The Poems of Mackenzie Bell :: :: University of Virginia Library

POEMS FOUNDED ON HISTORY.

THE KEEPING OF THE VOW.

A.D. 1330.

King Robert Bruce is dying now,
Heavily comes his breath,
And that last strife 'twixt death and life
Will soon be won by death;

Around his couch the liegemen stand;
They heave full many a sigh,
In dire dismay and grief are they
To know their liege must die.

“Sir James of Douglas, come!” he cries,
“Ever wert thou my friend,
And though we part, 'tis well thou art
With me unto the end.

“When great my need I vowed to God
If He would grant to me
That war's surcease should bring us peace,
And Scotland should be free,

“His blessèd banner I would bear
To holy Palestine,
With arms to quell the Infidel:
Such was your King's design.

“Sore grieved am I that here I lie—
Death's hand upon my brow—
In vain, in vain, 'mid gnawing pain,
Do I recall my vow.

“Then promise me right faithfully,
When I am laid at rest,
That with my heart thou wilt depart
To do my last behest!”

“My liege, I pledge my knightly word,
Thy bidding shall be done,
The work is sad, yet am I glad
Such favour to have won!

“Safe in my bosom shall thy trust
Abide with me for ever,
Unless, perchance, in peril's hour,
'Twere best that we should sever.

“So shall thy vow be kept, my king,
To do thy last behest
I swear upon the holy Rood,—
So shall thy soul have rest.”

The king smiles faintly in reply—
Then slowly droops his head,
And on the breast of him he loved
Robert the Bruce lies dead.

In fit array at break of day
Doth Douglas soon depart,
And in a casket carefully
He keeps that Kingly Heart.

Crossing the main and sighting Spain,
He joins the truceless war
Of Moor and Christian—that fierce strife
Which rages as of yore;

For here he knows that of a truth
His devoir first should be,
And with his host he swells the boast
Of Spanish chivalry.

The armies twain on Tebas's plain
Outspread—a goodly sight!
Eager they wait with hope elate,
Impatient for the fight;

The summer sunbeams on the shields
Of warriors brightly glancing,
Illume the mail of many a man
And many a charger prancing,
And gallant crest that in the breeze
Full gaily now is dancing;

Each Moslem there with scimitar,
Upon his Arab horse,
Moves with a calm, a fearless mien,
Unswerving in his course.

Lo here at length the stately strength
The Cross and Crescent wield,
As deadly foes now darkly close
Upon this fatal field.

The Spaniards' stroke hath broken through
The dense opposing line!
Yet none the less both armies press
Around their standard-sign,

And many a jennet of Castile
Runs free with dangling rein,
While many a Paynim once so proud
Lies lifeless on the plain.

First in the van the Douglas rides,
With all his men-at-arms,—
A worthy company are they
To front the Paynim swarms.

With bloody spur and loosened rein
They break the stubborn foe,
So swift the chase they scarce can trace
The course by which they go,

Till, looking back upon their track,
The Paynim ranks they see
Have closed them in, 'mid dust and din
With shout of wolfish glee.

“We find full late the danger great,”
Sir Douglas cries, “return!
And charge the foe like Scots we know
The rout at Bannockburn.

“Surely the men who conquered then
Vain Edward's mighty host
Will never yield this sacred field
Nor let the base Moor boast.”

So, boldly speaking, quick he turns—
He gallops to the rear—
This dauntless quest through fierce unrest
As gallant doth appear
As his who braves the foam-flaked waves
To succour one most dear.

As Douglas passed the blows fell fast—
Stern was the conflict wild,
With steeds and men, who ne'er again
Would rise, the field was piled.

Yet, with his followers not a few,
Now he has cleft his way
With flashing eye and flashing blade
Straight through the grim array,

Once more he glances round, and sees,
Still in the thickest fight,
William Sinclair, his well-beloved,
A very valiant knight.

