The In-Gathering Cimon and Pero: A Chain of Sonnets: Sebastopol etc. By John A. Heraud |
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SEBASTOPOL.
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 | The In-Gathering |  |
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SEBASTOPOL.
A WAR-EPIC.
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NON CONVERSIAMO SEMPRE COGLI AMICI,
IN QUESTA PIU OSCURA CHE SERENA
VITA MORTAL, TUTTA D'INVIDIA PIENA.
Ariosto.
IN QUESTA PIU OSCURA CHE SERENA
VITA MORTAL, TUTTA D'INVIDIA PIENA.
Ariosto.
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The Fourth Seal.
“And I looked, and behold a Pale Horse: and his name
that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And
power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to
kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the
beasts of the earth.”
—Rev. vi. 8.
The Fourth Trumpet.
“And the Fourth Angel sounded, and the third part of the
sun was smitten, and the third part of the moon, and the third
part of the stars; so as the third part of them was darkened, and
the day shone not for a third part of it, and the night likewise.”
—Rev. viii. 12.
The Fourth Vial.
“And the Fourth Angel poured out his Vial upon the sun;
and power was given unto him to scorch men with fire. And
men were scorched with great heat, and blasphemed the name of
God, which hath power over these plagues: and they repented
not to give him glory.”
—Rev. xvi. 8—9.
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I.
To him who saw in Patmos' isle,The Vision of the Blessed, erewhile, . . .
What shows this world, if down he bend
From Heaven, to note its course and end?
The War in Heaven on earth reflected,
'Twixt Darkness and the Light expected,
Wherewith all nature still must groan,
Until her Victor she shall own.
Still Death provokes his pallid steed,
And Hades follows him with speed:
Still Sword, and Hunger, and Decay,
Rejoice, with beasts, o'er man, their prey.
Sun, moon, and stars, by day and night,
Still veil a third part of their light.
Still men plagues he, with fiery trial,
Who poureth on the sun his vial;
And they blaspheme the Name Divine,
While unrepentant they repine.
—Meantime on HIM who hath the Bow,
The crownèd Conqueror, seated so
On his White War-horse, not alone,
His vesture dipped in blood, his own,
Wait armèd throngs, with triumph-songs,
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Their garments white as are their steeds;
Lo, He that Cavalcade precedes.
II.
The East and West have heard the cry,And join their voices in reply:
The blustering North, with bruin growl,
Sends forth his griesly troop to prowl.
From day-spring to the sun reposing,
The Purpose of the Age disclosing;
Time, from the abyss, aids Truth to rise,
And shows the Venus to the skies.
Alas, with mystic labour torn,
Earth shakes, that Beauty may be born!
Blood flows; and Famine, proved intense,
Slays thousands; myriads, Pestilence.
Thrones totter, altars reel, and Power
Presages Revolution's hour.
Ye, Superstitions! hence; ye, Idols!
Are needed not at Wisdom's bridals;
Through whom the usurpèd Name ye wear
Insult, and scorn has had to bear.
—Meanwhile, in minds through knowledge strong,
Genius, o'er wrecks of tyrant wrong,
Immortal still, though wounded sore,
The martyr standard bleeding bore;
By deed and word, and thought unheard,
A holier victory had achieved,
For Freedom by the brave believed;
Faith oft betrayed, but ne'er deceived.
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III.
O, Palestine! lived, suffered, died,Upon thy soil the Crucified.
Hence dear art thou, O father-land,
To Jew and Christian; visions grand
And fair, explained in tones pathetic,
Such as of yore made men prophetic,
To both, of sorrow and redress,
Come when the soul is slumberless.
What, though, the cause and slave of strife,
Thou languish, scarce with sign of life,
And fertile be the spots no more,
Where milk and honey flowed before;
Yet still the ground is sacred ground,
And plants, and bees, and dates abound;
And there the Islam, fate-confessing,
Reaps, indolent, the ready blessing.
To Arab hordes, on plunder bent,
The husbandmen perforce consent;
Yet late has Law, by Egypt made,
Restrained the robber's ancient trade.
What, though the Sepulchre be yet
Ruled by the Shade of Mahomet,
And Latin war with Greek and Czar,
Even on the covering of the grave
Of Him who perished all to save;
Both hold one hope, one rescue crave.
IV.
