 | My Lyrical Life |  |
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HAVELOCK'S MARCH.
Behold a phantom-form appears, majestic in its gloom!
Mournfully it looks across a Chasm deep as doom:
A quivering heartache seems to move its withered, wordless lips;
Familiar eyes are kindling through their wan light of eclipse:
It is the Ancient Mother rising, Sphinx-like, 'mid her sands,
To plead with those who will not hear. She wrings her wrinkled hands;
Yearns over both. As Brothers long ago she brought them forth,
Her dusky darlings and her great white Heroes of the North!
The Children have no memories of the Morning-Land, and yet
The Mother's heart remembers, though all the world forget.
Mournfully it looks across a Chasm deep as doom:
A quivering heartache seems to move its withered, wordless lips;
Familiar eyes are kindling through their wan light of eclipse:
It is the Ancient Mother rising, Sphinx-like, 'mid her sands,
To plead with those who will not hear. She wrings her wrinkled hands;
Yearns over both. As Brothers long ago she brought them forth,
Her dusky darlings and her great white Heroes of the North!
The Children have no memories of the Morning-Land, and yet
The Mother's heart remembers, though all the world forget.
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We look with horror, when the blood grows cold,
On that which stung us hotly enough of old;
Blame me not wantonly: I do but draw
Faintly the thing we felt; the sight we saw!
On that which stung us hotly enough of old;
Blame me not wantonly: I do but draw
Faintly the thing we felt; the sight we saw!
157
THE REVOLT.
“Come hither, my brave Soldier boy, and sit you by my side,
To hear the tale, a fearful tale, a glorious tale of pride;
How Havelock with his handful, all so faithful and so few,
Held on in that far Indian land, to bear our England through
Her bloodiest pass of peril, and her reddest sea of wrath;
And strode like Paladins of old on their avenging path.
Though clothes were drenched, and flesh was parched, or bones were chilled with cold,
The gallant hearts never gave up; they never loosed their hold;
But fought right on, and triumphed, till our eyes rained as we read
How proudly every place was filled, with living and with dead.
To hear the tale, a fearful tale, a glorious tale of pride;
How Havelock with his handful, all so faithful and so few,
Held on in that far Indian land, to bear our England through
Her bloodiest pass of peril, and her reddest sea of wrath;
And strode like Paladins of old on their avenging path.
Though clothes were drenched, and flesh was parched, or bones were chilled with cold,
The gallant hearts never gave up; they never loosed their hold;
But fought right on, and triumphed, till our eyes rained as we read
How proudly every place was filled, with living and with dead.
“The stillness of a brooding storm lay on that Eastern land;
The dark death-circle narrowed round our little English band:
The false Sepoy stooped lower for his spring, and in his eye
A bloody light was burning on them, as he glided by:
Old Horrors rose, and leered at them, from out the tide of time,—
The peering peaks of War's old world, whose brows were stained with crime!
The conscious Silence was but dumb, a cursèd Plot to hide;
The darkness only a mask of Death, ready to slip aside.
Under the leafy palms they lay, and through their gay green crown
Our English saw no Storm roll up: no Fate swift-flaming down.
The dark death-circle narrowed round our little English band:
The false Sepoy stooped lower for his spring, and in his eye
A bloody light was burning on them, as he glided by:
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The peering peaks of War's old world, whose brows were stained with crime!
The conscious Silence was but dumb, a cursèd Plot to hide;
The darkness only a mask of Death, ready to slip aside.
Under the leafy palms they lay, and through their gay green crown
Our English saw no Storm roll up: no Fate swift-flaming down.
“At last it came. The Rebel drum was heard at dead of night:
They dashed in dust the only torch that showed the face of Right!
Once more the Devil clutches at his lost throne of the earth,
And sends a people, smit with plague of madness, howling forth.
As in a Demon's dream they swarm from horrible hiding-nooks;
Red Murder stabs the air, and lights their way with maddening looks!
Snuffing the smell of human blood, the cruel Moloch stands;
Hearing the cry of ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ and claps his gory hands.
At dead of night, while England slept, the fearful vision came,
She looked, and with a dawn of hell the East was all aflame.
They dashed in dust the only torch that showed the face of Right!
Once more the Devil clutches at his lost throne of the earth,
And sends a people, smit with plague of madness, howling forth.
As in a Demon's dream they swarm from horrible hiding-nooks;
Red Murder stabs the air, and lights their way with maddening looks!
Snuffing the smell of human blood, the cruel Moloch stands;
Hearing the cry of ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ and claps his gory hands.
At dead of night, while England slept, the fearful vision came,
She looked, and with a dawn of hell the East was all aflame.
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“Stern tidings flashed to Havelock, of legions in revolt:
‘The Traitors turn upon us, and the eaters of our salt,
Subtle as death, and false as hell, and cruel as the grave,
Have sworn to rend us by the root; be quick, if ye would save;
The wild beasts bloody and obscene, mad-drunk with gore and lust,
Have wreaked a horrible vengeance on our England rolled in dust.’
And such a withering wind doth blow, such fearful sounds it brings,
The soul with shudders tries to shake off thoughts like creeping things.
A vast invisible Terror twines its fingers in the hair,
With one hand feeling for the throat; a hand that will not spare.
‘The Traitors turn upon us, and the eaters of our salt,
Subtle as death, and false as hell, and cruel as the grave,
Have sworn to rend us by the root; be quick, if ye would save;
The wild beasts bloody and obscene, mad-drunk with gore and lust,
Have wreaked a horrible vengeance on our England rolled in dust.’
And such a withering wind doth blow, such fearful sounds it brings,
The soul with shudders tries to shake off thoughts like creeping things.
A vast invisible Terror twines its fingers in the hair,
With one hand feeling for the throat; a hand that will not spare.
“They slew the grizzled Warrior, who to them had been so true;
The ruddy stripling with frank eyes of bonny northern blue;
They slew the Maiden as she slept; the Mother great with child;
The Babe, that smiled up in their face, they stabbed it as it smiled!
The piteous, pleading, hoary hair they draggled in red mire;
And mocked the dying as they dashed out, frantic from the fire,
To fall upon their Tulwars, hacked to Death; the bayonet
Held up some child; the demons danced around it writhing yet:
Warm flesh, that kindled so with life, was torn, and slowly hewn,
To daintiest morsels for the feast where Death began too soon.
