 | War Lyrics |  |
7
DEDICATION.
Oh! wives and mothers! sons and brothers,
And sisters of the dead!
And daughters, too, and fathers—who
Will not be comforted;
And sisters of the dead!
And daughters, too, and fathers—who
Will not be comforted;
Still feeling o'er and o'er again,
Yet warm, the last embrace—
Still seeing, though you saw not then,
For tears, the parting face!
Yet warm, the last embrace—
Still seeing, though you saw not then,
For tears, the parting face!
Still dreaming, as you oft will dream,
Your happy heroes home!
Still waking, as you oft will wake,
To know they will not come!
Your happy heroes home!
Still waking, as you oft will wake,
To know they will not come!
8
Whether on Alma's banks they sleep,
Or Balaklava's side,
Or fell on Inkerman's dark steep,
Or in the trenches died,
Or Balaklava's side,
Or fell on Inkerman's dark steep,
Or in the trenches died,
Or, where the solemn Euxine waves
Talk to each silent guest,
Far, far down in the deep sea graves
We may not visit—rest,
Talk to each silent guest,
Far, far down in the deep sea graves
We may not visit—rest,
Or closed upon a patient bed,
More gently-wearied eyes—
We bless, oh mourners of the dead,
Your sacred sacrifice!
More gently-wearied eyes—
We bless, oh mourners of the dead,
Your sacred sacrifice!
We thank you sadly o'er and o'er,
For all you could, you gave—
We love you for the love you bore
Your own and England's brave—
For all you could, you gave—
We love you for the love you bore
Your own and England's brave—
9
We drop upon their fun'ral pall
One rain of England's tears!
We sing one requiem for them all,
And every nation hears!
One rain of England's tears!
We sing one requiem for them all,
And every nation hears!
L. December, 1854.
11
WAR'S MAGIC LANTERN.
Who is this with that face we know,
Yet only as one seen long ago,
Or one that dreams, or pictures show,
Now seen—like a form that's multiplied
By a thousand mirrors—on every side?
Who glides through our doorway, haunts our walk,
Mutters into our sleeping ear,
Gathers up all our free hearth-talk
Into one theme austere;
Where voices that once so lightly ran,
Now like a stream that splits against stones,
Break and then falter hoarsely on,
With a heart's deep burden in their tones?
Who at our church door stalks in, there
Uplifting to God a stern new prayer?
We see, yet but a reflexion still
Of thee a Presence invisible—
Thou who like unseen lightning dost strike,
Who standing a Shade in the far horizon,
Drawest away to thee, loadstone-like,
To the foreign hills where the storm is rising,
Half our nation—all our hearts—
We hear thee, we feel thee, the quick blood starts.
Art thou not He whom in age calm and mellow,
As his youth's fierce dream, the father names,
Now come to be the playfellow
Of his children's nursery-games?
Yes, thou art WAR! the face of our land
Thou hast changed with a pass of thy dreadful hand.
A bugle note from the Danube cried—
And the banners of England were all flung wide,
And down, down to the water side
Troop after troop, each dazzling group,
Filling the streets like a column of light,
Marched in music out of sight.
And the Queen in her balcony stood at the dawn,
Weeping, and waving a farewell dear
To her soldiers who went no more to return,
Yet who gave her back a rapturous cheer.
And those who stayed cried undismayed,
“Go to glory, our chosen ones—
Fathers and brothers, husbands and sons!”
Now homes are empty, and hollow eyes
Are aching for what they find nowhere—
Our ripening vintage of youth swept off
Elsewhere, elsewhere;
While in our fields and in our streets
Mourner with mourner meets.
Thou bringest together, Wizard War!
Sights and sounds whole seas apart;
The crack of a rifle from afar
Rings death into our heart;
Far off a soldier in his death dream
Looks on the home that loves him well;
From that home a voice cries over the deep,
“Farewell!” and again “Farewell!”
Yet only as one seen long ago,
Or one that dreams, or pictures show,
Now seen—like a form that's multiplied
By a thousand mirrors—on every side?
Who glides through our doorway, haunts our walk,
Mutters into our sleeping ear,
Gathers up all our free hearth-talk
Into one theme austere;
12
Now like a stream that splits against stones,
Break and then falter hoarsely on,
With a heart's deep burden in their tones?
Who at our church door stalks in, there
Uplifting to God a stern new prayer?
We see, yet but a reflexion still
Of thee a Presence invisible—
Thou who like unseen lightning dost strike,
Who standing a Shade in the far horizon,
Drawest away to thee, loadstone-like,
To the foreign hills where the storm is rising,
Half our nation—all our hearts—
We hear thee, we feel thee, the quick blood starts.
Art thou not He whom in age calm and mellow,
As his youth's fierce dream, the father names,
Now come to be the playfellow
Of his children's nursery-games?
13
Thou hast changed with a pass of thy dreadful hand.
A bugle note from the Danube cried—
And the banners of England were all flung wide,
And down, down to the water side
Troop after troop, each dazzling group,
Filling the streets like a column of light,
Marched in music out of sight.
And the Queen in her balcony stood at the dawn,
Weeping, and waving a farewell dear
To her soldiers who went no more to return,
Yet who gave her back a rapturous cheer.
And those who stayed cried undismayed,
“Go to glory, our chosen ones—
Fathers and brothers, husbands and sons!”
Now homes are empty, and hollow eyes
Are aching for what they find nowhere—
Our ripening vintage of youth swept off
Elsewhere, elsewhere;
14
Mourner with mourner meets.
Thou bringest together, Wizard War!
Sights and sounds whole seas apart;
The crack of a rifle from afar
Rings death into our heart;
Far off a soldier in his death dream
Looks on the home that loves him well;
From that home a voice cries over the deep,
“Farewell!” and again “Farewell!”
Now through our islands a craving silence
Asks the news that comes first in a whisper, a hush,
Then in a storm-swift, sudden rush
Of battle stories, of dismal glories,
Out of whose surges often emerges
A bleeding limb, or a grim pale head,
Or the one name is caught, and 'tis that of the dead!
Then comes a storm, as when chords we strike,
Clashing out triumph and anguish alike.
High and low together flow,
Mingled by the mingling blood
Epaulette, and rank and file
Shed in brother-herohood.
Stripling noble, peasant's son,
With one pulse your true veins bound,
Bravely, bravely both have done,
And in both one race is crowned.
Peeress mother, labouring father,
Hearts that once no bond allied,
Meet in terror, meet in pain,
Meet in pity and in pride.
For from soft and snowy pillow,
And from coarse flock bed is one,
One deep cry sent to the sky,
“Save, oh God! my son!”
Whence comest thou, strange Innovator,
Democrat, Anarchist, who hast made
Troubled and hot as a seething crater
The calmest isle in sea-cradle laid?
Whence art thou? There is a palace can tell—
'Tis not a phosphor-lit hall of Hell,
Where on the doomed by the naphtha lake
The god-fiend scowls from his burning crown;
But polished and white, in the sun's free light,
Where on smiling courtiers a prince smiles down.
From the deeps of that despot's purple heart,
Did the dragon-dream full wingëd start.
O'er Russia's wide wastes the storm-herald hastes,
Their myriad slaves to the field to drive;
Gloomily arming,
All came swarming
Like bees from their savage boundless hive.
From the cold shining granite of palaces
That glare through the sunny city of ice,
In his furs came the noble haughtily clad,
The serf in his sheepskin hungry and sad,
From his hut that arose a blot in the snows;
Like a pack of well-trained, well-starved hounds,
Down came the drove from all Russia's bounds.
Asks the news that comes first in a whisper, a hush,
Then in a storm-swift, sudden rush
Of battle stories, of dismal glories,
Out of whose surges often emerges
A bleeding limb, or a grim pale head,
Or the one name is caught, and 'tis that of the dead!
15
Clashing out triumph and anguish alike.
High and low together flow,
Mingled by the mingling blood
Epaulette, and rank and file
Shed in brother-herohood.
Stripling noble, peasant's son,
With one pulse your true veins bound,
Bravely, bravely both have done,
And in both one race is crowned.
Peeress mother, labouring father,
Hearts that once no bond allied,
Meet in terror, meet in pain,
Meet in pity and in pride.
For from soft and snowy pillow,
And from coarse flock bed is one,
One deep cry sent to the sky,
“Save, oh God! my son!”
16
Democrat, Anarchist, who hast made
Troubled and hot as a seething crater
The calmest isle in sea-cradle laid?