The Eagle of the MuscoviteNow flutters from its bannered height,
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The spot were such contentions are:
Those holy places whereto tending,
The Eagle of the Frank, defending,—
While still the British Lion sleeps,
Though watching by the expectant deeps,
Ready, whenever duty calls,
To rend the bondage that enthrals,—
Shrieks once to sky its summons thus,
And then is silent: but the Russ,
As if from many caverns sent,
Echoes as in defiance meant,
Responds with constant replications,
A wakening up the listening nations.
Proud Autocrat! the strife beware—
Fire lives in the compressèd air,
Articulated oft with word,
Which, when with acclamation heard,
Sounds to the soul like Victory,
Breathes from the lips as Liberty.
In Britain's ear the word peals clear;
The People rouse them from their dream,
Their tardy Rulers learn the theme:
Hark, cannon roar; lo, sabres gleam.
V.
The Land is Thine, nor shall be sold,Howe'er debased, howe'er controlled;
God of the Patriarchs! Wherefore they
Who yield to Thee the soil now sway,
And occupy it by Thy order,
Their Prophet's bountiful rewarder!
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They throng the Danube and the Pruth.
“Allah-il-Allah!” is the word,
The flashing cimiter the sword:
Shall Wallach soil the Russian tread,
And Moldave's peasant live in dread;
And shall the Ottoman forbear
To smite the Invader, then and there?
Forbid it Thou, the World's Creator,
Redeemer and Regenerator,
Who set the Crescent and the Cross,
For symbols of our gain and loss.
—Peace, that so long a sabbath psalm
Hath breathed, now deepens to a calm;
Such calm as must the prelude be
Of tempest threatening land and sea;
Profound repose, whence terror grows,
And they who serve, and they who reign.
Who dwell on mountain or in plain,
Trembling await the hurricane.
VI.
And in this quiet may be seen,Where looks the sky the most serene,
Yet where the danger is not least,
Three Angels, guardians of the East;
Prince of the Trumpet, Seal, and Vial,
The Fourth of either mortal trial;
Who for five centuries rule maintain,
Until the twentieth end the reign,
That with the sixteenth age began,
A cycle full of signs for man.
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I saw amongst them heroes blest,
Luther and Milton, Wallace wight,
Dante and Shakspere, bards of light,
With Hampden, Washington, and others,
A band of demigods and brothers,
Who dared the chains aside to fling,—
Forged by a tyrant priest or king
To fetter souls,—of Papal schism,
Civil and moral despotism;
Or rend them link by link away,
From minds that hailed the rising day.
Now, they discourse, at morning's source,
While, to the Orient from afar,
Gather the nations to the war,
Against the armies of the Czar.
VII.
Hence can I view the prospect wide,The opening heaven, the rolling tide.
Would I might proudly die, my Soul!
Or here, or at Sebastopol.
But War invades the Despot's pillow,
Worse than on battle-field and billow.
O Stamboul! still thy vision gleams,
Amidst the Czar's ambitious dreams—
And Ishmael, like a pilgrim old,
And worn with warfare, there behold;
From bed of ail to bier of death,
Is but the passing of a breath,
Then, who may not divide his wealth?
Fool! know “The Wild Man” is in health;
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The Naxiot led to his confusion.
On board the galley of the Turk
The craven duke was fain to lurk,
Yielding the keys he might not keep,
And see his city made a heap.
Thus, too, the proud Venetian fought,
But from his victory failure bought.
The Isles serve still. The Sultan's will,
O, Greece!—rebellious to his sway—
Thy Church's Patriarchs must obey,
Who gave them life, when none had they.
VIII.
What though the Russ confess thee god,Thou art but even an idol-clod;
And lo, the Iconoclast of old
Smites both the image and the mould.
Thou heretic, Heaven's self-styled proxy,
Champion of senile orthodoxy;
Vain Autocrat, so proud of mien,
In stature so majestic seen,
What all thy beauty and thy power?
Death will not linger, for an hour;
A greater tyrant than thyself,
He breaks thee on that rocky shelf,
'Gainst which thy rage would vainly urge,
And thou art foam who late wert surge.
I look within the palace portal—
That lifeless corse? The god was mortal!
Disasters of Crimean war
Cleft the stout heart of iron Czar.
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Who guard the fortress doomed their grave,
And willing perish for the chief,
The deity of their belief,
Will credit, now, the sudden blow,
That strikes the worshipt from his shrine,
And makes him, like that clay of thine,
Dust whereon sun no more may shine?
IX.
From Malakhoff and MamelonBoom shot and shell, and travel on
Through the mid air, and overpass,
As unobserved, the armèd mass,
Who listen all this Sabbath-morning
In silence to the preacher's warning;
Unheeding he, unheeding they,
All danger on this hallowed day.