The ruddy stripling with frank eyes of bonny northern blue;
They slew the Maiden as she slept; the Mother great with child;
The Babe, that smiled up in their face, they stabbed it as it smiled!
The piteous, pleading, hoary hair they draggled in red mire;
And mocked the dying as they dashed out, frantic from the fire,
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Held up some child; the demons danced around it writhing yet:
Warm flesh, that kindled so with life, was torn, and slowly hewn,
To daintiest morsels for the feast where Death began too soon.
“Our English girls, whose sweet red blood went dancing on its way,
A merry marriage-maker quick for its near wedding-day,—
All life awaiting for the breath of Love's sweet south to blow,
And budding bridal roses ripe with secret balms to flow,—
They stripped them naked as they were born; naked along the street,
In their own blood they made them dip their delicate white feet:
With some last rag of shelter the poor helpless darling tries
To hide her from the cruel hell of those devouring eyes;
Then, plucking at the skirts of Death, she prayerfully doth cling,
To hide her from the eyes that still gloat round her in a ring.
A merry marriage-maker quick for its near wedding-day,—
All life awaiting for the breath of Love's sweet south to blow,
And budding bridal roses ripe with secret balms to flow,—
They stripped them naked as they were born; naked along the street,
In their own blood they made them dip their delicate white feet:
With some last rag of shelter the poor helpless darling tries
To hide her from the cruel hell of those devouring eyes;
Then, plucking at the skirts of Death, she prayerfully doth cling,
To hide her from the eyes that still gloat round her in a ring.
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THE AVENGERS.
“‘Now, Soldiers of our England, let your love arise in power;
For never yet was greater need than in this awful hour:
Together stand like old true hearts that never fear nor flinch;
With feet that have been shod for death, never to yield an inch.
Our Empire is a Ship on fire, before a howling wind,
With such a smoke of torment, as might make high heaven blind!
Wild Ruin waves his flag of flame, and ye must spring on deck,
And quench the fire in blood, and save our treasures from the wreck.’
Many a time has England thought she sent her bravest forth;
But never went more gallant men of more heroic worth.
For never yet was greater need than in this awful hour:
Together stand like old true hearts that never fear nor flinch;
With feet that have been shod for death, never to yield an inch.
Our Empire is a Ship on fire, before a howling wind,
With such a smoke of torment, as might make high heaven blind!
Wild Ruin waves his flag of flame, and ye must spring on deck,
And quench the fire in blood, and save our treasures from the wreck.’
Many a time has England thought she sent her bravest forth;
But never went more gallant men of more heroic worth.
“Hungry and lean, through rain and mire, our War-wolves ravening go
On their long march, that shall not mete the red grave of the foe:
Like winter trees stripped to their naked strength of heart and arm,
That glory in their grimness as they tussle with the storm!
Only a handful few and stern, and few and stern their words;
Strange meaning in their eyes that meet and strike out sparks like swords!
And there goes Havelock, leading the Forlorn Hope of our land:
The quick heart spurring at their side; the banner of their band:
Kindled, but calm, along their ranks his steady eye doth run,
As Marksman seeks the death-line down the level of his gun.
On their long march, that shall not mete the red grave of the foe:
Like winter trees stripped to their naked strength of heart and arm,
That glory in their grimness as they tussle with the storm!
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Strange meaning in their eyes that meet and strike out sparks like swords!
And there goes Havelock, leading the Forlorn Hope of our land:
The quick heart spurring at their side; the banner of their band:
Kindled, but calm, along their ranks his steady eye doth run,
As Marksman seeks the death-line down the level of his gun.
“Beneath the whitening snows of age his spirit-ardours glow,
As glow the fragrant fires of spring in flowers beneath the snow.
Look in his grave and martial face, with Love's dear pity touched;
A saviour soul doth sanctify the sword his hand hath clutched;
A little while his silent thoughts have gone within to pray,
And send a farewell of the heart to the dear ones far away.
He prays to God to light him through the perilous darkness, when
He grapples with the beasts of blood, and quells them in their den.
And now his look is lifted in the light of some far goal;
His lips the living trumpet of a gray-haired Seer's soul.
As glow the fragrant fires of spring in flowers beneath the snow.
Look in his grave and martial face, with Love's dear pity touched;
A saviour soul doth sanctify the sword his hand hath clutched;
A little while his silent thoughts have gone within to pray,
And send a farewell of the heart to the dear ones far away.
He prays to God to light him through the perilous darkness, when
He grapples with the beasts of blood, and quells them in their den.
And now his look is lifted in the light of some far goal;
His lips the living trumpet of a gray-haired Seer's soul.
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“On th' house-tops of Allahabad black, scowling brows were bent,
In hate, and deep, still curses, on our heroes as they went
To fight their hundred-days-long fight; all true as their good steel,
The Highlanders of Havelock, the Fusileers of Neil!
A falling firmament of rain the heavens were pouring down;
They heeded not the drowning heavens, nor yet the foeman's frown:
Forward they strained with hearts afire, and gallantly they toiled
Till darkness fell upon them: then the Moon uprose and smiled.
A little thing! and yet it seemed at such a time to come
Just like a proud and mournful smile from the very heart of Home.
In hate, and deep, still curses, on our heroes as they went
To fight their hundred-days-long fight; all true as their good steel,
The Highlanders of Havelock, the Fusileers of Neil!
A falling firmament of rain the heavens were pouring down;
They heeded not the drowning heavens, nor yet the foeman's frown:
Forward they strained with hearts afire, and gallantly they toiled
Till darkness fell upon them: then the Moon uprose and smiled.
A little thing! and yet it seemed at such a time to come
Just like a proud and mournful smile from the very heart of Home.
“That night they halted in a Snipe-swamp; hungry, cold, and drenched;
With hearts that kept the blitheness of brave men that never blenched.
Through flooding Nullah, slushy sand, onward they strode again,
Ere Dawn, a winèd glory, lit upon the burnished rain,
And mists up-gathered sullenly along the rear of flight,
Slowly as beaten Belooches might lounge from out the fight.
