
Who watches beside that bed?
England hath praises and prayers;
For her dead by the plague and the slaughter
France payeth pity and tears:
In the South the dead lie a-sleeping,
In the North lies sleeping the dead;
Who sits in the Northland weeping?
Who watches beside that bed?
292
That silent bed of the silent dead, mourned still and mourner still,
The purple bent o'er purple shent of worship and of will;
The crowned brow bent long and low o'er crownless brow and white,
Where a Queen doth moan for her King o'erthrown in pride of place and might.
The purple bent o'er purple shent of worship and of will;
The crowned brow bent long and low o'er crownless brow and white,
Where a Queen doth moan for her King o'erthrown in pride of place and might.
Low lies he there—a woman's care, a woman's watch and ward,
The star of strife, the lord of life, the swayer of the sword;
A woman's loss to sign with cross, and gaze upon and moan—
He lies, the scorner of the threat, the shaker of the throne.
The star of strife, the lord of life, the swayer of the sword;
A woman's loss to sign with cross, and gaze upon and moan—
He lies, the scorner of the threat, the shaker of the throne.
293
Nay, let her weep! he sleeps a sleep tears will not waken now,
Though faster far they fall and star that settled cheek and brow;
Nay, let her sigh! if such must die, strong, terrible, and grand,
Doth she alone make wail and moan—his wife, of all his land!
Though faster far they fall and star that settled cheek and brow;
Nay, let her sigh! if such must die, strong, terrible, and grand,
Doth she alone make wail and moan—his wife, of all his land!
Weep, woman, weep! if dead men sleep sounder when tears fall free;
Weep faster, wife, for that lost life! none weepeth it but thee;
Greet louder, Queen, for what hath been—alone— alone—alone—
Thy bitter pain is Earth's great gain—Earth's music is thy moan.
Weep faster, wife, for that lost life! none weepeth it but thee;
Greet louder, Queen, for what hath been—alone— alone—alone—
Thy bitter pain is Earth's great gain—Earth's music is thy moan.
294
“It cannot be that this is he!”—draw down the shroud again!
But yesterday his word had sway o'er mountain, moor, and plain;
And mountain, fountain, moor, and plain—speak louder! take thy breath!
Tell him his Earth is wild with mirth, and shouteth for his death.
But yesterday his word had sway o'er mountain, moor, and plain;
And mountain, fountain, moor, and plain—speak louder! take thy breath!
Tell him his Earth is wild with mirth, and shouteth for his death.
“He shall not die! look! look! the eye; it flashes as of yore!”
Thine own tear, Queen, glistens, I ween, where shone no tear before;
Nay, doubtest thou?—touch breast and brow cold! chilly! through and through,
As under turf the Servian serf his hungry sabres slew.
Thine own tear, Queen, glistens, I ween, where shone no tear before;
Nay, doubtest thou?—touch breast and brow cold! chilly! through and through,
As under turf the Servian serf his hungry sabres slew.
295
“Nay! not dead! it is not yet fled the life that dealt with life!
The fingers white are clenched for fight—he dreameth of the strife!
Ho, bring the crown! my Lord, thy town is free; the foe is fled
From steel and shot! What, stirr'st thou not?”—Dead!—queenly mourner, dead!
The fingers white are clenched for fight—he dreameth of the strife!
Ho, bring the crown! my Lord, thy town is free; the foe is fled
From steel and shot! What, stirr'st thou not?”—Dead!—queenly mourner, dead!
Dead! dead! they shout. Empress, watch out thy dreamy vigil there
Beside that prayerless, tearless bed—that unregretted bier,
Louder than sighs our curses rise—curses for plague and pain,
Wrought by that king—that nameless thing—the slayer God hath slain.
Beside that prayerless, tearless bed—that unregretted bier,
Louder than sighs our curses rise—curses for plague and pain,
Wrought by that king—that nameless thing—the slayer God hath slain.
296
Mourn thou him dead! that kingly head, we joy to see it sunk;
The bitter will to slay and kill, the soul with slaughter drunk!
Wail for thy star, thy lord of war—beneath thy kiss a clod—
Lone Queen and proud—more long and loud our wail doth go to God.
The bitter will to slay and kill, the soul with slaughter drunk!
Wail for thy star, thy lord of war—beneath thy kiss a clod—
Lone Queen and proud—more long and loud our wail doth go to God.
“The Press.”
303
IO! PÆAN!
Ho, brother-bands, ho, sister-lands, take heart and fight it out!
The plighted word, the sacred sword shall bear us through the bout:
On the flags that flaunt together the Star of Victory smiles,
Hurrah, for the golden Lilies and the Lion of the Isles!