Full oft had they in tourney gay
Their chargers deftly wheeled,
Full oft were nigh in days gone by
On many a battle field,—

“Ride to the rescue!” Douglas shouts,
“Ride on, and do not spare,
To save him from a woeful death
Which of you will not dare!”

Urging his horse with headlong force,
He seeks to render aid,
And many a tunic's fold is cleft
By his resistless blade;

Yet is he left, of friends bereft,
Swart foemen all around,
Through the echoing strokes on helm and shield
Of help there comes no sound.

Now snatches he the jewelled casque
Where lies the heart he loves,
('Tis strange to see how tenderly
His mailed hand o'er it moves),

And flings it forward, forward yet,
With this his battle cry,
“Press on, brave Heart, as thou wert wont:
I follow thee, or die!”

With lifted lance he makes advance
To where his treasure fell,
Each crash of blow—now fast, now slow—
Like a rude requiem knell,

And left alone, yet ne'er o'erthrown,
He grapples with the foe,
Until a sword-thrust piercing him
At last doth lay him low.

Then gallantly he struggles still,
Half kneeling on the plain,
And there, o'erwhelmed by many a wound,
The peerless knight is slain.

So died the chief, his life well lost
In Scottish hero's work,
The stainless Douglas, he who sleeps
In mossy Douglas kirk.

THE PURITAN'S FAREWELL TO HIS BETROTHED.

(1642.)

SHE—

When Love arose and taught my heart
To hold thee first and chief,
I never dreamed that we should part
In pain beyond belief,
Then wherefore bring this aching woe
To me, to thee, to all,
E'en though harsh Duty bids thee go
To obey thy faction's call?

HE—

Nay, speak not so; that sigh, that look,
Wound worse than blades of steel,
Yet what were I if I forsook,
Because of thine appeal,
No “faction” but God's righteous cause,
No struggle of greed and shame—
One stern last stand for Right and laws
That win His high acclaim?

Truth, Justice, Conscience plead with me,
Then wouldst thou have me, dear,
For calm and ease and joy with thee
To yield to craven fear—

To prove a recreant from the right—
A coward sore afraid—
A traitor in the coming fight
Where England needs mine aid?

Thou murmur'st, “We shall meet no more:”
I know, I know thy pain,
Our life is brief, but when 'tis o'er
True lovers live again—
They live again in that fair land
Where comes nor strife nor sword—
Where Truth and Joy go hand in hand—
And Love hath Faith's reward.

There, where each feeling stands confessed,
Wilt thou know all my sorrow—
Wilt know what pangs have rent my breast
Ere leaving thee to-morrow.
Lo, hearken to the distant chime,
To us a knell of sadness,
Then let us spend our span of time
In peace more deep than gladness.

SHE—

The weakness goes: oh, heed it not!
My fears have done thee wrong;
My pain is but my woman's lot,
And Love shall make me strong:—
In these brave arms I will be brave,
And while thou still art here,
To God will lift my soul, and crave
The peace which casts out fear.

THE TAKING OF THE FLAG.

The dawning light
Hath banished Night,
Breaking the ocean's sleep—
For all around
Is heard a sound
Of war upon the deep.

The Dutch and we
Are met at sea
On this blithe summer day,
To try at length
Our fighting strength
In battle's bloody fray.

See! on the right
Two ships in fight
In struggle long and hard,
And though so near,
They know not fear,
Close grappling yard to yard.

In very joy
An orphan boy
Speaks 'mid the battle's roar:
“Since morning's sun
The fight has run,—
When will it then be o'er?”

“'Twill never lag
Till yon Dutch rag
Down from the mast-head runs,
No other sign
Along our line
Can silence British guns.”

“If thus it be,”
Then swift quoth he
With keen and flashing eye;
“'Twill soon be past,
Nor longer last,
Though if I fail, I die.”

Hid by the cloak
Of sable smoke,
All noiselessly he goes;
He springs elate
Where Death may wait
Among his country's foes.

High up their mast
He clambers fast:
He grasps his precious prize:—

He knows no check—
He gains the deck,
With triumph in his eyes.