Then heaven grew like inverted hell; a blazing vault of fire!
The Sun pursuing pitiless, to bring the brain-strokes nigher;
With sworded splendours fierce in front, and darting down all day,
Intently as the eyes of Death a-feeding on his prey.
With hearts that kept the blitheness of brave men that never blenched.
Through flooding Nullah, slushy sand, onward they strode again,
Ere Dawn, a winèd glory, lit upon the burnished rain,
And mists up-gathered sullenly along the rear of flight,
Slowly as beaten Belooches might lounge from out the fight.
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The Sun pursuing pitiless, to bring the brain-strokes nigher;
With sworded splendours fierce in front, and darting down all day,
Intently as the eyes of Death a-feeding on his prey.
“All the day long, and every day, with patience conquering pain,
Our good and gallant fellows with one purpose forward strain;
For there is that within each heart nothing but death can stop;
They hurry on, and hurry on, and hurry till they drop;
Trying to save the remnant; reach the leaguered place in time
To grasp, with red-wet slaughtering hands, the workers of this crime.
They think of all the dead that float adown the Ganges' waters:
Those noble Englishmen of ours; their gentle wives and daughters!
Of Fire and Madness broken loose, and doing deeds most pitiful;
And then of vengeance dealt out by the choked and blackened city-full.
Our good and gallant fellows with one purpose forward strain;
For there is that within each heart nothing but death can stop;
They hurry on, and hurry on, and hurry till they drop;
Trying to save the remnant; reach the leaguered place in time
To grasp, with red-wet slaughtering hands, the workers of this crime.
They think of all the dead that float adown the Ganges' waters:
Those noble Englishmen of ours; their gentle wives and daughters!
Of Fire and Madness broken loose, and doing deeds most pitiful;
And then of vengeance dealt out by the choked and blackened city-full.
“They think of those poor things that climb each little eminence;
As, from the deluge of the dark, when day is going hence,
The sheep will huddle up the hill, and gather there forlorn;
So gather they in this dread night, to wait the far-off morn.
Or, crouching in the Jungle, they look up in Nature's face,
To find she has no heart, for all her Reptilinear grace!
Each leaf a sword, or prickly spear, or lifted jagged knife!
No shields of shelter like our leaves; but threatening human life,
With ominous hints of blood; and there the roots go writhing round,
Like curses coiled upon the spring, that rest not underground.
As, from the deluge of the dark, when day is going hence,
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So gather they in this dread night, to wait the far-off morn.
Or, crouching in the Jungle, they look up in Nature's face,
To find she has no heart, for all her Reptilinear grace!
Each leaf a sword, or prickly spear, or lifted jagged knife!
No shields of shelter like our leaves; but threatening human life,
With ominous hints of blood; and there the roots go writhing round,
Like curses coiled upon the spring, that rest not underground.
“They find sure tokens all the day! and starting from their dream
At night, they hear the Pariah dogs that howl by Ganges' stream,
Knowing the waters bear their freight of corpses stiff and stark,
Scenting the footfalls on the air, as Death glides down the dark;
Only the Lotus with ripe lips, and arms caressing clings.
The silence swarms with ghostly thoughts; each sound with ghastly things.
There stands the plough i' the furrow; there the villagers have flown!
There Fire ran dancing over roofs that underfoot went down!
There Renaud hung his dangling dead, with but short time for shrift,
He caught them on their way to hell, and gave them a last lift.
At night, they hear the Pariah dogs that howl by Ganges' stream,
Knowing the waters bear their freight of corpses stiff and stark,
Scenting the footfalls on the air, as Death glides down the dark;
Only the Lotus with ripe lips, and arms caressing clings.
The silence swarms with ghostly thoughts; each sound with ghastly things.
There stands the plough i' the furrow; there the villagers have flown!
There Fire ran dancing over roofs that underfoot went down!
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He caught them on their way to hell, and gave them a last lift.
“They saw the first sight of their foe as the fourth dawn grew red;
Twenty miles to breakfast marched; and had to fight instead.
The morning smiled on arms up-piled, and weary wayworn men,
But soon the Assembly sounded, and they sprang to arms again;
The heaviest heart up-leaping light, as flames that tread on air.
The Rebel line bore down as they had caught us unaware;
But Maude dashed forward with his Guns, across the sandy mire,
And little did they relish our bright rain of rifle fire:
Quickly the onward way was ploughed, with heaps on either hand;
They broke the foe, then broke their fast, that dauntless little band.
Twenty miles to breakfast marched; and had to fight instead.
The morning smiled on arms up-piled, and weary wayworn men,
But soon the Assembly sounded, and they sprang to arms again;
The heaviest heart up-leaping light, as flames that tread on air.
The Rebel line bore down as they had caught us unaware;
But Maude dashed forward with his Guns, across the sandy mire,
And little did they relish our bright rain of rifle fire:
Quickly the onward way was ploughed, with heaps on either hand;
They broke the foe, then broke their fast, that dauntless little band.
“Again they felt our withering fire, by Pandoo Nuddee stream;
Again they feared the crashing charge, and fled the vengeful gleam:
Small loss was his in battle when the Conqueror looked round;
But many fell from weariness, and died without a wound.
Soft, whispering flowery secrets, came a low wind of the west
That eve, like breath made balmy with the sweet love in the breast;
Breathing its freshness through the groves of Mango and of Palm;
But the sweetest thing that wind could bring was slumber's holy balm,
To bless them for the morrow, and give strength for them to cope
With those ten thousand men that stood betwixt them and their hope.
Again they feared the crashing charge, and fled the vengeful gleam:
Small loss was his in battle when the Conqueror looked round;
But many fell from weariness, and died without a wound.
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That eve, like breath made balmy with the sweet love in the breast;
Breathing its freshness through the groves of Mango and of Palm;
But the sweetest thing that wind could bring was slumber's holy balm,
To bless them for the morrow, and give strength for them to cope
With those ten thousand men that stood betwixt them and their hope.
“It must have been a glorious sight to see them as they went,
With veteran valour steady; sure of proud accomplishment.