And sooth to tell, more constant still
The missives than their means to kill.
Idly upon the wind they sail,
And seldom courage needs to quail;
For thus a special Providence
O'errules malignant influënce.
So full of mercy, man's demerit
Wins pity from his Maker's Spirit;
He who the sinner still would save,
From thee, thou unrepentant Grave!
And while they think of Inkermann.
And Alma, as they only can,
Each warrior bold dissolves with ruth,
In presence of the tender truth.
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And muse on childhood's happier day,
Of fields where on they wont to play,
Of friends and kindred far away.
X.
O, Alma! fair the morning sunShone on thee ere the strife begun—
Gleam Cossack lances in its light,
Crowns the steep hills their armèd might.
Descend they now; before their firing
Our cavalry awhile retiring;
Whence grow they bolder—bolder still,
Advancing lower down the hill,
Then pause—no further space allowed:—
Our shell their infantry had ploughed,
While on our right the French upcrept,
And swiftly away their columns swept.
Retreat the Russ beyond the height,
Their watchfires we beheld at night,
There where, like cliffs that skirt the ocean,
Its summits teem with form and motion.
We clomb the sides—on those who fell
Their guns and rifles told too well.
Bluff on the shore, our steamers sent,
On battery and battlement,
Their deadly shot; our serried ranks
Swarm in the stream, and on the banks,
Along the bridge, on every ridge;
Even at a bound the deed was done;
The Russ from their own cannon run:
Thus, Alma! was thy battle won.
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XI.
'Midst ruins, over hill and dale,Beneath the burning sun, we trail
Our wearied limbs, till we behold
Sebastopol, through wood and wold;
And from the hill-top we survey, now,
The narrow Balaklava bay, now,
Like highland tarn, a crescent slip,
Yet in it many a floating ship.
By the ravine that nears the creek,
The French command each hilly peak,
The Osmanli in patience wait,
The army gathers, scorning fate.
Explosion now, and cannonade,
And smoke, make earth and heaven afraid.
Nought else is seen by stifled wonder,
Nought heard but that incessant thunder,
Save when the trumpet, bugle, drum,
Make startled sense less wearisome.
Shall courage answer not this cheer,
And thrice itself at once appear,
Abandon caution as too cold,
Not fearing to be overbold?
Now shall we see what Cavalry
Can do in exigence extreme,
Indignant of the doubts that seem
To undervalue self-esteem!
XII.
Alas! that hearts should beat too high;O, fatal pride of Chivalry!—
There, where the mountain and ravine
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By the pale rocks the Cossacks hide them,
Shunned by the timid Turks beside them!
No sooner sounds the trumpet, than
Each horse is saddled by its man,
And down into the gorge they rush:
To die were better than to blush!
While from the heights spectators gaze,
As in a theatre, with amaze.
Then came the shock of battle; then
The sacrifice of bravest men.
The charging columns shook and quivered,
Lances and sabres flashed and shivered;
Rush on, engulphed but not dismayed,
The heroes of the Light Brigade.
With silence awed, we hear the fire
Relieved, look forward and admire;—
Loud is the cheer, and wild the shout,
The Russ is doomed to utter rout.
Behold the foe. Now forward go!
Rush they on death that Cavalry?
Avenged to-morrow shall they be,
Pour now their life-blood lavishly.
XIII.
In shadow and in cloud beganThe famous fight of Inkermann.
Gloom and thick smoke still overhead,
Throughout the battle, grew and spread.
Who may describe the deeds of daring,
Of maddened men grown wild, despairing,
In glens and valleys, glades and dells,
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And foemen meet, and never part,
Until the life-blood quits the heart?
There, by the hill's most rapid fall,
Took place the deadliest fight of all;
Ne'er ceased the thunder of the gun,
Of shot and shell; what lost, what won,
Whence they were come, and whither going,
In darkness and in rain none knowing.
In the ravine, and by the hill,
We meet, we mingle, strive and kill,
The weapon's crash, the musket's fire,
Defy, disdaining to retire.—
In volleys of dense smoke concealed,
The French battalions reach the field;
Their faces shine with light divine,
Their trumpets sound with louder blare,
Their victor shouts convulse the air—
The day is won, though Night be there.
XIV.
O, weary days! O, weary nights!Armies allied for human rights!