He bounds once more
'Mid smoke and roar
To his appointed place;
Fearless, serence,
Is still his mien,
Fearless, serene his face.

Our men with glee
Shout “Victory!”
Right glad of heart are they;
And from each gun
The Dutchmen run
In wonder and dismay.

A sudden shame,
Half rage, half blame,
Their captain overpowers;
With one accord
Our sailors board,
And soon the ship is ours.

And of the youth
Who thus in truth
Had won a hero's meed,
We spoke with pride
Till far and wide
Was known his peerless deed.

The epithet “Dutch rag” is said to have been the actual phrase used by the sailor whom Hopson addressed. The boy had only joined the fleet on the day before as a volunteer, and had previously been a tailor's apprentice. Vide “Sea Fights,” p.73. Professor Sir J. K. Laughton, in “The Dictionary of National Biography,” expresses his opinion, however, that the incident on which this poem is based has no historical foundation.

THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN HUNT.

January 8th, 1761.

[_]

See “Battles of the British Navy,” vol. i., p. 210.

The watch on board the Unicorn
Look out at dawn of light,
The sails are here, the sails at last!
The Frenchman heaves in sight.

And swiftly now the order comes
To give the Frenchman chase,
The Frenchman who is lost, we know,
If we can win the race.

Hurrah! the coward's flight is vain,
The ships are drawing nigh,
Each man prepares to win the fight—
To win the fight or die.

And soon the cannons' smoke and boom
Are rolling all around,
Through two fierce hours of clangorous strife
Is heard the deadly sound;

Wild scene of strange delirious joy,
Yet desolating woe,
For now a shot our captain fells,
And he is borne below.

Two seamen gently bear him down,
And while the surgeon tries
To bind his wound, he looks on us
With tender, pitying eyes.

The strife ne'er stays—the bearers bring
Another blood-stained man.
“Surgeon,” our captain says at once,
“Go, save him if you can.

“My wound is mortal; thus for me
Your care is all in vain,
Not so with him, then use your power
To ease his heavier pain.”

Soon ebbed our captain's tide of life—
Short was the time for him—
Yet still his constant mind was clear
Although his eyes grew dim.

And in a while his heart was glad
For we had won the day,
His noble heart was satisfied—
His spirit passed away.

THE BATTLE'S PAUSE.

[_]

(Supposed episodes at Waterloo during an imaginary cessation of the strife and din.)

I.

At daybreak on a lonely sea
Strange is the silence; heavily
The louring clouds loom dim and dun,
Till comes at length the far-off sun;
Strange is the silence of the day
Where waves are hushed in some fair bay;
Strange is the silence,—awesome, deep,
At nightfall in an ancient keep;
Strange is the silence that ofttimes
Broods o'er the city's shame and crimes;
Strange is the silence of the night
Where throned in space the stars give light;
Strange is the silence of the room
Where lingering sickness hangs in gloom;
Strange is the silence after death
Where anguished sound departs with breath;
But stranger is the silence when
The moans are stilled of wounded men,
Where stilled an instant are the cries
That from wild scenes of strife arise
As noise of rapid volleys cease,—
As God grants here and there release,—
As suddenly the senses yield
To silence on the battle-field.

II.

In these fleet moments interposed
Ere yet once more the foemen closed,
In inner vision every man
Lived o'er again his whole life's span.
Only of plunder many thought,
But here and there was one who caught
Swift glimpses, borne on spirit-wings,
Of God, of Heaven, of holy things—
Who felt his courage no less high
Because he was prepared to die.

III.

One dreams of his betrothed in France,
A dark-eyed girl with laughing glance,
And wonders if he soon shall meet
Her tender looks, her smile so sweet.
“Ah, ma Lucille,” with tears he cries,
“Fain would I see the glad surprise
Break the calm gaze of your dear eyes,
As with high hope I come once more,
Unwounded from the field of war.
Fain would I see your rippling curls,
More precious than those lustrous pearls
My gift to you—that sometimes deck
The stately beauty of your neck—
That on your bosom rise and fall,
White rivals of its whiteness, all
Eclipsed in utter loveliness.