When Havelock bade his line advance, the Highlanders swept on;
Each one at heart a thousand; a thousand men as one;
Linked in their beautiful proud line across the broken lands,
Straight on! they never paused to lift the weapon in their hands;
Silent, compact and resolute, charged as a thundercloud
That burst, and wrapped the dead and living in one smoky shroud;
One volley of Defiance! one wild cheer! and through the smoke
They flashed! and all the battle into flying fragments broke.
With veteran valour steady; sure of proud accomplishment.
When Havelock bade his line advance, the Highlanders swept on;
Each one at heart a thousand; a thousand men as one;
Linked in their beautiful proud line across the broken lands,
Straight on! they never paused to lift the weapon in their hands;
Silent, compact and resolute, charged as a thundercloud
That burst, and wrapped the dead and living in one smoky shroud;
One volley of Defiance! one wild cheer! and through the smoke
They flashed! and all the battle into flying fragments broke.
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“When night came down they lay there, gashed all over, side by side,
The gray old warrior and the youth, his Mother's darling pride!
Rolled with the rebel in the dust, and grim in bloody death;
And over all the mist arose, dank as the graveyard's breath.
But light of heart we took the hill, and very proud that night
Was Havelock of his noble men, and Cawnpore was in sight.
The men had neither food nor tent, but the red road was won:
And very proud were they to hear their General's ‘Well done’;
Not knowing how their shout of triumph rang a fatal knell;
Nor what that wretch had wrought who has no match this side of Hell.
The gray old warrior and the youth, his Mother's darling pride!
Rolled with the rebel in the dust, and grim in bloody death;
And over all the mist arose, dank as the graveyard's breath.
But light of heart we took the hill, and very proud that night
Was Havelock of his noble men, and Cawnpore was in sight.
The men had neither food nor tent, but the red road was won:
And very proud were they to hear their General's ‘Well done’;
Not knowing how their shout of triumph rang a fatal knell;
Nor what that wretch had wrought who has no match this side of Hell.
CAWNPORE.
“Cawnpore was ghastly silent, as into it they stepped;
There stood the blackened Ruin that the brave old Soldier kept!
Where strained each ear for the English cheer, and stretched the wan wide eyes,
Through all that awful night to see the signal-rocket rise;
No tramp, no cheer of Brothers near; no distant Cannon's boom;
Nothing but death goes to and fro betwixt the glare and gloom.
The living remnant try to hold their bit of bloodstained ground;
Dark gaps continual in their midst; the dead all lying round;
And saddest corpses still are those that die, and do not die:
With just a little glimmering light of life to show them by.
There stood the blackened Ruin that the brave old Soldier kept!
Where strained each ear for the English cheer, and stretched the wan wide eyes,
Through all that awful night to see the signal-rocket rise;
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Nothing but death goes to and fro betwixt the glare and gloom.
The living remnant try to hold their bit of bloodstained ground;
Dark gaps continual in their midst; the dead all lying round;
And saddest corpses still are those that die, and do not die:
With just a little glimmering light of life to show them by.
“Each drop of water cost a wound to fetch it from the well;
The father heard his crying child and went, but surely fell.
They had drunk all their tears, and now dry agony drank their blood;
The sand was killing in their souls; the wind a fiery flood;
Oh, for one waft of heather-breath from off a Scottish wold!
One shower that makes our English leaves smile greener for its gold!
Then life drops inward from the eyes; turns upward with last prayer,
To look for its deliverance; the only way lies there:
And then triumphant Treachery made leap each trusting heart,
Like some poor Bird called from the nest, uppoising for the dart.
The father heard his crying child and went, but surely fell.
They had drunk all their tears, and now dry agony drank their blood;
The sand was killing in their souls; the wind a fiery flood;
Oh, for one waft of heather-breath from off a Scottish wold!
One shower that makes our English leaves smile greener for its gold!
Then life drops inward from the eyes; turns upward with last prayer,
To look for its deliverance; the only way lies there:
And then triumphant Treachery made leap each trusting heart,
Like some poor Bird called from the nest, uppoising for the dart.
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“‘Come, let us pray,’ their Chaplain said. No other boon was craved:
No pleading word for mercy sued; no face the white flag waved;
But all grasped hands and prayed, till peace their souls serenely filled;
Then like our noble Martyrs, there they stood up, and were killed.
Only One saved!
He led our soldiers to the House of Blood;
An eager, panting, cursing crew! but stricken dumb they stood
In silence that was breathlessness of vengeance infinite;
A-many wept like women who were fiercest in the fight:
There grew a look in human eyes as though a wild beast came
Up in them at that scent of blood and glared devouring flame.
No pleading word for mercy sued; no face the white flag waved;
But all grasped hands and prayed, till peace their souls serenely filled;
Then like our noble Martyrs, there they stood up, and were killed.
Only One saved!
He led our soldiers to the House of Blood;
An eager, panting, cursing crew! but stricken dumb they stood
In silence that was breathlessness of vengeance infinite;
A-many wept like women who were fiercest in the fight:
There grew a look in human eyes as though a wild beast came
Up in them at that scent of blood and glared devouring flame.
“All the Babes and Women butchered! all the dear ones dead;
The story of their martyrdom in lines of awful red!
The blood-black floor, the clotted gore, fair tresses, deep sword-dints;
Last message-scrawl upon the wall, and tiny finger-prints:
Gathered in one were all strange sights of horror and despair,
That make the vision blood-shot, freeze the life, or lift the hair.
Faces to faces flashed hell-fire! Oh, but they felt 'twould take
The very cup of God's own wrath, that gasping thirst to slake:
For many a day ‘Cawnpore’ was hissed, and, at its word of guilt,
The slaying sword went merciless, right ruddy to the hilt.
The story of their martyrdom in lines of awful red!
The blood-black floor, the clotted gore, fair tresses, deep sword-dints;
Last message-scrawl upon the wall, and tiny finger-prints:
Gathered in one were all strange sights of horror and despair,
That make the vision blood-shot, freeze the life, or lift the hair.
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The very cup of God's own wrath, that gasping thirst to slake:
For many a day ‘Cawnpore’ was hissed, and, at its word of guilt,
The slaying sword went merciless, right ruddy to the hilt.
“There came a time we caught them, with a vast o'erwhelming wave,
And of their grand Secunder Bagh we made a trophied grave.