Whence art thou? There is a palace can tell—
'Tis not a phosphor-lit hall of Hell,
Where on the doomed by the naphtha lake
The god-fiend scowls from his burning crown;
But polished and white, in the sun's free light,
Where on smiling courtiers a prince smiles down.
From the deeps of that despot's purple heart,
Did the dragon-dream full wingëd start.
O'er Russia's wide wastes the storm-herald hastes,
Their myriad slaves to the field to drive;
Gloomily arming,
All came swarming
Like bees from their savage boundless hive.
From the cold shining granite of palaces
That glare through the sunny city of ice,
17
The serf in his sheepskin hungry and sad,
From his hut that arose a blot in the snows;
Like a pack of well-trained, well-starved hounds,
Down came the drove from all Russia's bounds.
But there in the Tauric land
Ashore stepped another band,
From Europe's prime realm, in power and grace,
From the sea's isle-Queen so safe in its place,
The small and the strong,
They came on the wave that kissed like a slave
The keels of that war-freighted throng.
Yes, there the fleets of England and France,
The swan-queens of the sea, advance;
Their necks arched for conquest in scornful beauty
They bend to the foe with proud salute—
So, gracefully pay their haughty duty,
Then float to the triumph none dare dispute.
There came the Britons, the lions of war,
Massive, majestic, in form and in mind,
Like powers of nature, strong workers by law,
Vassals to duty, else kings of their kind.
And France sent her sons,
The chivalric ones,
All fire in the fight, all laughter in death,
Whose blood bounds a war-dance, who waste life
like breath,
For the payment of glory, their passionate faith.
They came, in flame-letters, to write on War's page,
How England and France in jubilant scorn,
Flung down to Russia their gage
On Alma's wild morn.
They took up their ground, each steadfast troop,
Led by those plumes, the snow-wreaths of war,
Soon to be crimsoned, but never to droop,
The soldier's idol, the Muscovite's awe.
On, splendid warriors! Fame hangs in the air,
To watch what you do, to cheer what you dare.
Ashore stepped another band,
From Europe's prime realm, in power and grace,
From the sea's isle-Queen so safe in its place,
The small and the strong,
They came on the wave that kissed like a slave
The keels of that war-freighted throng.
Yes, there the fleets of England and France,
The swan-queens of the sea, advance;
Their necks arched for conquest in scornful beauty
They bend to the foe with proud salute—
So, gracefully pay their haughty duty,
Then float to the triumph none dare dispute.
18
Massive, majestic, in form and in mind,
Like powers of nature, strong workers by law,
Vassals to duty, else kings of their kind.
And France sent her sons,
The chivalric ones,
All fire in the fight, all laughter in death,
Whose blood bounds a war-dance, who waste life
like breath,
For the payment of glory, their passionate faith.
They came, in flame-letters, to write on War's page,
How England and France in jubilant scorn,
Flung down to Russia their gage
On Alma's wild morn.
They took up their ground, each steadfast troop,
Led by those plumes, the snow-wreaths of war,
Soon to be crimsoned, but never to droop,
The soldier's idol, the Muscovite's awe.
19
To watch what you do, to cheer what you dare.
Like the wolves their brothers, wild sons of wild mothers,
To the field trooped the gray men in swarms,
They raved and they wrangled, they tore and they mangled
In hordes that bade scorn to our arms.
But the sun looked sadly ere he set,
On hills of those savage slain,
Like wild beasts with jaws all red and wet,
And their fierce teeth fixed in the plain.
Oh, the glory of battle!
When the loud sharp rattle
Of rifles out-volleying all in one,
Makes glaring blanks in the close welded ranks,
Whence dead with a cry drops man after man.
Oh, the bayonet's dash!
With its dark red splash,
When, though hosts stand like granite, the granite is cleft!
And the sabre charge where right and left
The sword lightning flies, and a foeman dies
At each rapid twist of the trooper's wrist,
When he fights hemmed in by circling bands—
Close walls all alive with points of steel,
Like death darting out a hundred hands;
Yet out of that live solid mass of strife
He hews his way back into life.
To the field trooped the gray men in swarms,
They raved and they wrangled, they tore and they mangled
In hordes that bade scorn to our arms.
But the sun looked sadly ere he set,
On hills of those savage slain,
Like wild beasts with jaws all red and wet,
And their fierce teeth fixed in the plain.
Oh, the glory of battle!
When the loud sharp rattle
Of rifles out-volleying all in one,
Makes glaring blanks in the close welded ranks,
Whence dead with a cry drops man after man.
20
With its dark red splash,
When, though hosts stand like granite, the granite is cleft!
And the sabre charge where right and left
The sword lightning flies, and a foeman dies
At each rapid twist of the trooper's wrist,
When he fights hemmed in by circling bands—
Close walls all alive with points of steel,
Like death darting out a hundred hands;
Yet out of that live solid mass of strife
He hews his way back into life.
Oh, rapture of warfare! and canst thou not last?
Look again, England, dare not recoil—
Now houseless before the winter blast,
Half naked in snows and starved amidst toil,
A skeleton band
In the frozen land,
With sickening eyes looks for the morn
Whence Victory and Vengeance shall spring twinborn.
Ay, their hearts fail not, and we will quail not,
O War! for thy price we know;
With a solemn cheer we have welcomed thee here,
And we do not bid thee go.
We are strong, though trouble like a knife
Has searched our strength to the root of its life;
Though now stand our statesmen, nerved to bear
In pale, unmurmuring despair,
Pierced in hand, in heart, in brain,
By the bitter missiles the slingers rain—
While the people's heart boils up, leaps forth,
From a cry of pain to a cry of wrath,
Asking account of their loved, their slain—
O people be patient! they die not in vain.
Look again, England, dare not recoil—
Now houseless before the winter blast,
Half naked in snows and starved amidst toil,
A skeleton band
In the frozen land,
21
Whence Victory and Vengeance shall spring twinborn.
Ay, their hearts fail not, and we will quail not,
O War! for thy price we know;
With a solemn cheer we have welcomed thee here,
And we do not bid thee go.
We are strong, though trouble like a knife
Has searched our strength to the root of its life;
Though now stand our statesmen, nerved to bear
In pale, unmurmuring despair,
Pierced in hand, in heart, in brain,
By the bitter missiles the slingers rain—
While the people's heart boils up, leaps forth,
From a cry of pain to a cry of wrath,
Asking account of their loved, their slain—
O people be patient! they die not in vain.
If, seers who the shine, not the shadow, saw,
With too much hope and too little awe,
And vain of the splendour poured from our coasts,
We launched our ships and we armed our hosts
With blessings too proudly swelled to boasts;
If we counted but half of the price to pay,
All the drain of our heart's best gold,
The long death in life so sadly told,
That we die almost in the listening—yea,
If at that altar of sombre pomp,
Our prayers took too bold a breath,
Not now will we falter, not now at that altar
Unswear a whole nation's faith;
Nor stir the bed where our champions bled,
To take the crown from their death;
Nor call from the field they never will yield
The brothers of those who fell;
Nor waste on a few vain battle flashes
The passion evoked like a spell;
No—we are pledged to thy very ashes,
Thou fortress gate of Hell!
The soldier outworn, lying cold in the morn,
Whom life in the trenches left,
Dies with his eyes on those blank white walls,
Dreams of the passage by blazing balls
For the rushing Vengeance cleft,
And he sighs for all that glory foregone,
Yet he dooms those walls ere his breath be flown.
In Scutari's chambers of prostrate strength,
The moaning raver of the night,
Fancying the assault, drinks up at length
That cup of burning delight.
And the spirits who, gloomy man by man,
Went out from our banished troop,
Through the silent gates where no foeman waits—
There still walks the ghostly group.
They linger yet on the blood-red strand,
They float not o'er to the cherished land,
Where nightly the living and loving yearn
For a dream of the phantom exile's return.
They wait till they hear o'er their rocky graves
Another dirge than that of the waves,
Till those anthems of cannon music roll
O'er the ashes of Sebastopol.
Till Russia, into our sovereign hands
From her nerveless grasp letting fall
The keys of the seas and the fettered lands,
Her conquering creditor pay for all.
With too much hope and too little awe,
22
We launched our ships and we armed our hosts
With blessings too proudly swelled to boasts;
If we counted but half of the price to pay,
All the drain of our heart's best gold,
The long death in life so sadly told,
That we die almost in the listening—yea,
If at that altar of sombre pomp,
Our prayers took too bold a breath,
Not now will we falter, not now at that altar
Unswear a whole nation's faith;
Nor stir the bed where our champions bled,
To take the crown from their death;
Nor call from the field they never will yield
The brothers of those who fell;
Nor waste on a few vain battle flashes
The passion evoked like a spell;
No—we are pledged to thy very ashes,
Thou fortress gate of Hell!