Fain would I see again that dress;
Its dainty hue of mellow brown
Sets off the clustering curls that crown
Your shapely head. Fain would I see
The happy village revelry
That joyous day which makes you mine—
When underneath the ancient vine
Around Saint Etienne's porch we pass
Just coming from the wedding Mass,
And leaving near to the altar stair
The curé with his silvery hair,
Low kneeling now in holy prayer,
To crave a blessing on us there,
His guileless, gladsome, saintly soul
As spotless as his pure white stole.”

IV.

Another soldier sees a room
O'ershadowed by a partial gloom,
As heavy curtains shade the light
From a wan sufferer's weakened sight,
And on a couch is seen a boy,
Whose wasted face, all flushed with joy,
Looks on a portrait, newly there,
Of a tall youth with raven hair,
Clad in a garb of martial hue.
And then in accents heartfelt, true,
He speaks the words: “Would that I too
With my dear brother still could be
Where Valour leads to Victory.”

V.

A Scotsman here among “The Greys”
Chafes inly now at war's delays,—
Would but the bugle sound the charge!
Would that he were once more at large
Among the flying cuirassiers!
He knows no pity, knows no fears,—
For him each instant passes slow
Passed not in fight against the foe,—
'Tis hard to stand, nor give one blow—
It suits his fiery humour ill
To be a living target still,
Nor use his good sword at his will.

Near him “The Inniskillings” share
A post of danger,—everywhere
True soldiers they,—who greatly dare.

VI.

Before an English soldier lie
Down-trodden fields of wheat and rye,
But his tired vision does not meet
These blood-stained fields of rye and wheat.
He sees not how his comrades here
Reveal no sign of craven fear;
While they with bandaged hand or face,
Still struggle on, nor quit their place.
He sees not, as in many rifts
The smoke of battle, rising, lifts,
How everywhere all undismayed

Still firm they stand as on parade,
Although their thinning ranks disclose
How hard with them the conflict goes.
He sees the Mersey; fresh and cool
The east wind blows from Liverpool
To Seacombe beach, where, loitering,
He stood one early morn of spring
A month or two before. The day
At first had seemed but chill and grey
Till brilliant sunshine suddenly
Had flooded all the estuary.
For weeks the west wind had prevailed—
No ship, if outward bound, had sailed;
But now the fickle wind had veered,
And now the sailors' hearts were cheered,
While a whole fleet—a gallant show
Of eager ships—was free to go.
Full many a vessel, towards the bar
Across the waters near and far,
Moves buoyantly. With what delight
He looks upon the goodly sight
Of canvas spread to catch the breeze
That dances o'er the rippling seas!
How shapely are the skiffs which pass
Between him and St. Nicholas!
How graceful is the distant town,
Which gaily o'er the waves looks down!
Changed is the scene since 'mid the snow
He saw it scarce a year ago.
Then many a white and large ice-floe
Reared its strange shape on every side,
While tossing idly on the tide.

VII.

Another soldier sees his home
Where whirls the wild Biscayan foam;
Where surges beat with sullen roar
Upon a dreary pine-clad shore.
There his good mother yet must wait
For many a month disconsolate,
Waiting, still waiting for her child,
With heavy heart unreconciled
To his long absence—her distress
At times most pitiful to guess.
He sees her in her peasant's dress
At household duties, at her door
At eve and morning, evermore
Thinking with heavy heart of him;
With unshed tears her eyes grow dim,
Looking, aye looking constantly,
Across the same sad, dreary sea.
Again he hears the gleeful noise
And clatter of the village boys,
He even hears the sound once more
Of sabots on a cottage floor.
Again it seems that mournful day
When he, alas, was called away;
Again he sees the fishing-boat
That comes to bear him to the town;
Again his home grows more remote
As o'er the sea the sun goes down.
Still he beholds his mother's face,
And still he feels her warm embrace,
He knows her anguished doubts, her fears,

And would-be smiles, he feels her tears.
He hears the heaving waters nigh—
He sees, above, an angry sky,
Dark, yet with streaks of mingled grey,
Fading while swiftly dies the day.
He passes to the gathering gloom
As though to some impending doom;
Drear seems the earth, the sky, the main—
He feels that Nature knows his pain.