Once more the Highlanders pressed on with stern avenging tread,
And Peel was there with his big guns, and Campbell at their head:
A spring of daring madness! and they leapt upon their prey
With hungry hearts on fury fed, for many and many a day.
For hours and hours they slew, and slew, the devils in their den:
‘Ye wreaked your will on Women weak, now try it with strong men.’
The blood that cried to heaven long in vapours from our slain,
Fell hot and fast upon their heads in showers of ruddy rain.
And of their grand Secunder Bagh we made a trophied grave.
Once more the Highlanders pressed on with stern avenging tread,
And Peel was there with his big guns, and Campbell at their head:
A spring of daring madness! and they leapt upon their prey
With hungry hearts on fury fed, for many and many a day.
For hours and hours they slew, and slew, the devils in their den:
‘Ye wreaked your will on Women weak, now try it with strong men.’
The blood that cried to heaven long in vapours from our slain,
Fell hot and fast upon their heads in showers of ruddy rain.
“That day they saw their delicate white marbles glow and swim;
There rose a cry like hell from out a slaughter great and grim:
And as they clasped their hands and sued for mercy where they fell,
One last sure thrust was given for that red and writhing Well.
And there was joy in every heart, and light in every eye,
To see the Traitor hordes that fled, make one last stand to die!
While from the big wide wounds, like snakes, the runlets crawled along
And stole away; the reptiles who had done the cruel wrong!
A terrible reprisal for each precious drop they spilled.
Seventeen hundred cowardly killers there were bravely killed.
There rose a cry like hell from out a slaughter great and grim:
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One last sure thrust was given for that red and writhing Well.
And there was joy in every heart, and light in every eye,
To see the Traitor hordes that fled, make one last stand to die!
While from the big wide wounds, like snakes, the runlets crawled along
And stole away; the reptiles who had done the cruel wrong!
A terrible reprisal for each precious drop they spilled.
Seventeen hundred cowardly killers there were bravely killed.
THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.
“England's unseen, dead Sorrow doth a visible Angel rise;
The sword of Justice in her hand; Revenge looks through her eyes:
Stern with the purpose in her soul right onward hastens she,
Like one that bears the doom of worlds, with vengeful majesty;
Sombre, superb, and terrible, before them still she goes!
And though they lessen day by day, they deal such echoing blows,
That still dilating with success, still grows that little band,
Till in the place of hundreds, ten thousand seem to stand.
With arms that weary not at work, they bear our victor flag,
To plant it high on hills of dead, a torn and bloody rag.
The sword of Justice in her hand; Revenge looks through her eyes:
Stern with the purpose in her soul right onward hastens she,
Like one that bears the doom of worlds, with vengeful majesty;
Sombre, superb, and terrible, before them still she goes!
And though they lessen day by day, they deal such echoing blows,
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Till in the place of hundreds, ten thousand seem to stand.
With arms that weary not at work, they bear our victor flag,
To plant it high on hills of dead, a torn and bloody rag.
“Proud Lucknow lies before them,—all its pageantry unrolled;
Against the smiling sapphire gleam her tops of lighted gold.
Each royal wall is fretted all with frostwork and with fire,
A glory of colour jewel-rich, that makes a splendour-pyre,
As wave on wave the wonder breaks, the pointed flames burn higher,
On dome of Mosque and Minaret, on pinnacle and spire;
Fairy Creations, seen mid-air, that in their pleasaunce wait,
Like wingèd creatures sitting just outside their heaven-gate.
The City in its beauty lies, with flowers about her feet;
Green fields, and goodly gardens, make so foul a thing seem sweet.
Against the smiling sapphire gleam her tops of lighted gold.
Each royal wall is fretted all with frostwork and with fire,
A glory of colour jewel-rich, that makes a splendour-pyre,
As wave on wave the wonder breaks, the pointed flames burn higher,
On dome of Mosque and Minaret, on pinnacle and spire;
Fairy Creations, seen mid-air, that in their pleasaunce wait,
Like wingèd creatures sitting just outside their heaven-gate.
The City in its beauty lies, with flowers about her feet;
Green fields, and goodly gardens, make so foul a thing seem sweet.
“The Bugle rings out for the march, and, with its fiercest thrill,
Goes to the heart of Havelock's men, and works its lordly will,
Making their spirits thrill as leaves are thrilled in some wild wind;
Hunger and heartache, weariness and wounds, all left behind.
Their sufferings all forgotten now, as in the ranks they form;
And every soul in stature rose to wrestle with the storm.
All silent! what was hid at heart could not be said in words:
With faces set for Lucknow, ground to sharpness, keen as swords.
A tightening twitch all over! a grim glistening in the eye,
‘Forward!’ and on their way they strode to dare, and do, and die.
Goes to the heart of Havelock's men, and works its lordly will,
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Hunger and heartache, weariness and wounds, all left behind.
Their sufferings all forgotten now, as in the ranks they form;
And every soul in stature rose to wrestle with the storm.
All silent! what was hid at heart could not be said in words:
With faces set for Lucknow, ground to sharpness, keen as swords.
A tightening twitch all over! a grim glistening in the eye,
‘Forward!’ and on their way they strode to dare, and do, and die.
“Hope whispers at the ear of some, that they shall meet again,
And clasp their long-lost darlings, after all the toil and pain;
A-many know that they will sleep to-night among the slain;
And many a cheek will bloom no more for all the tearful rain:
And some have only vengeance; but to-day 'tis bitter sweet;
And there goes Havelock! his the aim too lofty for defeat;
With steady tramp the column treads, true as the firm heart's-beat:
Strung for its headlong murderous march through that long fatal street.
All ready to win a soldier's grave, or do the daring deed!
But not a man that fears to die for England in her need.
And clasp their long-lost darlings, after all the toil and pain;
A-many know that they will sleep to-night among the slain;
And many a cheek will bloom no more for all the tearful rain:
And some have only vengeance; but to-day 'tis bitter sweet;
And there goes Havelock! his the aim too lofty for defeat;
With steady tramp the column treads, true as the firm heart's-beat:
Strung for its headlong murderous march through that long fatal street.
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But not a man that fears to die for England in her need.