23
Whom life in the trenches left,
Dies with his eyes on those blank white walls,
Dreams of the passage by blazing balls
For the rushing Vengeance cleft,
And he sighs for all that glory foregone,
Yet he dooms those walls ere his breath be flown.
In Scutari's chambers of prostrate strength,
The moaning raver of the night,
Fancying the assault, drinks up at length
That cup of burning delight.
And the spirits who, gloomy man by man,
Went out from our banished troop,
Through the silent gates where no foeman waits—
There still walks the ghostly group.
They linger yet on the blood-red strand,
They float not o'er to the cherished land,
Where nightly the living and loving yearn
For a dream of the phantom exile's return.
24
Another dirge than that of the waves,
Till those anthems of cannon music roll
O'er the ashes of Sebastopol.
Till Russia, into our sovereign hands
From her nerveless grasp letting fall
The keys of the seas and the fettered lands,
Her conquering creditor pay for all.
And you who weep in England and France
O'er a name in the blood-bright list,
Oh think that the spirits of the dead
Your souls with brave lips have kissed;
And with eyes made calm by a noble grief,
Look to their comrades for its relief.
“War on! till under your hands arise
A dome of Peace to the storm-freed skies,
Wherein may Freedom find ample room
For her eagles' stately sweep;
And be that rainbow-like, heaven-wide dome,
An arch of triumph to vault the tomb
That covers our heroes' sleep.”
O'er a name in the blood-bright list,
Oh think that the spirits of the dead
Your souls with brave lips have kissed;
And with eyes made calm by a noble grief,
Look to their comrades for its relief.
“War on! till under your hands arise
A dome of Peace to the storm-freed skies,
Wherein may Freedom find ample room
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And be that rainbow-like, heaven-wide dome,
An arch of triumph to vault the tomb
That covers our heroes' sleep.”
A. February 7, 1855.
WAR MUSIC.
The merest soldier is to-day
The poet of his art,
Though he should neither sing nor say
The transports of his heart.
The poet of his art,
Though he should neither sing nor say
The transports of his heart.
His genius writes in words of steel,
And utters them in thunder—
Whilst we want speech for what we feel,
Who sit at home and wonder.
And utters them in thunder—
Whilst we want speech for what we feel,
Who sit at home and wonder.
26
And those whom England with a cry
Saw dashed into the strife,
Those men of ours who rode to die,
Like men who ride for life—
Saw dashed into the strife,
Those men of ours who rode to die,
Like men who ride for life—
Whose souls, ere well the word had gone,
Into the smoke were hurled,
Who bound on bound went charging on
Into another world,
Into the smoke were hurled,
Who bound on bound went charging on
Into another world,
(No lover nobler frenzy knew,
Nor “sighed” a “truer breath,”
Than theirs who with loose bridles flew
Into the arms of death.)
Nor “sighed” a “truer breath,”
Than theirs who with loose bridles flew
Into the arms of death.)
Doubt not, I say, the hearts of all
A grander music made,
When dancing to that funeral,
Than ever clarion played.
A grander music made,
When dancing to that funeral,
Than ever clarion played.
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And music in our hearts at home
Re-echoes, as we read,
The rapturous harmonies that come
From an immortal deed.
Re-echoes, as we read,
The rapturous harmonies that come
From an immortal deed.
L. November, 1854.
“WHEN SHE WENT FORTH.”
When she went forth, in hope serene,
Her country's banner o'er her,
Whilst all our hearts that crowned her queen
Strewed prayers like flowers before her—
Her country's banner o'er her,
Whilst all our hearts that crowned her queen
Strewed prayers like flowers before her—
When she went forth, who three times blest,
No longer reads and hears,
But laying down the dumb death-list,
Gives help instead of tears—
No longer reads and hears,
But laying down the dumb death-list,
Gives help instead of tears—
28
She, champion of her country's cause,
As faithful and as brave,
As he who sword in battle draws
Before an open grave—
As faithful and as brave,
As he who sword in battle draws
Before an open grave—
E'en she, who bleeding at her feet
Sees many a hero laid,
Whose task, though terrible as sweet,
Has found her not afraid—
Sees many a hero laid,
Whose task, though terrible as sweet,
Has found her not afraid—
She on the altar of whose heart
God kindled long ago
That fire which moved her to depart
When England bade her go—
God kindled long ago
That fire which moved her to depart
When England bade her go—
We blessed the ship that carried her,
For it was England's dove,
Rejoicing on its wing to bear
All England's soul of love.
For it was England's dove,
Rejoicing on its wing to bear
All England's soul of love.
L. November, 1854.
29
THE BEARER OF THE FATAL ORDER.
“Oh! is this not the most glorious
Life that ever man could lead?”—
Throbbing from a day victorious,
Burning for what should succeed,
Life that ever man could lead?”—
Throbbing from a day victorious,
Burning for what should succeed,
Met not then the storm-dark morrow,
With its lightning charge thine eyes—
Useless glory, bitter sorrow,
From a frantic sacrifice?
With its lightning charge thine eyes—
Useless glory, bitter sorrow,
From a frantic sacrifice?
Like a shot the word was flung,
Short and sharp, from Chief to Chief,
And the squadron forward sprung,
But thy triumph-trance was brief.
Short and sharp, from Chief to Chief,
And the squadron forward sprung,
But thy triumph-trance was brief.
30
Hill and plain one sheet of foes,
Gaily fliest thou to th' attack—
Victim ere the sabres close,
Only thy swift steed comes back!
Gaily fliest thou to th' attack—
Victim ere the sabres close,
Only thy swift steed comes back!
Instant came the bounding bullet,
Tearing out a dying scream,
Plunging in thy heart to cool it,
'Midst the mad flames of its dream.
Tearing out a dying scream,
Plunging in thy heart to cool it,
'Midst the mad flames of its dream.
Fatal messenger! first corse
Flung upon those funeral plains,
Covered soon with England's loss,
Yet how rich in Glory's gains!
Flung upon those funeral plains,
Covered soon with England's loss,
Yet how rich in Glory's gains!
Gazing on those doomed Hussars,
Going full speed to their tombs,
See we not their souls like stars,
Lighting up Death's boundless glooms?
Going full speed to their tombs,
See we not their souls like stars,
Lighting up Death's boundless glooms?
A. March 5, 1855.
31
INKERMAN.
Murderous morn, whose dawn was lost in cloud!
Drizzling rain, soon mixed with death's red dew!
Mound of doom, of which our tears are proud!
English hearts to desperate duty true!
Drizzling rain, soon mixed with death's red dew!
Mound of doom, of which our tears are proud!
English hearts to desperate duty true!
Inkerman! by all these martyrs' fall
Made the word of wonder that thou art!—
England, tear-stained Priestess, vows you all
To a fame stern, solemn, and apart.
Made the word of wonder that thou art!—
England, tear-stained Priestess, vows you all
To a fame stern, solemn, and apart.
Hot with hatred, raving mad with wine,
Drunk from wicked vows, o'er the dark land,
Up the hill, swarmed Russian line on line—
But they met there that serene, stern band.
Drunk from wicked vows, o'er the dark land,
Up the hill, swarmed Russian line on line—
But they met there that serene, stern band.
32
And the hideous, blindfold, stabbing fight,
(Death by bayonets dashed to and fro)
Struggled on, with but the hell-fire light
Shot and shell upon their murders throw.
(Death by bayonets dashed to and fro)
Struggled on, with but the hell-fire light
Shot and shell upon their murders throw.
Darkly hewed from hundreds down to scores,
Firm our Guardsmen hold their hill of woes—
Round Death's brave despair, unheeded roars
Still in huger waves that sea of foes.
Firm our Guardsmen hold their hill of woes—
Round Death's brave despair, unheeded roars
Still in huger waves that sea of foes.
But the French—oh, loyal hearts well done!—
Breathless with fierce joy to share our fate,
In they rush and onward, all in one,
Cheering, charging, gloriously elate!
Breathless with fierce joy to share our fate,
In they rush and onward, all in one,
Cheering, charging, gloriously elate!
Oh ye Hours! on blood-clogged wheels, at last,
Roll away the dismal, splendid day!
And the flight of souls, by cannon-blast
Chased all day through Death's wide gateway, stay!
Roll away the dismal, splendid day!
And the flight of souls, by cannon-blast
Chased all day through Death's wide gateway, stay!
33
All is over!—Dare we ask who fell?