VIII.

A youthful soldier looked around
Upon the ghastly battle ground.
He was a conscript, ne'er before
Had he beheld the face of War,
He saw not all its deeps of pain,
For former scenes arose again,
Once more he was a child at play,
In that steep village street which lay,
Crag-perched, 'mid tree-boles gnarled and grey
With age. It was the close of day.
Was that the church he knew of old,
That the rude cross where he was told
The story of the ancient time
So full of mystery, lust, and crime?
Ah, how he loved yon olive wood,
To him how sweet its solitude,
How oft on many a summer night
He watched from there the fading light,
Till grew more bright and yet more bright
The distant lamps of great Marseilles,

And when at length the daylight fails,
Fair seem the stars, fair seems the sea,
Ah, how at once his memory
Brings back for him these moonlit hours
'Mid fragrance of the orange flowers.
Fresh is the air, and soft and still,
Save when the mistral brings its chill.
Once more he feels the morning breeze
Which gently curls the azure seas
Around his father's fishing-boat,
That like a live thing seems to float.
Lovely it looks with dark brown sail,
Outspread to catch each gentle gale.
And when the noontide comes at length
The crew refresh their waning strength
By frugal meal, or merry jest,
By games, or cheerful talk, or rest.
One man had fought where waned the star
Of France in fight off Trafalgar;
Another speaks of Austerlitz,
And shows the combat as he sits.
With eager words, with eyes aflame,
He tells the tale, “The Emperor came
To our right flank when sore distressed:
We needed succour, needed rest,
Yet better was his presence then
Than of a thousand untired men.”
So, early stirred the martial fire
In the boy's breast—the fond desire
To win the soldier's honoured name,
To win the soldier's meed of fame.

To him an order comes ere long
To join the army; 'mid a throng
Of youths he gains a barrack square,
Strange seems the ceaseless bustle there.
Here well-groomed horses drink their fill;
Here is an active squad at drill;
Here words of gaiety he hears;
And here a mother stands in tears;
Here stands a veteran hale, erect,
In garb that points to no neglect,
Though he has marched full many a mile,
In blazing sunshine all the while,
A faultless soldier he has been,
No chance of war could change his mien;
Here stands a youth with shambling gait,
In soldier's dress, yet unelate,
With stupid look, and vacant face,
As though his garb were some disgrace;
Here agile gunners clean a gun;
And here, his day's work nearly done,
A driver of the army train
Brings in his store of food and grain.
The conscript thinks with what glad heart
In scenes like these he took a part.
With joy his boy's heart overflows,
He longs to smite his country's foes,
Of what he leaves he scarce takes heed,
Civilian clothes he doffs with speed,
To him his uniform brings life,
He thinks of glory in the strife.
He thinks, as now the sun goes down,

Of lasting honour and renown;
To him War is not sad, but strange—
It gives him motion, stir, and change.

Through all the long, the happy marches
Across Provence, now bright with spring,
He sees the gay triumphal arches,
He hears once more the joy-bells ring.
And then one day, through beat of drums,
He hears the cry, “The Emperor comes,”
“The Emperor comes”—on every side
They pass the word with looks of pride.
Each soldier feels his courage rise,
Fresh pleasure sparkles in his eyes,
And while he stands the more upright,
Sees his accoutrements are bright,
And hopes his bayonet, sword, or lance
Will seem to that all-piercing glance
As sword or bayonet ought to look.
For who could bear the sharp rebuke
Or face his comrades' words or jeers,
Or worse, his comrades' covert sneers,
At one the Emperor deigned to chide?