“The masked artillery raked the road, and ploughed them front and flank;
Some gallant fellow every step was stricken from the rank;
But, as he staggered, in his place another sternly stepped;
And, firing fast as they could load, their onward way they kept.
Now, give them the good bayonet! with England's sternest foes,
Strong arm, cold steel has done it, in the wildest, bloodiest close:
And now their Bayonets flash in forks of Lightning up the ridge,
And with a cheer they take the guns, another, clear the bridge.
One good home-thrust! and surely, as the dead in doom are sure,
They send them where that British cheer can trouble them no more.
Some gallant fellow every step was stricken from the rank;
But, as he staggered, in his place another sternly stepped;
And, firing fast as they could load, their onward way they kept.
Now, give them the good bayonet! with England's sternest foes,
Strong arm, cold steel has done it, in the wildest, bloodiest close:
And now their Bayonets flash in forks of Lightning up the ridge,
And with a cheer they take the guns, another, clear the bridge.
One good home-thrust! and surely, as the dead in doom are sure,
They send them where that British cheer can trouble them no more.
“The fire is biting bitterly; onward the battle rolls;
Grim Death is glaring at them, from ten thousand hiding-holes;
Death stretches up from earth to heaven, spreading his darkness round;
Death piles the heaps of helplessness face downward to the ground;
Death flames from sudden Ambuscades, where all was still and dark;
Death swiftly speeds on whizzing wings the bullets to their mark;
Death from the doors and windows, all around and overhead,
Darts, with his cloven fiery tongues, incessant, quick, and red:
Death everywhere, Death in all sounds, and, through its smoke of breath,
Victory beckons at the end of long dark lanes of death.
Grim Death is glaring at them, from ten thousand hiding-holes;
Death stretches up from earth to heaven, spreading his darkness round;
Death piles the heaps of helplessness face downward to the ground;
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Death swiftly speeds on whizzing wings the bullets to their mark;
Death from the doors and windows, all around and overhead,
Darts, with his cloven fiery tongues, incessant, quick, and red:
Death everywhere, Death in all sounds, and, through its smoke of breath,
Victory beckons at the end of long dark lanes of death.
“Another charge, another cheer, another Battery won!
And in a whirlwind of fierce fire the fight went roaring on
Into the very heart of hell: with Comrades falling fast,
Through all that tempest terrible, the glorious remnant passed.
No time to help a dear old friend: but where the wounded fell,
They knew it was all over, and they looked a last farewell.
And dying eyes, slow-setting in a cold and stony stare,
Turned upward, saw a map of murder scribbled on the air
With crossing flames; and others read their fiery fearful fate,
In dark, swart faces waiting for them, whitening with their hate.
And in a whirlwind of fierce fire the fight went roaring on
Into the very heart of hell: with Comrades falling fast,
Through all that tempest terrible, the glorious remnant passed.
No time to help a dear old friend: but where the wounded fell,
They knew it was all over, and they looked a last farewell.
And dying eyes, slow-setting in a cold and stony stare,
Turned upward, saw a map of murder scribbled on the air
With crossing flames; and others read their fiery fearful fate,
In dark, swart faces waiting for them, whitening with their hate.
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“But, proudly men will march to death, when Havelock leads them on:
Through all the storm he sat his horse as he were cut in stone!
But now his look grows dark; his eye gleams with uneasy flash:
‘On, for the Residency, we must make a last brave dash.’
And on dashed Highlander and Sikh through a sea of fire and steel,
On, with the lion of their strength, our first in glory, Niel!
It seemed the face of heaven grew black, so close it held its breath,
Through all the glorious agony of that long march of death.
The round shot tears, the bullets rain; dear God, outspread Thy shield!
Put forth Thy red right arm, for them, Thy sword of sharpness wield!
Through all the storm he sat his horse as he were cut in stone!
But now his look grows dark; his eye gleams with uneasy flash:
‘On, for the Residency, we must make a last brave dash.’
And on dashed Highlander and Sikh through a sea of fire and steel,
On, with the lion of their strength, our first in glory, Niel!
It seemed the face of heaven grew black, so close it held its breath,
Through all the glorious agony of that long march of death.
The round shot tears, the bullets rain; dear God, outspread Thy shield!
Put forth Thy red right arm, for them, Thy sword of sharpness wield!
“One wave breaks forward on the shore, and one falls helpless back:
Again they club their wasted strength, and fight like ‘Hell-fire Jack.’
And ever as fainter grows the fire of that intrepid band,
Again they grasp the bayonet as 'twere Salvation's hand.
They leap the broad, deep trenches, rush through archways streaming fire;
Every step some brave heart bursts, heaving deliverance nigher:
‘I'm hit,’ cries one, ‘you'll take me on your back, old Comrade, I
Should like to see their dear white faces once before I die;
My body may save you from the shot.’
His Comrade bore him on:
But, ere they reached the Bailie Guard, the hurrying soul was gone.
Again they club their wasted strength, and fight like ‘Hell-fire Jack.’
And ever as fainter grows the fire of that intrepid band,
Again they grasp the bayonet as 'twere Salvation's hand.
They leap the broad, deep trenches, rush through archways streaming fire;
Every step some brave heart bursts, heaving deliverance nigher:
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Should like to see their dear white faces once before I die;
My body may save you from the shot.’
His Comrade bore him on:
But, ere they reached the Bailie Guard, the hurrying soul was gone.
“And now the Gateway arched in sight; the last grim tussle came.
One moment makes immortal! dead or living, endless fame!
They heard the voice of fiery Niel, that for the last time thrilled;
‘Push on, my men, 'tis getting dark’: he sat where he was killed.
Another frantic surge of life, and plunging o'er the bar,
Right into harbour hurling goes their whirling wave of war,
And breaks in mighty thunders of reverberating cheers,
Then dances on in frolic foam of kisses, blessings, tears.
Stabbed by mistake, one native cries with the last breath he draws,
‘Welcome, My Friends, never you mind, it's all for the good cause.’
One moment makes immortal! dead or living, endless fame!
They heard the voice of fiery Niel, that for the last time thrilled;
‘Push on, my men, 'tis getting dark’: he sat where he was killed.
Another frantic surge of life, and plunging o'er the bar,
Right into harbour hurling goes their whirling wave of war,
And breaks in mighty thunders of reverberating cheers,
Then dances on in frolic foam of kisses, blessings, tears.