Noble name on name comes thick and fast—
Till sobs choke the voice that tries to tell
All it cost us to prevail at last.
Noble name on name comes thick and fast—
Till sobs choke the voice that tries to tell
All it cost us to prevail at last.
Many a veteran, sealing a life's truth,
In his last, his best there offered up—
Many a gentle, happy soldier youth
Drained his first, last draught from War's wine-cup.
In his last, his best there offered up—
Many a gentle, happy soldier youth
Drained his first, last draught from War's wine-cup.
To his eyes dream-dazzled seemed the strife,
But a game played gaily by the brave;
All the boy-heart panting with new life,
Rushed through the war-riot to the grave.
But a game played gaily by the brave;
All the boy-heart panting with new life,
Rushed through the war-riot to the grave.
French and English, let them heart by heart,
Deathmates tried and true, as brothers lie!
Weep as friends, together though apart,
You whose homes your heroes left to die!
Deathmates tried and true, as brothers lie!
Weep as friends, together though apart,
You whose homes your heroes left to die!
A. November 28, 1854.
34
TO J. H. CLUTTERBUCK.
Young standard-bearer! whom, with mournful pride,Wearing henceforward on her heart thy name,
England now welcomes to her lists of fame—
Oh! to sublimest manhood glorified,
How my heart sees thee on the wild hill-side,
Like war's bright angel in the furious game,
Waving those colours high o'er steel and flame,
Cheering the brave to death, and dying as they died!
At home that day what millions knelt in prayer!
The far-off thunder drowned not the church bell,
And they who loved thee were all kneeling there,
Nor knew the moment when their hero fell—
Beauteous and brave, brave as the bravest were,
And mourned more bitterly than words can tell.
L. December, 1854.
35
THE BRITISH SOLDIER.
I.
We know our soldier—recognise
In him the land whose huts and towers,
Whose social freedom, household ties,
Alone could train such men as ours.
In him the land whose huts and towers,
Whose social freedom, household ties,
Alone could train such men as ours.
The Chief who spurred his charger forth,
Soon as the dreadful message came,
The followers sweeping on his path,
Into the heart of sword and flame;
Soon as the dreadful message came,
The followers sweeping on his path,
Into the heart of sword and flame;
The beauteous boy in his first fight,
While his young voice cheered on his band
Into the death-shots' thickest flight,
Falling, his colours in his hand;
While his young voice cheered on his band
Into the death-shots' thickest flight,
Falling, his colours in his hand;
36
The soldier, who with man's devotion,
Fought by his dear young leader's side,
And who, with woman's soft emotion,
Buried and blest him where he died;
Fought by his dear young leader's side,
And who, with woman's soft emotion,
Buried and blest him where he died;
Nor less than those made great by death,
The great by what they live to bear,
Who bravely yet draw painful breath,
Strong to sustain, as quick to dare.
The great by what they live to bear,
Who bravely yet draw painful breath,
Strong to sustain, as quick to dare.
These are the men of England, these
The men who left sweet homes, who sleep
On Tartar-hills, by far wild seas—
The men we loved, the men we weep.
The men who left sweet homes, who sleep
On Tartar-hills, by far wild seas—
The men we loved, the men we weep.
And these are they for whom in turn
Their homes our Englishwomen leave,
True sisters of the brave, to earn
Blessings 'tis glory to receive.
Their homes our Englishwomen leave,
True sisters of the brave, to earn
Blessings 'tis glory to receive.
37
They wait those ships that touch the beach,
Fast emptying out the ghastly shoals
Of their live freight—they welcome each
With the strong love of seraph-souls.
Fast emptying out the ghastly shoals
Of their live freight—they welcome each
With the strong love of seraph-souls.
And Light on those strange Eastern walls,
Where the nurse glides through pain's pale ranks,
From her bright eyes of pity falls,
And shines in their dim eyes of thanks.
Where the nurse glides through pain's pale ranks,
From her bright eyes of pity falls,
And shines in their dim eyes of thanks.
II.
Oh British Soldier! 'mid thy feats
Of wonder, still show what thou art—
That in thine iron frame yet beats
Thy mother's and thy sister's heart.
Of wonder, still show what thou art—
That in thine iron frame yet beats
Thy mother's and thy sister's heart.
We saw thee on those fields of woe,
With a calm fierceness worse than hate,
In the death-grapple hold thy foe,
With the relentless arms of fate.
With a calm fierceness worse than hate,
In the death-grapple hold thy foe,
With the relentless arms of fate.
38
Then fresh from thine all-bloody part,
Thou, when the battle-wrath was over,
Wert tender as a woman's heart
That breaks for pity o'er a lover.
Thou, when the battle-wrath was over,
Wert tender as a woman's heart
That breaks for pity o'er a lover.
That mangled wretch, slave born and bred,
Half brute by nature, fiend by training,
Who wolf-like fought, and tore the dead,
Or stabbed out all the life remaining—
Half brute by nature, fiend by training,
Who wolf-like fought, and tore the dead,
Or stabbed out all the life remaining—
To tears is his rude heart surprised,
For never priest had taught the slave
That, nursed in freedom, schooled by Christ,
None are so gentle as the brave.
For never priest had taught the slave
That, nursed in freedom, schooled by Christ,
None are so gentle as the brave.
God bless you, soldiers of our land!
Still make yourselves more proudly dear
To us, whose loving eyes are chained
By the stern charms of your career.
Still make yourselves more proudly dear
To us, whose loving eyes are chained
By the stern charms of your career.
39
God bless you! though a blood-red name
Mark each strange spot that saw you fall,
England, enamoured of your fame,
Hath set her broad, bright seal on all.
Mark each strange spot that saw you fall,
England, enamoured of your fame,
Hath set her broad, bright seal on all.
God bless you, champions of all lands!
The world, that will be slave no more,
Hath given her cause into your hands,
Your hands that are both strong and pure.
The world, that will be slave no more,
Hath given her cause into your hands,
Your hands that are both strong and pure.
A. December 10, 1854.
TO A FRENCH GENERAL.
Gentle, generous, and brave heart!
I may call thee so,
Though I know not who thou art,
And shall never know.
I may call thee so,
Though I know not who thou art,
And shall never know.
40
In a rapture of amaze,
O'er a tale so sweet,
All my soul its homage pays,
Kneeling at thy feet.
O'er a tale so sweet,
All my soul its homage pays,
Kneeling at thy feet.
Like a warrior-saint of old,
With transcendant might,
As past legends oft have told,
Flashing on the fight—
With transcendant might,
As past legends oft have told,
Flashing on the fight—
To our soldier on the ground,
Bleeding and in danger,
Came with swift approaching sound
The majestic stranger.
Bleeding and in danger,
Came with swift approaching sound
The majestic stranger.
Bending down to him thou saws't,
Singly, matched by five,
Thou didst snatch him on thy horse
From the field alive.
Singly, matched by five,
Thou didst snatch him on thy horse
From the field alive.
41
Soldier of our own the one,
A French chief the other,
Each when the brave deed was done
Recognised a brother.
A French chief the other,
Each when the brave deed was done
Recognised a brother.
And a truer brotherhood
Could not words express,
Than the kiss, thy head was bowed
On his hand to press.
Could not words express,
Than the kiss, thy head was bowed
On his hand to press.
Vanishing with lightning speed,
As thou first didst come—
Who shall tell us if thy steed
Brought its master home?
As thou first didst come—
Who shall tell us if thy steed
Brought its master home?
Oh, but if thy life be charmed
From the ceaseless ball,
Evermore to ride unharmed
Where thy brethren fall,
From the ceaseless ball,
Evermore to ride unharmed
Where thy brethren fall,
42
Happy might the loveliest be
Of our English land,
To repay that kiss to thee
On thy hero-hand.
Of our English land,
To repay that kiss to thee
On thy hero-hand.
L. December, 1854.
THE MAIDEN AT HOME.
Fast, fast I pace the long, green walk,
I wander wide and far;
The woods are full of phantom talk,
And all their speech is war.
I wander wide and far;
The woods are full of phantom talk,
And all their speech is war.
Will quiet never come again?
Must night, that softly came
In fragrant dusk erewhile, now reign
A dream of blood and flame—
Must night, that softly came
In fragrant dusk erewhile, now reign
A dream of blood and flame—
43
Where armed men who kill and die,
Swords dashing blow on blow,
Outcries of death or victory,
Are clashing to and fro?
Swords dashing blow on blow,
Outcries of death or victory,
Are clashing to and fro?
As though some Voice from high had blown
This fair, still world away,
By fortress-walls or hills unknown,
Like a lost ghost I stray.