An hour has gone; the corps espied
The staff approaching, near a wood.
It stood to arms. Kind Nature's mood
Was peaceful: there the stock-dove coo'd;
The dreamer sees one purple flower,
Which decked the spot that sunny hour.
“The Emperor is an altered man

Since Leipsic,” says a veteran.
And yet the great Napoleon seems
The ideal of a soldier's dreams,
As now he passes on his course,
Erect upon his snow-white horse
Amid his marshals. Soult and Ney,
Heroes of many a well-fought day,
Ride near him now, in gayest trim.
They jest, and sometimes speak with him—
Yet never seem to lose the sense—
Of that strange man's strange influence—
Of that magnetic, cruel power
By which Napoleon, hour by hour,
Until his fiery race was run,
Remorselessly swayed every one.
Firm are his lips, stern are his eyes—
Hard eyes, where naught of gladness lies;
Yes signs there are of wasting life,
Wasting through care and lust of strife,
That drooping lip, that haggard cheek,
Of pain, of ebbing force, they speak.
But none, save veterans here and there,
Perceive his chill, his altered air;
The troops, o'erjoyed to see his face,
See in his glance a sign of grace:
His presence cures their every ill,
And “Vive l'Empereur!” their shout is still.

IX.

A tranquil, sunlit village green
Sees one young Englishman: between

100

A row of elms he catches sight
Of one dear cottage; to the right
Lies the grey rectory, and beyond
Old Farmer Granger's ricks and pond,
Just where the high road quickly dips.
Here as a child he sailed his ships,
While loafers from the alehouse near
Gladdened his heart by words of cheer,
And showed him how to set his sail,
To woo the soft, the favouring gale.

He sees again the long sea beach
A mile or two from home; the reach
The farm-folk call the Little Broad
Gleams in the sun, while boys applaud
His feats of strength; or on the sea
Perchance he rows right merrily,
While myriad skylarks, singing, soar
Above the sand cliffs on the shore;
Or looking seaward from the land
He views the sunset vague and grand.

X.

A Frenchman thinks with many a fear
Of his one sister—very dear
Is she to him, a girl most fair.
He sees e'en now her dark-brown hair,
And inly speaks, “Herself a flower
She hawks sweet blossoms hour by hour
Through many a parched Parisian street,

101

Gladly, though oft with toil-worn feet.
'Tis she who wins the daily bread
And shelter for my father's head,
Since age and sickness disallow
Him strength to earn his living now;
While I, who should have been their stay,
Without appeal am forced away,
Simply because some men—whose aims
I do not know and scarce their names—
Have fixedly resolved on War.
And I—one of their human store—
Am made to face death at their will
Till kings and emperors have their fill.”
How strange are we! he who so dreamed
And all unpatriotic seemed,
When fierce again began the strife,
Fought with the best—cared not for life.

The vision changes, and he sees
The comely, the belovèd trees
That droop in summer's sultry blaze,
Along the white Parisian ways.
In one old street he sees a spot
Shaded by lime-trees: there is not
A cooler nook, and side by side
An old man and a maid abide
In sweet affectionate converse there,
To rest, to breathe its fresher air.
'Tis those he loves, and for a space
He treads himself that well-known place,

102

So keen his inner sight. And soon
His sister starts through afternoon
Long hours, and near the Tuileries
She stays, then moves along the quays.
She is so fair, so pure, so sweet,
She seems to gladden all the street.
And many glance at her, and smile;
They note her brave looks all the while,
They know her toil of every day,
Toil such as wears her youth away.
And one, an honest artisan,
A homely, upright, thrifty man,
Poring o'er some long cherished plan,
Passing, thinks, “Would she were my wife,
Happy were I though hard my life.”
And with a Frenchman's frugal care
He saves, and saving, dreams of her.
Although from childhood's earliest days
She knew the drear Parisian ways
(Gay to the rich, drear to the poor),
From every harm she walks secure,
From virtue none her steps allure.
In thought, in actions, she is good,
Kindness her constant habitude.
She raises soft and pleading eyes
With something of a chaste surprise
At many a word, at many a sight,
That comes to her by day, by night.
All innocence without, within,
She sees, yet sees not, all their sin.

