University of Virginia Library

Then the lot the most barren, the lot the most great,
Lindsay chose from the garner of treacherous fate:
To be hated by many, by few to be bless'd,
Do good unto all, and receive it from none,
To wake and to watch while all others may rest,
And die ere one half of his task has been done.
To die as he lived: all strange, great, and alone,
Mourned not in tears, but recorded in stone.

Soon the rumour crept and came,
Still and low as stifled flame,
That in some distant spot of earth
A vast great spirit had gone forth.
Wanderers strange from door to door,
And lands remote, the tidings bore.
Uncertain first, the echoes wild
Floated like dreams athwart a child:
A breath, a whisper, then a word
That grew familiar as 'twas heard,
Till quick achievement, pace on pace,
With giant march grasped time and space,
And clearer seen in glory's height,
Forth flashed the hero on the sight!
Then shouts the mass—it knows not why—
Save that another raised the cry;
Those living echoes of the crowd,
From hearts most shallow still most loud,
As answering notes are shrillest thrown
From barest rock and bleakest stone.

Thus steals on time a hero-name,
Deserved or undeserved, the same;
From million lips in thunder hurled,
Bursts the loud anthem o'er the world:
Then bow the nations, prostrate laid
Before the God themselves have made;
But, when temptation comes at last,
When power is strong, and peril past—
Then shall we know the workman's hands:
False greatness sinks—true greatness stands.

And thus, amid the din of war,
Thro' cloud and thunder flashed the star,
Lost for awhile in gloom and night
To re-appear with tenfold light;
From orbit small, reluctant sent
To grasp a wide-spread firmament.

Thus many a spirit that would rest
All humbly in a household breast,
Pale sorrow drives, in league with fate,
To claim its place among the great.

And Lindsay rose, as merit can
When tempest stirs the floods of man;
Till ranged afar in foreign land
An army owned his sole command,
And on the coming battle's die
Reposed a nation's destiny.

Along the misty heather grey
Lord Lindsay's vast encampment lay,
Gleaming upward on the night
Emblazoned tents of silvery white,
Like snowflakes by a Northern blast
A midnight o'er the champaign cast.

The leader's in his tent alone;
And, like a tent above it thrown,
The night lay o'er it fold on fold,
Heavy, dark, and still and cold.
The murmur from the camp around,
The muffled tread on grassy ground,
Question low and low reply,
The rustling banner's mournful play—
Like flapping wing of bird of prey
Impatient for the carnage-day—
Sudden laugh and roundelay,
Like windgusts passing by;
Neigh and stamp and clank of arm,
Shot at sentry-posts' alarm,
Then the single bugle-blast,
And the squadron skirring past,
Sent 'mid darkness to the fight
A living thundercloud through night:
In one deep hum, but dead and low,
Crept through the curtains' silken flow,
And shook them with its ominous breath,
Like the step of the coming death.
Those small, dull sounds, that fill the break
Ere long-expected thunders wake,
And start the listening watcher more
Than the loud storm's first opening roar,
Came freezing on the humid air;
While 'neath night's fingers, chill and damp,
The flame crouched down upon the lamp—
Scarce light enough to show 'twas there.
Thus Lindsay sat—all spirit-cold,
While night's dark hours the sun uprolled.
The battle's eve is hard to bear,
Its fears, but not its joys are there;
And Lindsay watched the moments fleet
One by one with leaden feet.
He counted them with beat of heart,
Slow to come and slow to part,
While on their silent wings they brought
Man's worst companion—anxious thought!
On every side—anear, afar—
Slept the tide of fiery war:
Countless hearts that, all aflame
Should kindle when the morrow came,
Now lay in slumber wrapt as death,
Calm as the sword within its sheath.
As from the scabbard leaps the brand
When drawn beneath the soldier's hand,
With one proud impulse Lindsay's call
Might rouse the slumbering thousands all.
But deem not that his eye was bright
With glorious calm of wonted light:
Or steady throbs each rising vein:
There was too much to lose and gain!
The goal of all his stormy life
Is centred in the morrow's strife:
The guerdon he had toiled for long,
The hope, that made the weary strong,
The moment, that should years outweigh,
Beyond whose loss 'twere vain to stay,
When time, on-pointing to the dead,
Forbade afresh his path to tread;
Past man's control—past thought's command—
The life—the death—'twas all at hand,
And he was sitting on the brink
With nought to do but think—and think!

Few—few upon his musing break,
An augur from their chief to take.

There was but one—and this a friend—
Who questioned of the morrow's end.
He would not the word betray,
The word, that lost the coming day!
'Twas but one friend! he bent his ear,
And then could scarce the answer hear;
The gusty winds were loud without,
'Twas scarcely breathed: “I doubt! I doubt!”
There was none else who could have heard
The scarce articulated word!