This fair, still world away,
By fortress-walls or hills unknown,
Like a lost ghost I stray.
And for the sigh from tree to tree
That dreaming summer bore,
The Euxine plashes heavily
Upon a rocky shore.
That dreaming summer bore,
The Euxine plashes heavily
Upon a rocky shore.
He who last summer pressed my hand
With such a long farewell,
Now fights in yonder murderous land—
Last night perhaps he fell.
With such a long farewell,
Now fights in yonder murderous land—
Last night perhaps he fell.
44
He smiled adieu—but that pale smile
Made sterner still his face;
Words passed, but on our lips the while
Love dared not find a place.
Made sterner still his face;
Words passed, but on our lips the while
Love dared not find a place.
How could I so my heart have tasked?
Oh, should not such an hour
Have under lifeless looks unmasked
A spirit of love and power?
Oh, should not such an hour
Have under lifeless looks unmasked
A spirit of love and power?
I felt he loved me, and I knew
He went perhaps to die—
Yet dared I not to truth be true,
Nor breathe an honest sigh.
He went perhaps to die—
Yet dared I not to truth be true,
Nor breathe an honest sigh.
Now daily with heroic scorn
He gazes in Death's face,
Hears nought but thunders cannon-born,
Round that war-girdled place;
He gazes in Death's face,
Hears nought but thunders cannon-born,
Round that war-girdled place;
45
Or, singly flung amongst his foes,
Now bears the banner high,
Round which the struggling thousands close,
Nor yields it but to die;
Now bears the banner high,
Round which the struggling thousands close,
Nor yields it but to die;
Braves in the trench the burning breath
Of the ball that seeks him out,
Or charms his band to rush on death,
With his clear rallying shout.
Of the ball that seeks him out,
Or charms his band to rush on death,
With his clear rallying shout.
Oh! fancy pictures not amiss
That shapes a hero so;
These records tell how brave he is,
How gentle, well I know.
That shapes a hero so;
These records tell how brave he is,
How gentle, well I know.
I know that sinking comrades feel
His cheer like life's warm ray;
I know that foemen bless his steel
That spares where spare it may.
His cheer like life's warm ray;
I know that foemen bless his steel
That spares where spare it may.
46
In stories of heroic deeds
His name is never missed;
I kiss the word my dim eye reads
In the immortal list.
His name is never missed;
I kiss the word my dim eye reads
In the immortal list.
When trumpets stir his heart's brave blood
To a fierce dance of glee,
As one who guards him for his good
Does he e'er dream of me?
To a fierce dance of glee,
As one who guards him for his good
Does he e'er dream of me?
Laid in cold sleep 'mid nightwinds wintry,
Looks in no tender face
To turn that tent where Death stands sentry,
Into a blessed place?
Looks in no tender face
To turn that tent where Death stands sentry,
Into a blessed place?
Oh! these dull limits to enlarge,
This blank with life to fill!
Oh! to have been in that grand charge
Up Alma's deadly hill!
This blank with life to fill!
Oh! to have been in that grand charge
Up Alma's deadly hill!
47
See, step by step, how firm and slow
Those peerless men march on!
Through showers of death unmoved they go,
And the dreadful heights are won!
Those peerless men march on!
Through showers of death unmoved they go,
And the dreadful heights are won!
Love whirls me with an eager pain
Into the battle blast—
Oh! for an angel's wing to gain
And hold my hero fast!
Into the battle blast—
Oh! for an angel's wing to gain
And hold my hero fast!
Still must dumb frozen distance prove
The blank 'twixt him and me?
I will be with thee, oh! my love,
Whate'er thy fate may be.
The blank 'twixt him and me?
I will be with thee, oh! my love,
Whate'er thy fate may be.
Wilt thou return with a hero's name,
Or wear it in the grave?
Or lie, our grateful care to claim,
With thy country's bleeding brave?
Or wear it in the grave?
Or lie, our grateful care to claim,
With thy country's bleeding brave?
48
Oh, trebly by those wounds endeared!—
To feel, all flowing o'er,
A mother's heart towards one half feared
For manhood's pride before;
To feel, all flowing o'er,
A mother's heart towards one half feared
For manhood's pride before;
While each soft word swells from the heart,
Each look is softer still—
Be this but mine! my future part
Is happy, come what will;
Each look is softer still—
Be this but mine! my future part
Is happy, come what will;
Calmed by the farewell of a soul
So royal still in death,
Or making life a blessed whole
Clasped in his love and faith!
So royal still in death,
Or making life a blessed whole
Clasped in his love and faith!
A. December 31, 1854.
49
A VOTE OF THANKS.
Clasping hands from your two lands,
Twins in fame and death!
Both your names one love proclaims,
In one ardent breath.
Twins in fame and death!
Both your names one love proclaims,
In one ardent breath.
Different races, different faces,
Different speeches—what ye've done
At th' appeal of one pure zeal,
Melts them all to one!
Different speeches—what ye've done
At th' appeal of one pure zeal,
Melts them all to one!
Noble blows, as fervent foes,
Once ye dealt each other—
Nobler far the death-strokes are,
Brother shares with brother.
Once ye dealt each other—
Nobler far the death-strokes are,
Brother shares with brother.
50
Face to face, ye showed the world,
Once what men could do—
Side by side, your flags unfurled,
Now your past deeds all outdo.
Once what men could do—
Side by side, your flags unfurled,
Now your past deeds all outdo.
To our side—when heroes died,
Crushed by masses, seven to one—
All on flame our brothers came,
And the day was won!
Crushed by masses, seven to one—
All on flame our brothers came,
And the day was won!
Then the cheer Earth ne'er did hear,
Save where fate bids die or win,
From our ranks pealed England's thanks,
As they bounded in.
Save where fate bids die or win,
From our ranks pealed England's thanks,
As they bounded in.
To the brave the hail we gave
In that glorious cry,
Like the rapture of despair,
Went up to the sky.
In that glorious cry,
Like the rapture of despair,
Went up to the sky.
51
Men of England! Men of France!
The sad glories of the field,
With your blood, your brotherhood
To all time have sealed.
The sad glories of the field,
With your blood, your brotherhood
To all time have sealed.
O'er the bed of England's dead
France's tears have run—
England's praise fond homage pays
To the deeds that France has done.
France's tears have run—
England's praise fond homage pays
To the deeds that France has done.
A. December, 1854.
CHRISTMAS TIDE.
Startled oft from slumbers brief,
Listening for the far-off guns,
Drunk with glory and with grief,
England counts her slaughtered sons.
Listening for the far-off guns,
Drunk with glory and with grief,
England counts her slaughtered sons.
52
By a thousand Christmas fires
Sits a soldier's ghost to-day—
Many a soldier's soul expires
Whilst we revel far away.
Sits a soldier's ghost to-day—
Many a soldier's soul expires
Whilst we revel far away.
From the dancers, many a maiden
Draws away her hand in tears—
Many an orange chaplet hidden
In black raiment, disappears.
Draws away her hand in tears—
Many an orange chaplet hidden
In black raiment, disappears.
Thundering in the Crystal dome,
Battle-music shakes the walls—
And the broken hearts at home
Follow phantom funerals.
Battle-music shakes the walls—
And the broken hearts at home
Follow phantom funerals.
What though five barbarians fall
For each man of ours that dies,
Still we are not paid for all,
And we claim a costlier prize.
For each man of ours that dies,
Still we are not paid for all,
And we claim a costlier prize.
53
To build Truth a nobler throne—
To give Freedom wider air—
This is why we cheered them on,
This is why their graves are there.
To give Freedom wider air—
This is why we cheered them on,
This is why their graves are there.
This is why we still defy,
Czar! the bayonets of slaves—
And 'tis God's own victory
Rises grandly from our graves.
Czar! the bayonets of slaves—
And 'tis God's own victory
Rises grandly from our graves.
L. December, 1854.
NEW YEAR'S DAY.
Smiling sternly through her tears,
Comes the first day of the year;
Like the last, aloft she bears
Banners to two nations dear.
Comes the first day of the year;
Like the last, aloft she bears
Banners to two nations dear.
54
There the red cross of our land,
There the rainbow colours fly—
Passed by Death from hand to hand,
How they swept to victory!
There the rainbow colours fly—
Passed by Death from hand to hand,
How they swept to victory!
England greets thee, France, to-day,
Eager, for the year that's past,
From her heart of hearts to pay,
With a warm embrace at last.
Eager, for the year that's past,
From her heart of hearts to pay,
With a warm embrace at last.