103

XI.

Thus runs each hapless soldier's dream
In that short pause—that restful gleam
Of blessèd peace.

But, hark, there comes
The gathering roll of distant drums
Beating the charge, and then the sound
Of musketry. Men gaze around
Half in surprise—then hear again
The clash of arms, the cry of pain,
The wounded horse's neigh; and so
Fateful with pain the gaunt hours go.

THE LOSS OF H.M.S. “VICTORIA.”

June 22nd, 1893.

Let Britain mourn for these her gallant sons,
Who, seeing death was certain, yet remained
Steadfast to duty, all unconsciously
Grown to be heroes,—mourn for them whose souls,
Fired with immortal courage, conquered fear.
Let Britain grieve with them who, silent, weep
A loss irreparable with bitter tears.
Let Britain grieve for him who, though he erred
Soon felt perchance, in feeling he had erred,
An agony more great than death itself.

Let Britain still rejoice, for now she knows,
Though Time and Science change the face of war,
The stuff of British hearts they cannot change.

104

TRUE SONS OF BRITAIN.

“The heart of the colony is with her Imperial mother.”—

[_]

Extract from a resolution at a meeting to raise a volunteer contingent for South Africa, held at St. John's, Newfoundland.

True sons of Britain, though your home
Is not these isles amid the foam,—
Ye come across the unfettered sea,
Speaking the world-speech of the free.
Your mother needs you; and from far
Ye haste, with dreams of Trafalgar,
Of Wolfe, of Wellington, and all
Who, like heroic Gordon, fall.

Her daughter-lands no more apart,
Proud Britain feels her mother's heart
Throb with fond joy as now she shows
A steadfast front to all her foes.

Constant ye stand; nor fear the foe,
True is your aim as his; although
Each league upon the veldt he knows,
And every league is strange to those
Who come, like you, from far and nigh,
In Britain's cause to live or die;
Ready for her to shed their blood,
To seal eternal brotherhood.

Her daughter-lands no more apart,
Proud Britain feels her mother's heart
Throb with fond joy as now she shows
A steadfast front to all her foes.

105

Greater than Carthage, Rome, or Greece,
Is now your mother grown; and peace
Is still her watchword, prayer, and hope,
Yet with her foes she aye must cope;
Or cast her honour from its place;
Or lose the freedom of her race;
Or lose the Empire, all her own,
The vastest that the world has known.

Her daughter-lands no more apart,
Proud Britain feels her mother's heart
Throb with fond joy as now she shows
A steadfast front to all her foes.

November 10th, 1899.

QUEEN VICTORIA.

Obiit., January 22nd, 1901.

The musician Grief
With mystic power hath played upon the heart,
And, through the heart, hath opened wide the door
Of that most sacred sanctuary—the soul.
Each of us is an instrument; and each
Is, in some notes at least, diversely strung
From all our fellows; yet in this we know
One harmony of universal love.

We seem to see
The wintry woods around thy “palace walls”
Above the tossing Channel, fraught with much

106

Of Britain's story, and we think of him,
Thy friend, our Tennyson, whose “clear call” brought
“No moaning of the bar.”

No more, no more
Shall thy loved Scotland know thy kindly face
Among her hills and glens; nor shalt thou join
Again in her dear customs; or in these
Religious rites of hers, homely and sweet.

Once we remembered that thou wert for us
The mighty Personage whose reign hath seen
A grandeur greater even than the days
Of Shakespeare and of Ralegh; that to thee
We owed wise counsel, fruit of toilsome hours
Of patient thought, and converse with the men
Of genius who have graced our commonwealth
For three and sixty years; a queen whose realms
Rich with the spoils of Science, had grown strong
With valiant Colonies which girt the world.

To-day we deem that thy long, blameless life
Hath aided, under God, our race to grow
The noblest on this earth.

And now, and now
For thee we pray not; for ourselves we pray:
With thee 'tis well.