Yet through the curtain's silken fold,
Coldly on the midnight cold
It crept like messenger of ill,
From heart to heart with footstep chill.
Spoken lowly and alone,
Whence did echo win the tone?
From lip and eye, and brow and hand,
And deadness of the dull command.
O'er hearts, that every thought can hear,
Untold of tongue, unheard of ear,
In blighting circles widened out
The palsying spell—“I doubt! I doubt!”

The night passed by to beat of heart,
Like a funeral march to an open tomb;
When sunlight mapped the heaven's wide chart,
'Twas but a torch to show the gloom—
The gloom upon the war-helmed head
And breast imprisoned in bright mail:
Gleamed the crest on glances dead,
Flashed the steel on foreheads pale.

Sullen broke the battle's roar,
Sultry dropped the cannon-flame,
The conflict to the midward bore,
The banners shook unto its breath,
Music swelled the voice of death,
And slowly rolled the long acclaim.

Reeled the battle's midward shock—
Charges on the serried square:
As the earthquake tears the rock,
The horse the pausing column tear.

But every arm is half unnerved—
Each rider in the onset swerved—
Rein half-tightened, lance half-thrust,
A palsy on the battle's lust,
For still each beating breast about
Is wound the web: “I doubt! I doubt!”

Now, gallant Lindsay! turn the war!
The moment's come to make or mar.
Now send the rally to the charge!
The serried phalanxes enlarge!
For hot volcanoes, left and right,
Spit forth their iron hail—
Where battery flames from crenelled height
Make day's red flambeau pale.

As to winds sink scattered waves,
On that deathfield without graves
Down before the cannon-blast
Behold a living pavement cast.
And still they stood, and still they fell
Before the red advancing hell:
Then turned to Lindsay every eye,
Broke from the field one smothered cry
Demanding but that single sign
To crush the foes' up-gathering line.
Every horse is scarce held back—
Every heart is on the rack—
Every spirit on the rise:
It is the moment—and it flies!

Upon a height Lord Lindsay stood
And marked the turning of the flood;
And thrice he raised his arm on high,
Thrice turned to shout his battle-cry;
And thrice the gallant impulse dies
To fears that throng, and doubts that rise;
It is the moment—and it flies!
Delay and doubt did more that hour
Than bayonet-charge and carnage-shower.

Loud howls the battle like a gale:
But fast the fiery ardours fail,
And every brow is turning pale!
They have the heart but lack the word:—
Broke from Lindsay's lip no cry,
Flashed no signal from his eye,
He neither spoke, nor signed, nor stirred,
He thought but: “Should they fail!”

Cold on his brow was writ despair,
His army saw it lettered there;
From rank to rank, from man to man,
Like a word that dead look ran.
The impulse flags,—the die is cast—
It was the moment—and 'tis past!

Close! close the square! from every side
Hark to horsemen's hurtling shock!
Onward pours that living tide
Upon that living rock!—

And up and down—and to and fro—
The battle reeled across the plain,
And when its force seemed stricken low,
Up burst the fiend afresh again;
With quivering arm and panting breath,
And battered bone and streaming vein,
But heart as fierce as it began—
A mass of horse, and steel and man—
Squadron hurtling,—shattered square,—
But still enough to do and dare;
Beat of foot and hard hoof prancing,
Now receding, now advancing,—
The ebb and flow of the tide of death!

Then, when his bands were falling fast,
That gallant spirit dared its last.
Then Lindsay rode the foremost rank
And drove his steed through war-pools dank,
And bravely waved his pennon high,
And loudly cried his battle-cry!
And minstrels heard the foeman say
Lord Lindsay had fought well that day.

The sun was trembling on the sea,
Winds were low and clouds were high,
And one bird sang on the old oak tree
When Lindsay laid him down to die.
It sang a song of early days,
Rich—rich with childhood's fairy lays.
Thus the robin sang on the linden-bough,
In the home of his youth as it called to him now;
'Twas a carol of heaven it chanted him then,
And the self-same song it was chanting again.

But the world had rolled with its fiery blast,
Filling the gulf 'twixt the present and past.
'Mid the madd'ning and whirlpool and roar of its wave,
He knew not his cradle-song sung o'er his grave!—
And all the spirits of his life,
His Peace, his Hope, his Love, his Strife,
Float by him wan in that solemn hour,
Bearing each a withered flower.
Colourless spectres, they cast on his sight
Forms without beauty and smiles without light!

His useless life so wildly passed!—
So many deeds and none to last!—
A sigh of regret for his parting breath;
Of all that seed but one fruit—Death!
And the Beyond? To him unknown:
A tear—a knell—a prayer—a stone!
A sod wrapped round a soulless clay,
And a keyless gate to a trackless way!
For Death, to him all light without,
Was worse than agony—was Doubt.
So high a heart—so sad a fate!
Wanting but Faith to have been great.