By brave deeds and noble words,
Taught to charm old hates to rest—
France and England! be the swords
You have drawn together, blest!
Taught to charm old hates to rest—
France and England! be the swords
You have drawn together, blest!
L. January 3, 1855.
55
TO OUR ARMY.
England's Forlorn Hope, think not your dark days
Wear on, unwatched, forgot!
No—the whole world is empty, to her gaze,
Of all but that one spot.
Wear on, unwatched, forgot!
No—the whole world is empty, to her gaze,
Of all but that one spot.
When creaming, steaming, Euxine billows leaped,
And tore in their white wrath
The ship with all our best and choicest heaped
For that bare nook of earth,
And tore in their white wrath
The ship with all our best and choicest heaped
For that bare nook of earth,
Oh, then all England wailed, as though her life
Were in that sea-sunk freight,
When the wind-curdled waters in their strife
Moaned out, “Too late, too late!”
Were in that sea-sunk freight,
When the wind-curdled waters in their strife
Moaned out, “Too late, too late!”
56
Upon your couch of rain-soaked clay there falls
No chill but stabs us through;
No wind hath torn to strips your canvas walls,
But England felt it too.
No chill but stabs us through;
No wind hath torn to strips your canvas walls,
But England felt it too.
She kneels beside the bed that sees the war
Of patient strength with death;
She stretches out clasped hands of prayer from far,
To help your struggling breath.
Of patient strength with death;
She stretches out clasped hands of prayer from far,
To help your struggling breath.
Oh well, when once you're home, we'll tend you yet,
Our brave and dear defenders!
Kind hands, mute looks, choked thanks, shall own the debt
That Love to Valour renders.
Our brave and dear defenders!
Kind hands, mute looks, choked thanks, shall own the debt
That Love to Valour renders.
The air shall tremble round you in the street
With blessings everywhere;
Sacred in each sad home is kept your seat,
More sacred when you're there.
With blessings everywhere;
Sacred in each sad home is kept your seat,
More sacred when you're there.
57
We on your hearts that star shall worship, lit
Amid the dark of war;
We know the touch of Glory kindled it—
'Tis England's signet-star.
Amid the dark of war;
We know the touch of Glory kindled it—
'Tis England's signet-star.
Like divine fragments shall the limbs be prized
Maimed in our victories,
The noble forms your souls so sacrificed,
Be holy in our eyes.
Maimed in our victories,
The noble forms your souls so sacrificed,
Be holy in our eyes.
Dim with their gaze on your brave wounds shall grow
The laughing eyes of girls,
And on your tales of war and all its woe,
Their tears be strung like pearls.
The laughing eyes of girls,
And on your tales of war and all its woe,
Their tears be strung like pearls.
When of dear friends and noble deaths you tell,
Those dancing hearts shall move
As to slow music—then for you shall swell
With a full sister's love!
Those dancing hearts shall move
As to slow music—then for you shall swell
With a full sister's love!
A. January 27, 1855.
58
WORDS TO THE CZAR.
Since first the Sultan's wrong and wrath
Called up the West against the North,
Since two majestic champions there
Rose, and to Russia said, “Forbear!”
Oh, Czar! each stately onward stride
In our stern path, had God for guide.
Called up the West against the North,
Since two majestic champions there
Rose, and to Russia said, “Forbear!”
Oh, Czar! each stately onward stride
In our stern path, had God for guide.
When Moslems thronged with wondering din
To see the two fair fleets sail in,
See in the Golden Waters ride
The beauteous rivals side by side,
With snow-white sister-wings unfurled,
To guard the quiet of the world;
To see the two fair fleets sail in,
See in the Golden Waters ride
The beauteous rivals side by side,
With snow-white sister-wings unfurled,
To guard the quiet of the world;
59
When Varna's hot and hateful fen
Killed week by week our noblest men,
Where sickening night and glaring day
Turned youth and valour into clay;
In rest, in pest, by swamp, by sea,
We knew the triumphs yet to be.
Killed week by week our noblest men,
Where sickening night and glaring day
Turned youth and valour into clay;
In rest, in pest, by swamp, by sea,
We knew the triumphs yet to be.
When all our ships had overflowed
Those shores of thine with their brave load,
(Lo, all of them Hope's chosen knights,
The double-bannered host alights!)
Shot not a warning through the air,
That righteous vengeance landed there?
Those shores of thine with their brave load,
(Lo, all of them Hope's chosen knights,
The double-bannered host alights!)
Shot not a warning through the air,
That righteous vengeance landed there?
When the immortal march moved on,
When Alma's heights were braved and won,
When round the towers our vengeance claims,
Death cleared the lists for desperate games—
Deeds that took wonder's breath away!
Men who seized glory as a prey!
When Alma's heights were braved and won,
When round the towers our vengeance claims,
Death cleared the lists for desperate games—
60
Men who seized glory as a prey!
When every step of that great race
Caught laurels from each dreary place,
Where panting flew the warrior swarms
Into each other's bloody arms,
And dropped pale corpses from that hold—
Was Hope, our prophet, then too bold?
Caught laurels from each dreary place,
Where panting flew the warrior swarms
Into each other's bloody arms,
And dropped pale corpses from that hold—
Was Hope, our prophet, then too bold?
Her flying chariot fate has sped
From field to field, from dead to dead;
And now her redhot wheels she stays
'Twixt past and future battle-days.
Oh, Czar! in this our breathing-space,
We look into thy guilty face.
From field to field, from dead to dead;
And now her redhot wheels she stays
'Twixt past and future battle-days.
Oh, Czar! in this our breathing-space,
We look into thy guilty face.
Though with a thousand graves Earth parts
Their darlings from a thousand hearts;
Though those with strength for suffering curst
In bitter patience bear the worst;
For all, the end is yet to be—
Ask, if thou darst, what end for thee?
Their darlings from a thousand hearts;
61
In bitter patience bear the worst;
For all, the end is yet to be—
Ask, if thou darst, what end for thee?
A. January 8, 1855.
THE GHOSTS AND THE CZAR.
“Lo! we stand around thy pillow, Czar!
We are those who died!
English, French, and Russians, here we are,
Waiting at thy side!
We are those who died!
English, French, and Russians, here we are,
Waiting at thy side!
Lo! the comrades of the Camp and Sea,
From the brother-lands!
With our ghostly swords we come to thee,
In our blood-red hands!
From the brother-lands!
With our ghostly swords we come to thee,
In our blood-red hands!
62
Count our famous Colours one by one!
Count us man by man!
Lance and rifle, bayonet, sword, and gun!
Alma, Balaklava, Inkerman!
Count us man by man!
Lance and rifle, bayonet, sword, and gun!
Alma, Balaklava, Inkerman!
England counts us too with all her voices—
And France holds us dear!
Hark how Glory o'er our names rejoices
With her loudest cheer!
And France holds us dear!
Hark how Glory o'er our names rejoices
With her loudest cheer!
See these stains from the barbarian veins
Of thy drunken hosts!
With their bodies swarm three battle plains
And the air with ghosts!
Of thy drunken hosts!
With their bodies swarm three battle plains
And the air with ghosts!
See these poor love-tokens which thy dead
Held in cold embraces—
Letters love has writ, and love has read—
Portraits of sweet faces.
Held in cold embraces—
Letters love has writ, and love has read—
Portraits of sweet faces.
63
Oh! we pitied them when we had slain them!
Be their blood on thee!
But 'twas God that sent us to unchain them,
For the Dead are free!”
Be their blood on thee!
But 'twas God that sent us to unchain them,
For the Dead are free!”
“Yes, the Dead are free, and here are we;
Round thy bed we gather—
We, the wretched ones, once call'd thy sons,
Come to curse their father.
Round thy bed we gather—
We, the wretched ones, once call'd thy sons,
Come to curse their father.
Crowding home the bodiless are come,
From thy wicked wars!
Noble and slave, we rolled into one grave,
In a cursed cause!
From thy wicked wars!
Noble and slave, we rolled into one grave,
In a cursed cause!
We will lick no longer, with false faces,
Dust from off thy floor!
And the foot that stamped us all to pieces,
We will kiss no more!
Dust from off thy floor!
And the foot that stamped us all to pieces,
We will kiss no more!
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Now no more of lying, nor of spying—
'Twas a toilsome trade!
How we cheated, kissed the cheeks we hated,
Wheedled and betrayed!
'Twas a toilsome trade!
How we cheated, kissed the cheeks we hated,
Wheedled and betrayed!
