 | The White Pilgrim and Other Poems |  |
190
RORKE'S DRIFT.
Nine hundred gone. Broad seas of Time
O'er a deaf world have surged and rolled,
Since the first lowly Christmas chime
Rang out its note of virgin gold.
Peace came two thousand years ago—
Man would not greet her. Be it so.
O'er a deaf world have surged and rolled,
Since the first lowly Christmas chime
Rang out its note of virgin gold.
Peace came two thousand years ago—
Man would not greet her. Be it so.
O fools and blind! Light from on high
The humble soul illumines still;
But doth all purer rays deny
To hearts full swollen in selfish will,
Though flashes, ever and anon,
Heaven's warning down. Nine hundred gone.
The humble soul illumines still;
But doth all purer rays deny
To hearts full swollen in selfish will,
Though flashes, ever and anon,
Heaven's warning down. Nine hundred gone.
Fond dreamers they, whom visions nursed
Of peaceful cures for human woes:
When the black cloud of battle burst
Over the sad Crimean snows,
Had forty winters welcomed in
Peace, as if Christendom were kin.
Of peaceful cures for human woes:
When the black cloud of battle burst
Over the sad Crimean snows,
Had forty winters welcomed in
Peace, as if Christendom were kin.
191
Alas, how oft on England's heart
Palled those brief years of tranquil life!
How would our wakeful passions start
At every sound of distant strife;
Answer each cry of disaccord,
And whet for war the ready sword!
Palled those brief years of tranquil life!
How would our wakeful passions start
At every sound of distant strife;
Answer each cry of disaccord,
And whet for war the ready sword!
O'erpampered with each peaceful glory,
Won, step by step, through toil and skill,
We traced our fathers' martial story,
And would not hear the “Peace, be still!”
The angel sighed and fled from men;
And angry Battle reigned again.
Won, step by step, through toil and skill,
We traced our fathers' martial story,
And would not hear the “Peace, be still!”
The angel sighed and fled from men;
And angry Battle reigned again.
Ay, reigned indeed: from shore to shore
His devilish triumphs have been won;
And Statecraft rises, as of yore,
To mar what better hands have done;
Till sudden as the trump of doom,
War claims of her his hecatomb.
His devilish triumphs have been won;
And Statecraft rises, as of yore,
To mar what better hands have done;
Till sudden as the trump of doom,
War claims of her his hecatomb.
Ye lords and rulers of the State,
Secure in all your place and pride,
Think of the homes left desolate,
Think of the heroes who have died;
And pause, ere mad Ambition's race
Makes very Mercy veil her face.
Secure in all your place and pride,
Think of the homes left desolate,
Think of the heroes who have died;
And pause, ere mad Ambition's race
Makes very Mercy veil her face.
What is't to us if others rave,
When England lays her weapons down?
The island-queen, who ruled the wave,
Wears still the iron in her crown;
Full as of old the life-blood runs
Through the great hearts of England's sons.
When England lays her weapons down?
The island-queen, who ruled the wave,
Wears still the iron in her crown;
192
Through the great hearts of England's sons.
Not in the days of bow and spear,
And deadly counter hand to hand—
God bless them!—Knew they less of fear
Than when, with small undaunted band,
Our Bromhead faced that savage fight
From dark to dawn, through Afric night.
And deadly counter hand to hand—
God bless them!—Knew they less of fear
Than when, with small undaunted band,
Our Bromhead faced that savage fight
From dark to dawn, through Afric night.
Still tremble on the verge of death
The hearts that hang on news from sea;
Still hold we back the passionate breath,
In silent cry on bended knee;
The souls that pray, pray yet the more;
Down, ye that never prayed before!
The hearts that hang on news from sea;
Still hold we back the passionate breath,
In silent cry on bended knee;
The souls that pray, pray yet the more;
Down, ye that never prayed before!
Pray Heaven, that yet with humbled heart
The eternal lesson we may learn,
That statesman's craft and statesman's art
To smaller things than dust return;
And blessings new our land shall bless,
Whose strength should be in quietness.
The eternal lesson we may learn,
That statesman's craft and statesman's art
To smaller things than dust return;
And blessings new our land shall bless,
Whose strength should be in quietness.
| The White Pilgrim and Other Poems | |