Besiege ye still that stubborn hold,
Whose walls defend those serpents old,
Blind Power, and Prejudice and Error,
That filled but late the world with terror;
But now must lurk, and be confined
Those mural battlements behind?
Vain may the foe its sorties aim,
In light or darkness; still the same,
The sons of Britain, or of Gaul,
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And in the pit, or on the plain,
The bodies of the Russ lie slain.
Hark, now, the cannonade incessant,
O, Victors of the Cross, and Crescent!
United thus in Freedom's cause,
Your thunders win the Heavens' applause,
That echo from on high, afar,
Those mighty Voices of great War.
Peal they in vain? The Fortress stands,
Like fabric built by Titan hands—
But firmer still the warrior will—
What though a hecatomb it cost,
That city must be won and lost,
Or shame befall that myriad host.
XV.
O, contrasts strange! A prairie spreads—Four nations camp in flowery meads—
From sea to sea; from mast to mast,
That tower against that city vast,
Or in the harbours shine out barely,
Lo, the besiegers house them yarely.
The Genoese fortress on the sea
Looks, where the sail floats full and free.
Eastward the Turks are posted near,
Their droning music you may hear;
In shady bowers, with slumberous spell,
The turbaned chiefs at leisure dwell;
And waving grass and thistle tall,
And flowers that flourish amid all,
Lupin and vetch, and others nameless;
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While there the Gaul's white tents arise,
Reflecting light from summer skies.
Meantime, the sounds of battle roll,
From the guns that hedge Sebastopol.
Once more the triumph bosom brave
Heaves—triumph, never felt by slave.
And now the troops, in earnest groups,
For work impatient, murmuring say,
“Why take we not the town to-day?
Why should we for an hour delay?”
XVI.
Impatient valour! have thy wish—Lo, the Redan and Malakhoff,
To-morrow brought within thy reach,
But not thy grasp. Repulse, whereof,
Meseems, too-prudent Raglan perished:
O, be his memory duly cherished!
But what are checks to Fortitude?
Ours not the virtue of the rude,
But the persistent energy
Of the intelligent and free.
Gradual his works the Engineer
Advances surely everywhere.
They creep like trellis where they can,
Up Malakhoff, up the Redan.
Battery to battery has succeeded,
Trench after trench, and sap unheeded.
The diligent win, day by day,
And night by night, their patient way;
Scorning the guns of frïend and foe,
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Expectant of the assault at hand,
Terror and Vengeance anxious stand.
Ne'er heart heroic of Saint or Stoic
Dared death more dreadlessly and whole,
Than now, within Sebastopol,
Each dauntless Gallic, British, soul.
XVII.
Their feet are planted on the walls,Whence never they recede with life.
Meantime comes rumour that appals,
Of Sveabourg stormed in naval strife.
Whence the besieged, their fears avouching,
Beneath their battlements lie crouching.
Then, taking courage from despair,
Resolve the open field to dare.
Tchernaya's banks, ere morning break,
Shall with the tramp of armies shake.
Beware, ye sleepers! Silently,
The stealthy Russ advances nigh;
No drum they beat, no clarion sound,
All veiled in mist, they near the ground:
Awake, ye Gauls! ye Sardes! awaken—
Attack—repulse—the Bridge is taken;
By the Zouave pursued with loss,
Anon the Traktir they re-cross:
The air grows clear;—lo, where they now
Sweep down the heights of Tchouliou,
The loud artillery to meet,
That soon enforces their retreat.
Now vain is skill. The ruling will
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Idly to that hath it appealed,
Opposed to hosts that never yield.
XVIII.
Brave Sardes! Yes, many a heart beats high,In the proud city of Turin:—
Brave Gauls! in Paris loftily
They tell the tale to Britain's queen.
O, thus allied, three mighty nations
Mingle their hopes and exultations—
Thy Crystal palace, France! within,
The Man of Destiny and Sin,
With the World's Civilizer, claims
The happy auspice of their aims—
Industrial aims, that consecrate
The union of each fruitful state—
Union sublime for Liberty—
Issue supreme in Victory.
O, dawn of hope for social doer;
If bard and hero both the truer.
Mysterious Heaven! that so befriends,
By strangest means, the noblest ends,
Disguising motives pure and good
'Neath evil garb and aspect rude,
That, unsuspected by brute Power,
They may attain their triumph-hour.
Do what they may, will come the day,
When Fraud and Force shall conquered be,
With their own weapons, by the Free,
And man, O God! be worthier Thee.
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XIX.
Brave Gauls! still yearns each warrior soul,Within, about, Sebastopol.