The plighted word, the sacred sword shall bear us through the bout:
On the flags that flaunt together the Star of Victory smiles,
Hurrah, for the golden Lilies and the Lion of the Isles!
Ho! tyrant of the icy North, quake in thy leaguered town,
For shot and shout tell loudly out thy granite hold is down!
Ho! brothers of the English blood, ho! gallant friends of France,
Bear on the golden Lilies, and the Lion-flag advance!
For shot and shout tell loudly out thy granite hold is down!
Ho! brothers of the English blood, ho! gallant friends of France,
Bear on the golden Lilies, and the Lion-flag advance!
304
But now the echo of the fight came to us from the North;
At Sweaborg's fort a work was wrought whereto we sent ye forth;
And high o'er grim Sebastopol, good fleet and gallant files,
Flutter the golden Lilies, and the Lion of the Isles!
At Sweaborg's fort a work was wrought whereto we sent ye forth;
And high o'er grim Sebastopol, good fleet and gallant files,
Flutter the golden Lilies, and the Lion of the Isles!
No more that robber's hold frowns down on Servian and Turk,
Victoria the Good hath razed bad Catharine's brigand work.
Ill match, God wot, for Russian shot, for Russian lies and wiles,
Against the golden Lilies and the Lion of the Isles!
Victoria the Good hath razed bad Catharine's brigand work.
Ill match, God wot, for Russian shot, for Russian lies and wiles,
Against the golden Lilies and the Lion of the Isles!
Where rides the caitiff armament that swept an empty sea?
Where are the butchers of Sinoub? even where their victims be!
Sunk in the wave they swore to rule;—foul weed the flag defiles
That braved the golden Lilies, and the Lion of the Isles!
Where are the butchers of Sinoub? even where their victims be!
305
That braved the golden Lilies, and the Lion of the Isles!
Say, have the twelve months taught ye, Czars, that till their work be done,
The sword of England goes not up, France standeth to her gun?
Send thy hordes forth, King of the North! but learn, proud fool, the whiles,
Slaves cannot stay the Lilies and the Lion of the Isles.
The sword of England goes not up, France standeth to her gun?
Send thy hordes forth, King of the North! but learn, proud fool, the whiles,
Slaves cannot stay the Lilies and the Lion of the Isles.
Well done, Nineteenth! well fought of all! brothers, the story comes,
The proud praise of your generals is echoed in your homes,
And well those homes shall welcome ye, whene'er with conquering smiles
Ye bring us back the Lilies and the Lion of the Isles.
The proud praise of your generals is echoed in your homes,
306
Ye bring us back the Lilies and the Lion of the Isles.
Stand to it then, though storm and plague rave horror to the fight,
God striketh hard for him whose sword is drawn upon the right;
Think this, and still, with steadfast will, rival the earnest hands
Who heretofore as bravely bore the Banners of the Lands.
God striketh hard for him whose sword is drawn upon the right;
Think this, and still, with steadfast will, rival the earnest hands
Who heretofore as bravely bore the Banners of the Lands.
Our dead sleep deeper: he whose sword Silistria's safety won,
Who took the death upon his brow, and fell before his gun.
Arnaud, and gallant Giffard, and the chief who latest died
For the Lion and the Lily-flags, the Black Sea wave beside.
Who took the death upon his brow, and fell before his gun.
307
For the Lion and the Lily-flags, the Black Sea wave beside.
No nore the Hango slayers make their deed a boast and brag,
Grimly they tell how many fell to wash that stained white flag:
How that for every murdered man went down a hundred files
Before the gay French Lilies, and the Lion of the Isles.
Grimly they tell how many fell to wash that stained white flag:
How that for every murdered man went down a hundred files
Before the gay French Lilies, and the Lion of the Isles.
For them and ye one Victory is won, and won aright,
Hand joined in hand, land true to land, shall bring us through the fight;
On the flags that flaunt together the star of conquest smiles,—
Hurrah, for the golden Lilies and the Lion of the Isles!
Hand joined in hand, land true to land, shall bring us through the fight;
308
Hurrah, for the golden Lilies and the Lion of the Isles!
But, hark! above her people's shout, silencing gun and drum,
Our good Queen's gracious words of thanks and pious prayer are come;
Bend low the knee, cry Victory!—her own fairomened name;
But give unto the God of Hosts its glory and its fame.
Our good Queen's gracious words of thanks and pious prayer are come;
Bend low the knee, cry Victory!—her own fairomened name;
But give unto the God of Hosts its glory and its fame.
THE END.
| Griselda | |