Stabbed by mistake, one native cries with the last breath he draws,
‘Welcome, My Friends, never you mind, it's all for the good cause.’
“How they had leaned and listened, as the battle sounded nigher;
How they had strained their eyes to see them coming crowned with fire!
Till in the flashing street below they heard them pant for breath,
And then the friendly faces smiled clear from the cloud of death;
And iron grasp met tender clasp; wan weeping women fold
Their dear Deliverers, down whose long brown beards the big tears rolled.
Another such a meeting will not be on this side heaven!
The little wine they have hoarded, to the last drop shall be given
To those who, in their mortal need, fought on through fearful odds,
Bled for them, reached them, saved them, less like men than glorious gods.
How they had strained their eyes to see them coming crowned with fire!
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And then the friendly faces smiled clear from the cloud of death;
And iron grasp met tender clasp; wan weeping women fold
Their dear Deliverers, down whose long brown beards the big tears rolled.
Another such a meeting will not be on this side heaven!
The little wine they have hoarded, to the last drop shall be given
To those who, in their mortal need, fought on through fearful odds,
Bled for them, reached them, saved them, less like men than glorious gods.
DEATH OF HAVELOCK.
“The Warrior may be ripe for rest, and laurelled with great deeds,
But till their work be done, no rest for those whom God yet needs:
Whether in rivers of ruin their onward way they tear,
Or healing waters trembling with the beauty that they bear;
Blasting or blessing they must on: on, on, for ever on!
Divine unrest is in their breast, until their work is done.
Nor is it all a pleasant path the sacred band must tread,
With life a summer holiday, and death a downy bed!
They wear away with noble use, they drink the tearful cup;
And they must bear the Cross who are bidden with the Christ to sup.
But till their work be done, no rest for those whom God yet needs:
Whether in rivers of ruin their onward way they tear,
Or healing waters trembling with the beauty that they bear;
Blasting or blessing they must on: on, on, for ever on!
Divine unrest is in their breast, until their work is done.
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With life a summer holiday, and death a downy bed!
They wear away with noble use, they drink the tearful cup;
And they must bear the Cross who are bidden with the Christ to sup.
“Each day his face grew thinner, and sweeter, saintlier grew
The smiling soul that every day was burning keenlier through.
And higher, each day higher, did the life-flame heavenward climb,
Like sad sweet sunshine up the wall, that for the sunset time
Seems watching till the signal that shall call it hence is given;
Even so his spirit kept the watch, till beckoned home to heaven.
His work was done, his eyes with peace were soft and satisfied;
War-worn and wasted, in the arms of Victory he died.
‘Havelock's dead,’ and darkness fell on every upturned face;
The shadow of an Angel passing from its earthly place.
The smiling soul that every day was burning keenlier through.
And higher, each day higher, did the life-flame heavenward climb,
Like sad sweet sunshine up the wall, that for the sunset time
Seems watching till the signal that shall call it hence is given;
Even so his spirit kept the watch, till beckoned home to heaven.
His work was done, his eyes with peace were soft and satisfied;
War-worn and wasted, in the arms of Victory he died.
‘Havelock's dead,’ and darkness fell on every upturned face;
The shadow of an Angel passing from its earthly place.
“In the red pass of peril, with a fame shall never dim,
Died Havelock, the Good Soldier: who would not die like him?
In grandest strength he fell, full-length; and now our hero climbs
To those who stood up in their day and spoke with after times:
There on the battlements of Heaven, they watch us, looking back
To see the blessing flow for those who follow in their track.
He smileth from his heaven now; the Martyr with his palm;
The weary warrior's tired life is crowned with starry calm.
On many sailing through the storm another star shall shine,
And they shall look up through the night and conquer at the sign.
Died Havelock, the Good Soldier: who would not die like him?
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To those who stood up in their day and spoke with after times:
There on the battlements of Heaven, they watch us, looking back
To see the blessing flow for those who follow in their track.
He smileth from his heaven now; the Martyr with his palm;
The weary warrior's tired life is crowned with starry calm.
On many sailing through the storm another star shall shine,
And they shall look up through the night and conquer at the sign.
“They laid it low, the old gray head, not only gray with years;
It had been bowed in Sorrow's lap and silvered with her tears;
Our England may not crown it, with her heart too full for speech;
The hand that draws into the dark, hath borne it beyond reach.
The eyes of far-away heaven-blue, with such keen lustre lit,
As they could pierce the dark of death, and, star-like, fathom it,
They may not swim with sweetness as the happy Children run
To welcome home the Reaper, when the weary day is done!
How would the tremulous radiance round the old man's mouth have smiled;
Our good gray-headed hero, with the heart of a little child.
It had been bowed in Sorrow's lap and silvered with her tears;
Our England may not crown it, with her heart too full for speech;
The hand that draws into the dark, hath borne it beyond reach.
The eyes of far-away heaven-blue, with such keen lustre lit,
As they could pierce the dark of death, and, star-like, fathom it,
They may not swim with sweetness as the happy Children run
To welcome home the Reaper, when the weary day is done!
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Our good gray-headed hero, with the heart of a little child.
“Honour to Henry Havelock! though not of kingly blood,
He wore the double royalty of being great and good.
He rose and reached the topmost height; our Hero lowly born:
So from the lowly grass hath grown the proud embattled Corn!
He rose up in our cruel need, and towering on he trod;
Baring his brow to battle bold, as humbly to his God.
He did his work, nor thought of nations ringing with his name,
He walked with God, and talked with God, nor cared if following Fame
Should find him toiling in the field, or sleeping underground;
Nor did he mind what resting-place, with heaven embracing round.
He wore the double royalty of being great and good.
He rose and reached the topmost height; our Hero lowly born:
So from the lowly grass hath grown the proud embattled Corn!
He rose up in our cruel need, and towering on he trod;
Baring his brow to battle bold, as humbly to his God.
He did his work, nor thought of nations ringing with his name,
He walked with God, and talked with God, nor cared if following Fame
Should find him toiling in the field, or sleeping underground;
Nor did he mind what resting-place, with heaven embracing round.