Now no pale Siberia as we walk
In the crowded places,
Drops a sudden silence on our talk,
Horror on our faces!—
In the crowded places,
Drops a sudden silence on our talk,
Horror on our faces!—
On the day when first we faced our foes,
How their grand war-cry
All the slave-blood in our bosoms froze,
Ere we turned to fly.
How their grand war-cry
All the slave-blood in our bosoms froze,
Ere we turned to fly.
Yet upbraid us not, for well we fought
On that furious day,
When thy young sons there, mad as despair,
Lashed us to the fray!
On that furious day,
When thy young sons there, mad as despair,
Lashed us to the fray!
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Trampled, pierced, and shattered, thirsting, groaning,
As we lay and died,
Still we fired on the red soldier, moaning
Faintly at our side.
As we lay and died,
Still we fired on the red soldier, moaning
Faintly at our side.
When the conquerors came to seek and save us,
Still we fired and slew,
And full often from the cup they gave us
Drank their life-blood too—
Still we fired and slew,
And full often from the cup they gave us
Drank their life-blood too—
But the morning breaks! the world awakes!
Let the Living come
Bells to ring, and loud Te Deums sing,
When the Dead are dumb.”
Let the Living come
Bells to ring, and loud Te Deums sing,
When the Dead are dumb.”
L. January 8, 1855.
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THE BRAVE WHO HAVE NOT BLED.
What though our hearts are busy weaving wreaths
For all the battle's dead,
Think not that we forget the sacred deaths
Of those who have not bled
For all the battle's dead,
Think not that we forget the sacred deaths
Of those who have not bled
Beside their death-beds sit our souls in tears—
We watch them to their tombs—
We count the years lost in their sepulchres
To England and their homes.
We watch them to their tombs—
We count the years lost in their sepulchres
To England and their homes.
All that they did, and all they would have done,
We fondly hear and tell—
Soldier and brave physician, one by one
We bid them all farewell!
We fondly hear and tell—
Soldier and brave physician, one by one
We bid them all farewell!
L. January 9, 1855.
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THE GOOD PHYSICIAN.
[_]
[The name of Dr. Thomson, Assistant-Surgeon of the 44th Regiment, is well known. Of his soldier-servant and fellow-worker, a letter to the Times says:—“He is, I believe, still living. I have heard his name mentioned in terms of the greatest gratitude and admiration by the whole army in the Crimea, as John M'Grath, but have never heard of his having as yet received any reward for his noble devotion in the cause of humanity.” —Extract from a letter signed, “An Officer who was on the spot.”]
Thou God's true soldier! take thy place with those
Fall'n children of renown!
No swordsman fighting off a crowd of foes,
Toiled for a braver crown
Than thou, meek Duty's knight, who on thine arms lay'st down.
Fall'n children of renown!
No swordsman fighting off a crowd of foes,
Toiled for a braver crown
Than thou, meek Duty's knight, who on thine arms lay'st down.
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Lo! Alma's bloody battle-banquet o'er,
And the red revel left
In wasteful fragments and spilt cups of gore,
Vessels of life bereft,
And the half dead with limbs by British bayonets cleft.
And the red revel left
In wasteful fragments and spilt cups of gore,
Vessels of life bereft,
And the half dead with limbs by British bayonets cleft.
Hatred, and Wrath, and Death have had their day,
Their sickles swept the plains,
Now comes thine hour—'tis thine the last to stay
And glean with tender pains
The scattered fruit of Life, spared from their ghastly gains.
Their sickles swept the plains,
Now comes thine hour—'tis thine the last to stay
And glean with tender pains
The scattered fruit of Life, spared from their ghastly gains.
Thou seest thy comrades all stride past thee, plumed
With victory, to new fights—
Silent, as by past carnage still engloomed,
Watch round those shadowy heights;
Cossacks behind the hush swooping for prey like kites.
With victory, to new fights—
Silent, as by past carnage still engloomed,
Watch round those shadowy heights;
Cossacks behind the hush swooping for prey like kites.
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Round thee a dead and dying company!—
There find'st thou thy last place,
Amid those yet armed savages who lie
With dark distrustful face,
And looks that long to smite that Friend of hated race.
There find'st thou thy last place,
Amid those yet armed savages who lie
With dark distrustful face,
And looks that long to smite that Friend of hated race.
All day from Death's dumb heaps dost thou untomb
Life that but breathes in sighs,
Amongst departing souls, through night's long gloom,
Move thy true ministries,
Where none sleep save the dead, and wide wake danger's eyes.
Life that but breathes in sighs,
Amongst departing souls, through night's long gloom,
Move thy true ministries,
Where none sleep save the dead, and wide wake danger's eyes.
But for one faithful helper, all alone!—
Those five days counted o'er
Three hundred rescued lives—and then thine own,
Strained to its task no more,
Went from that prostrate crowd laid out on Earth's stained floor.
Those five days counted o'er
Three hundred rescued lives—and then thine own,
Strained to its task no more,
Went from that prostrate crowd laid out on Earth's stained floor.
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“Farewell and greeting, follower of the Best
Physician, Friend to man!”
Breathed from dim eyes on earth or souls at rest,
Whose new life just began—
“Go from our hearts to God's, thou good Samaritan!”
Physician, Friend to man!”
Breathed from dim eyes on earth or souls at rest,
Whose new life just began—
“Go from our hearts to God's, thou good Samaritan!”
A February 24, 1855.
SEBASTOPOL.
Sad Hope, who watching, o'er the waves,
That fortress on the cruel shore,
Seest all around it graves on graves
Of those who once thy standard bore,
That fortress on the cruel shore,
Seest all around it graves on graves
Of those who once thy standard bore,
Hear'st tender groan or piercing taunt,
O'er those brave Outcasts struggling there—
Till faint and fainter grows thy chant,
More and more like thy sigh, Despair!
O'er those brave Outcasts struggling there—
Till faint and fainter grows thy chant,
More and more like thy sigh, Despair!
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Oh! look again, pale Hope, for time
Ripens to fruit thy soul's dear aim;
That darling of Imperial crime,
That stronghold of all Europe's shame—
Ripens to fruit thy soul's dear aim;
That darling of Imperial crime,
That stronghold of all Europe's shame—
Though still our war's prolonged endeavour,
She scorns with rampart, shell, and ball,
We know she cannot stand for ever,
Since France and England swore her fall.
She scorns with rampart, shell, and ball,
We know she cannot stand for ever,
Since France and England swore her fall.
New life leaps daily on her coasts,
The trenches yawn, the guns advance,
A fire is in your hearts, oh! hosts,
That fight for England and for France!
The trenches yawn, the guns advance,
A fire is in your hearts, oh! hosts,
That fight for England and for France!
Feels she the stealing flame that waits
Her bulwark? Sees she how the foe
So fiercely trembling at her gates,
Counts the long hours to lay her low—
Her bulwark? Sees she how the foe
So fiercely trembling at her gates,
Counts the long hours to lay her low—
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When eyes that wept those noblest dead,
With a stern joy that God inspires,
Shall see, like funeral torches spread,
The blazing of those winter fires?
With a stern joy that God inspires,
Shall see, like funeral torches spread,
The blazing of those winter fires?
For, from the ruins of that pile,
On which our hearts so long have broken,
Shall Europe's war-stained Freedom smile,
And the world's solemn thanks be spoken.
On which our hearts so long have broken,
Shall Europe's war-stained Freedom smile,
And the world's solemn thanks be spoken.
A. January 8, 1855.
VISIONS.
I.
Mother! in whose ears, by night and day,
Furious horsehoofs down a valley sound,
Bursting like a thunderbolt away
From thy boy left groaning on the ground!
He, one moment past,
Proud to rush so fast
On the ball which met him at mid bound!
Furious horsehoofs down a valley sound,
Bursting like a thunderbolt away
From thy boy left groaning on the ground!
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Proud to rush so fast
On the ball which met him at mid bound!
Yes, oh mother! whosoe'er thou be,
Straining back, through soft October's sun,
All thy soul between two hills to see
Where those riderless war-horses run,
And their shining, shattered
Riders all lie scattered—
And to hasten through them, seeking for that one!
Straining back, through soft October's sun,
All thy soul between two hills to see
Where those riderless war-horses run,
And their shining, shattered
Riders all lie scattered—
And to hasten through them, seeking for that one!
Hang not o'er that vision on the sward
With an agony too sore to bear!
God hath saved for thee one farewell word,
And one lock of thy slain darling's hair!
Though, in that strange hour,
Pain had crushing power,
Love's unshattered heart preserved thine image there.
With an agony too sore to bear!
God hath saved for thee one farewell word,
And one lock of thy slain darling's hair!