The Hour long hoped-for comes at last;
For Thought is Time, or slow or fast.
With step feline the trench up-creeping,
From tier to tier, your progress keeping,
The foe, surprised by you, cast out,
Yields first the Lines, next the Redoubt.
Those have ye forced, have carried this;
Thronging each rampart fortalice,
By that above protected yet,
Until upon the parapet
Ye plant the Standard of the Free:
Such are ye now, so shall ye be.
Above that loftiest Tower it floateth;
The beaten foe the signal noteth—
“Shame shall that flag, even from thy height,
O, Malakhoff! the Muscovite?
Assail it with resurgent power—
O, pluck it from that loftiest tower!”—
Vain rage! the Gaul in its defence,
Is proof 'gainst desperate violence.
On heaps of dead his footsteps tread,
Wherefrom beholds he, mid of night,
The flaming town the roadstead light,
Where sinks the Rusian fleet in sight.
XX.
That Standard saw, even floating thus,The Sons of Britain emulous.
To the Redan their thousands crowd,
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'Tis carried. But then Valour quaileth:
From crenellated walls there haileth
The grape-shot shower so fierce and fell
It maketh life impossible.
And may not, too, beneath the line,
Be spread unseen the treacherous mine?
“On, men!” their Leaders vainly call:
But One no terrors may appal—
There Windham stood, the Brigadier,
The sole survivor, void of fear—
While still the grape the salient rounded,
And rifle-bullets slew and wounded.
O'er trench and parapet went he,
To the Fifth Parallel dreadlessly,
Of Codrington demanding aid;
But ere to him response was made,
The men into the ditch had leaped,
And death a bloody harvest reaped.
“The foe,” he cried, “we had defied,
Had but in time, in rear and van,
Each present officer and man
In order marched on the Redan!”
XXI.
One after one, the waves roll o'er,(Lurid with glare of fires on shore,)
The Russian vessels; while explode,
On the besieged's despairing road,
Fort, battery, magazine, for ever
Blown up in mad and lost endeavour.
At day-break, there the warriors stood,
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The dead and dying at their feet,
A routed army, in retreat
Toward the roadstead's northern side,
Before them, as they looked with pride,
And wonder, 'midst their self-respect,
Upon their daring's great effect,
Admired what they had triumphed over,
With eye almost of friend or lover.
Here had the foe, with master skill,
Raised firm and high his earthy hill,
Colossal parapet, and aid
To fortify and shelter made;
Each piece a work of soldier art,
Of patient hand and valiant heart.
'Twas worth the labour of gun and sabre,
To conquer one whose skill and power
Gave triumph even to victory's hour,
And added to her laurelled dower.
XXII.
Who dies upon the battle-fieldHe conquers, though compelled to yield;
He wins a mansion in the skies—
A chamber in the grave supplies
The soil whereon he fought and perished—
Such is the creed by Islam cherished.
Brief other triumphs. Mourn for Kars!
Such changes wait on brutal wars.
O, not with thee, Sebastopol!
Have fallen the dungeons of the soul.
Still reigns the Harlot o'er earth's kings
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Still Babylon, albeit old,
Stands firm, and deals in merchant gold,
In silver, pearls, and purple clothing,
In slaves, and souls that burn with loathing.
Yet may we see the future doom
Of the Great City hourly loom,
May hear her patrons weep and wail,
Fearing for riches that must fail,
When, in one hour, on-rushing fate
Makes temple and palace desolate—
No more her lies, and sorceries,
The suffering nations shall deceive—
O, Saints! rejoice; O, Tyrants! grieve:
God punishes without reprieve.
XXIII.
Shall then be found in her subdued,Of prophets and of saints the blood—
The blood of all that on the earth
Were slain since the First-born had birth;
Since Enos rose, a refuge needed,
Where civic usage first was heeded.—
We for a holier city wait,
Where cherubs watch at every gate;
Wherein of temples there be none,
God being Himself the only One;
Wherein no light of sun or moon,
God shedding there perpetual noon;
Wherein the nations of the saved
Shall walk erect and unenslaved.
But first the Angels must have trial,
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Those Three, and yet thrice Three beside,
Ere Ocean cease to roll his tide,
And a New Earth and a New Heaven
Descend, to comfort the Forgiven,
And God to dwell with men delight,
There present where shall be no Night.
Thus speaketh He to thee and me:
“No perils the Elect appal—
He overcomes, though star-worlds fall,
And, as my Son, inherits all.”
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