“When swarming hell had broken bounds, he showed us how to stand
With rootage like the Palm amidst the maddest whirl of sand;
Undaunted while the swarthy storm around him swirled and swirled,
A winding-sheet of all white life! a wild Sahara world!
The drowning waves closed over him, lost to all human view,
And, like an arrow straight from God, he cleft their Twelve Hosts through.
No swerving as he walked along the rearing earthquake-ridge;
He made a way for Victory, his body was her bridge.
Grand in the mouths of men his fame along the Centuries runs;
Women shall read of his great deed and bear heroic sons.
With rootage like the Palm amidst the maddest whirl of sand;
Undaunted while the swarthy storm around him swirled and swirled,
A winding-sheet of all white life! a wild Sahara world!
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And, like an arrow straight from God, he cleft their Twelve Hosts through.
No swerving as he walked along the rearing earthquake-ridge;
He made a way for Victory, his body was her bridge.
Grand in the mouths of men his fame along the Centuries runs;
Women shall read of his great deed and bear heroic sons.
“He leant a trusting hand on heaven, a gentle heart on home;
In secret he grew ready, ere the Judgment hour was come.
War blew away the ashes gray, and kindled at the core
Live sparkles of the Ironside fire that glowed on Marston Moor.
Some Angel-Mute had led him blindfold through his thorny ways,
Till, on a sudden, lo, he stood, full in the glory's blaze.
Aloud, for all the world to hear, God called His servant's name,
And led him forth, where all might see, upon the heights of fame.
His arch of life, suspended as it sprang, in heaven appears,
Our bow of promise o'er the storm, seen through rejoicing tears.
In secret he grew ready, ere the Judgment hour was come.
War blew away the ashes gray, and kindled at the core
Live sparkles of the Ironside fire that glowed on Marston Moor.
Some Angel-Mute had led him blindfold through his thorny ways,
Till, on a sudden, lo, he stood, full in the glory's blaze.
Aloud, for all the world to hear, God called His servant's name,
And led him forth, where all might see, upon the heights of fame.
His arch of life, suspended as it sprang, in heaven appears,
Our bow of promise o'er the storm, seen through rejoicing tears.
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“Joy to old England! she has stuff for storm-sail and for stay,
While she can breed such heroes, in her quiet, homely way:
Such martial souls that go with grim, war-figured brows pulled down,
As men that are resolved to bear Death's heavy, iron crown.
So long as she has sons like these, no foe shall make her bow,
While Ocean washes her white feet; Heaven kisses her fair brow.
If India's fate had rested on each single saviour soul,
They would have kept their grasp of it till we regained the whole.
The Lightnings of that bursting Cloud, which were to blast our might,
But served to show its majesty clear in the sterner light.
While she can breed such heroes, in her quiet, homely way:
Such martial souls that go with grim, war-figured brows pulled down,
As men that are resolved to bear Death's heavy, iron crown.
So long as she has sons like these, no foe shall make her bow,
While Ocean washes her white feet; Heaven kisses her fair brow.
If India's fate had rested on each single saviour soul,
They would have kept their grasp of it till we regained the whole.
The Lightnings of that bursting Cloud, which were to blast our might,
But served to show its majesty clear in the sterner light.
“Our England towers up beautiful with her dilating form,
To greater stature in the strife, and glory in the storm;
Her wrath's great wine-press trodden on so many vintage fields,
With crush and strain, and press of pain, a ripened spirit yields,
To warm us in our winter, when the times are coward and cold,
And work divinely in young veins: wake boyhood in the old.
Behold her flame from field to field on Victory's chariot wheels,
Till to its den, bleeding to death, Rebellion backwards reels.
Her Martyrs are avenged! ye may search that Indian land,
And scarcely find a single soul of all the traitor band.
To greater stature in the strife, and glory in the storm;
Her wrath's great wine-press trodden on so many vintage fields,
With crush and strain, and press of pain, a ripened spirit yields,
To warm us in our winter, when the times are coward and cold,
And work divinely in young veins: wake boyhood in the old.
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Till to its den, bleeding to death, Rebellion backwards reels.
Her Martyrs are avenged! ye may search that Indian land,
And scarcely find a single soul of all the traitor band.
“We've many a nameless Hero lying in his unknown grave,
Their life's gold fragment glinting but a sunfleck on the wave.
But rest, you unknown, noble dead! our Living are one hand
Of England's power; but, with her Dead she grasps into the land.
The flower of our Race shall make that Indian desert bud,
Its shifting sands drench firm, and fertilize with English blood.
In many a country they sleep crowned, our conquering, faithful Dead:
They pave our path where shines her sun of empire overhead;
They circle in a glorious ring, with which the world is wed,
And where their blood has turned to bloom, our England's Rose is red.
Their life's gold fragment glinting but a sunfleck on the wave.
But rest, you unknown, noble dead! our Living are one hand
Of England's power; but, with her Dead she grasps into the land.
The flower of our Race shall make that Indian desert bud,
Its shifting sands drench firm, and fertilize with English blood.
In many a country they sleep crowned, our conquering, faithful Dead:
They pave our path where shines her sun of empire overhead;
They circle in a glorious ring, with which the world is wed,
And where their blood has turned to bloom, our England's Rose is red.
“Your brother Willie, Boy, was one of Havelock's little band;
My Son! my beautiful brave Son, lies in that Indian Land.
They buried him by the wayside where he bowed him down to die,
While Homeward in its Eastern pomp the Triumph passed him by.
And even yet mine eyes are wet, but 'tis with that proud tear
A lofty feeling in its front doth like a jewel wear.
I see him! on his forehead shines the conqueror's radiant crest,
And God's own Cross of Victory is on his martial breast.
I should have liked to have felt him near, when these old eyes grow dim,
But gave him to our England in her greater need of him.”
My Son! my beautiful brave Son, lies in that Indian Land.
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While Homeward in its Eastern pomp the Triumph passed him by.
And even yet mine eyes are wet, but 'tis with that proud tear
A lofty feeling in its front doth like a jewel wear.
I see him! on his forehead shines the conqueror's radiant crest,
And God's own Cross of Victory is on his martial breast.
I should have liked to have felt him near, when these old eyes grow dim,
But gave him to our England in her greater need of him.”
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