Though, in that strange hour,
Pain had crushing power,
Love's unshattered heart preserved thine image there.
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Simple words were those his dying breath
Bravely uttered betwixt groan and groan,
Whilst his comrade on the road to death
Bent to catch the message and be gone—
Let none say they claim
Neither praise nor fame!
God hath heard and blest them, looking on!
Bravely uttered betwixt groan and groan,
Whilst his comrade on the road to death
Bent to catch the message and be gone—
Let none say they claim
Neither praise nor fame!
God hath heard and blest them, looking on!
II.
Thou, too, hearing in repeated trance
One that softly calls from a tent door,
Calleth in the kindly speech of France,
“Here he lies—and he will wake no more!
Ere, on the white ground,
Him at dawn we found,
Death had found him, and we brought him to this floor.”
One that softly calls from a tent door,
Calleth in the kindly speech of France,
“Here he lies—and he will wake no more!
Ere, on the white ground,
Him at dawn we found,
Death had found him, and we brought him to this floor.”
Well thou know'st the face to them unknown,
Laid out there in uncomplaining calm!
With thy piercing cry, “He died alone!
Frozen, whilst this hearth was blazing warm!”
Thou, for whose great anguish
Fancy finds a language,
Dream a softer dream o'er that poor form!
Laid out there in uncomplaining calm!
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Frozen, whilst this hearth was blazing warm!”
Thou, for whose great anguish
Fancy finds a language,
Dream a softer dream o'er that poor form!
Stealing through the wild, white gloom like hope,
Sleep caressed away his painful breath,
And his soul glid smoothly down a slope
Of delicious visions into death,
And, with murmurs dim,
Voices talked of him,
As we talk by beds where fever languisheth.
Sleep caressed away his painful breath,
And his soul glid smoothly down a slope
Of delicious visions into death,
And, with murmurs dim,
Voices talked of him,
As we talk by beds where fever languisheth.
All the grim war-landscape of the waste
Melted from those heavy, happy eyes—
Tent, and trench, and battery displaced
Slowly, for a fire-lit room to rise,
In whose curtained shade
All his children played,
And Death found his soul with thee in Paradise.
Melted from those heavy, happy eyes—
Tent, and trench, and battery displaced
Slowly, for a fire-lit room to rise,
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All his children played,
And Death found his soul with thee in Paradise.
III.
“Doctor, quick! I'm for the front again!
What's the loss of a left arm, I say?
Oh, I've seen our best and stoutest men
Trampled into muddy, bloody clay!—
Stones must serve our turn now—
Let the villains learn how
England's Guards can keep their ground to-day!”
What's the loss of a left arm, I say?
Oh, I've seen our best and stoutest men
Trampled into muddy, bloody clay!—
Stones must serve our turn now—
Let the villains learn how
England's Guards can keep their ground to-day!”
“Forward! forward! down the General goes!
Would to God my breast had turned that ball!
On them with the bayonet! charge and close!
Snatch those Colours e'er the brave boy fall!
Snatch them yet another!
Oh my own last brother!
Now the turn is mine to save them for you all!”
Would to God my breast had turned that ball!
On them with the bayonet! charge and close!
Snatch those Colours e'er the brave boy fall!
Snatch them yet another!
Oh my own last brother!
Now the turn is mine to save them for you all!”
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“Hark, it is our own brave Duke that speaks,
Come to count his battered Guardsmen o'er!
Look, the tears are running down his cheeks—
‘Never did I think to see you more!
No, my gallant fellows,
You, nor yet these Colours!
Never have they gone through such a day before!’”
Come to count his battered Guardsmen o'er!
Look, the tears are running down his cheeks—
‘Never did I think to see you more!
No, my gallant fellows,
You, nor yet these Colours!
Never have they gone through such a day before!’”
“Father! father! long e'er this I know
You have pardoned your rebellious son—
You must live until I come to show
Clasp and medal from my country won!
One for Alma, father,
One for Balaclava,
One for Inkerman, to tell you what I've done!”
You have pardoned your rebellious son—
You must live until I come to show
Clasp and medal from my country won!
One for Alma, father,
One for Balaclava,
One for Inkerman, to tell you what I've done!”
“Where's the tress she gave me when we parted,
Cut in haste from her fair lengths of hair—
When I thought she looked so broken-hearted,
I had won it ere we were aware?
Oh, our dance that night!
Anguish and Delight,
Love and Farewell, were the partners there.”
Cut in haste from her fair lengths of hair—
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I had won it ere we were aware?
Oh, our dance that night!
Anguish and Delight,
Love and Farewell, were the partners there.”
“Oh my cruel love! I thought of you,
In the roar and rattle of the strife,
And my heart was to its grief as true,
With a sword's point half an inch from life,
Or, when called to wait
In yon trench for fate,
As when you refused to be my wife!”
In the roar and rattle of the strife,
And my heart was to its grief as true,
With a sword's point half an inch from life,
Or, when called to wait
In yon trench for fate,
As when you refused to be my wife!”
Raving thus in the hushed blank of night,
Still as fever lifts its weary head,
There is one who glides with watchful light
Down the endless floor from bed to bed,
And the dream-vexed spirit
Feels a blessing near it,
In her robe's light stir, and in her foot's light tread.
Still as fever lifts its weary head,
There is one who glides with watchful light
Down the endless floor from bed to bed,
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Feels a blessing near it,
In her robe's light stir, and in her foot's light tread.
There is one who daily, nightly, too,
“Thinks of her beloved troops” afar,
One who from her palace blesses you,
Patient martyrs of a noble war!
All our hearts, no less,
Reverently confess
What you've done for us, and what you are!
“Thinks of her beloved troops” afar,
One who from her palace blesses you,
Patient martyrs of a noble war!
All our hearts, no less,
Reverently confess
What you've done for us, and what you are!
L. February, 1855.
THE BANQUET.
Come the maimed, the halt, the blind,
Welcome to a royal feast!
'Tis the banquet that mankind
Gives to those it loves the best.
Welcome to a royal feast!
'Tis the banquet that mankind
Gives to those it loves the best.
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Banquet of no giddy revel!
'Tis the solemn joy that pays
To the Conquerors of Evil
Immortalities of praise.
'Tis the solemn joy that pays
To the Conquerors of Evil
Immortalities of praise.
Hail you guests no longer living!
Silently we keep your place;
Rank no vain distinction giving,
Welcome all the laurelled race!
Silently we keep your place;
Rank no vain distinction giving,
Welcome all the laurelled race!
Leader to the pit of death,
Follower with a step as free,
Bounding back with throbbing breath—
Bring your wreaths for us to see!
Follower with a step as free,
Bounding back with throbbing breath—
Bring your wreaths for us to see!
Weary with triumphant toil,
Come with wounds, or rise from graves!
All in rich attire—the spoil
Seized in War's dark treasure caves.
Come with wounds, or rise from graves!
All in rich attire—the spoil
Seized in War's dark treasure caves.
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On your hearts that leapt toward danger
Glory lights her flaming star,
Blood-red marvel to the stranger,
England's seal to times afar.
Glory lights her flaming star,
Blood-red marvel to the stranger,
England's seal to times afar.
Each who poured his blood like wine,
Gave his body for a prey,
Battle's wreck, yet Glory's shrine,
Be his country's guest to-day!
Gave his body for a prey,
Battle's wreck, yet Glory's shrine,
Be his country's guest to-day!
A. March 3, 1855.
FLOWERS IN THE CRIMEA.
“The tents are turned to gardens”—sweet spring flowersLike children gaze for the first time on death;
They start in smiling wonder from beneath
The thunderbolts stored up by warring Powers;
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Like fairies, to embalm in innocent breath
Free hearts whose martyred valour covereth
With alien splendour yon tyrannic towers.
Can sweetness mingle thus with groans and wrath?
Oh, if the gardener, Nature, comes so quick
To smooth the horrors on Destruction's path,
Will not soft consolations bloom as thick
At home, amongst the ruins of each life
Whose all was risked and lost in its own England's strife?
L. March 19, 1855.
TO THE CZAR.
We look round for thee, and thou art not there!—With thy last breath, oh thou great Enemy!
We miss a dreadful glory from the sky,
And, in a half remorse, stand lingering where
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Baffled and silent, into vacancy;
Then—as one lays a thrilling story by—
Turn back regretful to the common air.
The grand poetic wrath has left the strife—
The glorious hate, which fed our hearts with fire,
Like a first love has vanished from our life,
To send the soul out for a new desire—
No more the passionate triumph of an hour,
But the grave victory of world-redeeming power.
L. March 5, 1855.
THE END.
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