The World's Best Poetry, Volume 08: National Spirit

THE LAST HUNT. THE LAST HUNT. Oh, it's twenty gallant gentlemen Rode out to hunt the deer, With mirth upon the silver horn And gleam upon the spear; They galloped through the meadow-grass, They sought the forest's gloom, And loudest rang Sir Morven's laugh, And lightest tost his plume. There's no delight by day or night Like hunting in the morn; So busk ye, gallant gentlemen, And sound the silver horn! They rode into the dark greenwood By ferny dell and glade, And now and then upon their cloaks The yellow sunshine played; They heard the timid forest-birds Break off amid their glee, They saw the startled leveret, But not a stag did see. Wind, wind the horn, on summer morn! Though ne'er a buck appear, There's health for horse and gentleman A-hunting of the deer! They panted up Ben Lomond's side Where thick the leafage grew, And when they bent the branches back The sunbeams darted through; Sir Morven in his saddle turned, And to his comrades spake, "Now quiet! we shall find a stag Beside the Brownies' Lake. Then sound not on the bugle-horn, Bend bush and do not break, Lest ye should start the timid hart A-drinking at the lake." Now they have reached the Brownies' Lake,— A blue eye in the wood,— And on its brink a moment's space All motionless they stood; When, suddenly, the silence broke With fifty bowstrings' twang, And hurtling through the drowsy air Full fifty arrows sang. Ah, better for those gentlemen, Than horn and slender spear, Were morion and buckler true, A-hunting of the deer. Not one of that brave company Shall hunt the deer again; Some fell beside the Brownies' Pool, Some dropt in dell or glen; An arrow pierced Sir Morven's breast, His horse plunged in the lake, And swimming to the farther bank He left a bloody wake. Ah, what avails the silver horn, And what the slender spear? There's other quarry in the wood Beside the fallow deer! O'er ridge and hollow sped the horse Besprent with blood and foam, Nor slackened pace until at eve He brought his master home. How tenderly the Lady Ruth The cruel dart withdrew! "False Tirrell shot the bolt," she said, "That my Sir Morven slew!" Deep in the forest lurks the foe, While gayly shines the morn: Hang up the broken spear, and blow A dirge upon the horn. WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER (Paul Hermes ). * * * * * THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. [1415.] Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Kause, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry, And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marchèd towards Agincourt In happy hour,— Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay With all his power, Which in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending; Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet, with an angry smile, Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then: Though they to one be ten, Be not amazèd; Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raisèd. And for myself, quoth he, This my full rest shall be; England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me, Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain; Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies. The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen, Excester had the rear,— A braver man not there: O Lord! how hot they were On the false Frenchmen! They now to fight are gone; Armor on armor shone; Drum now to drum did groan,— To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham! Which did the signal aim To our hid forces; When, from a meadow by, Like a storm, suddenly. The English archery Struck the French horses With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And, like true English hearts, Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilboes drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent; Scalps to the teeth were rent; Down the French peasants went; Our men were hardy. This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruisèd his helmet. Glo'ster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood With his brave brother, Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade; Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up. Suffolk his axe did ply; Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry; O, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry? MICHAEL DRAYTON. * * * * * THE KING TO HIS SOLDIERS BEFORE HARFLEUR. [1415.] FROM "KING HENRY V.," ACT III. SC. 1. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, As modest stillness, and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage: Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct; Let it pry through the portage of the head, Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it, As fearfully as doth a gallèd rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide; Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit To his full height!—On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders, Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought, And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. Dishonor not your mothers; now attest, That those whom you called fathers, did beget you! Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war!—And you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and, upon this charge, Cry—God for Harry! England! and Saint George! SHAKESPEARE. * * * * * THE CAVALIER'S SONG. A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed, A sword of metal keene! All else to noble heartes is drosse, All else on earth is meaue. The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come; And oh! the thundering presse of knightes, Whenas their war-cryes swell, May tole from heaven an angel bright, And rouse a fiend from hell. Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine; Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish feares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand— Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye; Our business is like men to fight, And hero-like to die! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. * * * * * GIVE A ROUSE. King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! Who gave me the goods that went since? Who raised me the house that sank once? Who helped me to gold I spent since? Who found me in wine you drank once? (Chorus) King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles ! To whom used my boy George quaff else, By the old fool's side that begot him? For whom did he cheer and laugh else, While Noll's damned troopers shot him? (Chorus) King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! ROBERT BROWNING. * * * * * NASEBY. [June, 1645.] BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH- LINKS-OF-IRON; SERGEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT. O, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the north, With your hands and your feet and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread? O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod: For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God. It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine, And the man of blood was there, with his long essenced hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The General rode along us to form us to the fight; When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line! For God! for the cause!—for the Church! for the laws! For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes! Close your ranks! For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or to fall. They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the last! Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground: Hark! hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank God! 'tis he, boys! Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here. Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes, Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar; And he,—he turns, he flies:—shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war! Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your search secure; Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broadpieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks, Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate? And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths! Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades? Down! down! forever down, with the mitre and the crown! With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope! There is woe in Oxford halls; there is wail in Durham's stalls; The Jesuit smites his bosom; the bishop rends his cope. And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword; And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word! THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY. * * * * * THE THREE SCARS. This I got on the day that Goring Fought through York, like a wild beast roaring— The roofs were black, and the streets were full, The doors built up with packs of wool; But our pikes made way through a storm of shot, Barrel to barrel till locks grew hot; Frere fell dead, and Lucas was gone, But the drum still beat and the flag went on. This I caught from a swinging sabre, All I had from a long night's labor; When Chester[A] flamed, and the streets were red, In splashing shower fell the molten lead, The fire sprang up, and the old roof split, The fire-ball burst in the middle of it; With a clash and a clang the troopers they ran, For the siege was over ere well began. This I got from a pistol butt (Lucky my head's not a hazel nut); The horse they raced, and scudded and swore; There were Leicestershire gantlemen, seventy score; Up came the "Lobsters," covered with steel— Down we went with a stagger and reel; Smash at the flag, I tore it to rag. And carried it off in my foraging bag. [Footnote A: Siege of Chester, in the civil war, 1645.] GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY. * * * * * FONTENOY. [May 11, 1745.] Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed, And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back diminished and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride! And mustering came his chosen troops like clouds at eventide. Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread; Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head. Steady they step adown the slopes, steady they mount the hill, Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace-blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast; And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve that mocked at hostile force. Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks, They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean-banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bombshells and grape and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired; Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on my household cavalry," King Louis madly cried. To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged they died. On through the camp the column trod—King Louis turned his rein. "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed; "the Irish troops remain." And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement, and true. "Lord Clare," he said, "you have your wish; there are your Saxon foes!" The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes. How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay! The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day: The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry; Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry; Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown— Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands: "Fix bayonets—charge!" Like mountain-storm rush on those fiery bands. Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow, Yet mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill, to face that battle-wind! Their bayonets the breakers' foam, like rocks the men behind! One volley crashes from their line, when through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza! "Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanagh!" Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang; Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore; Through scattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags they tore. The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, scattered, fled; The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead. Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field is fought and won! THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS. * * * * * BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. [April 2, 1801.] Of Nelson and the north Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line— It was ten of April morn by the chime. As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time. But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom— Then ceased—and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail, Or in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave: "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save; So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king." Then Denmark blessed our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore! Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou— Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! THOMAS CAMPBELL. * * * * * BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. [Corunna, Spain, January 16, 1809.] Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lanthorn dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow. That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him! But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone— But we left him alone with his glory. CHARLES WOLFE. * * * * * "PICCIOLA." It was a Sergeant old and gray, Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage, Went tramping in an army's wake Along the turnpike of the village. For days and nights the winding host Had through the little place been marching, And ever loud the rustics cheered, Till every throat was hoarse and parching. The Squire and Farmer, maid and dame, All took the sight's electric stirring, And hats were waved and staves were sung, And kerchiefs white were countless whirring. They only saw a gallant show Of heroes stalwart under banners, And, in the fierce heroic glow, 'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas. The Sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, Where he behind in step was keeping; But glancing down beside the road He saw a little maid sit weeping. "And how is this?" he gruffly said, A moment pausing to regard her;— "Why weepest thou, my little chit?" And then she only cried the harder. "And how is this, my little chit?" The sturdy trooper straight repeated, "When all the village cheers us on, That you, in tears, apart are seated? "We march two hundred thousand strong, And that's a sight, my baby beauty, To quicken silence into song And glorify the soldier's duty." "It's very, very grand, I know," The little maid gave soft replying; "And Father, Mother, Brother too, All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying; "But think—O Mr. Soldier, think,— How many little sisters' brothers Are going all away to fight And may be killed , as well as others!" "Why, bless thee, child," the Sergeant said, His brawny hand her curls caressing, "'Tis left for little ones like thee To find that War's not all a blessing." And "Bless thee!" once again he cried; Then cleared his throat and looked indignant, And marched away with wrinkled brow To stop the struggling tear benignaut. And still the ringing shouts went up From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; The pall behind the standard seen By one alone of all the village. The oak and cedar bend and writhe When roars the wind through gap and braken; But 'tis the tenderest reed of all That trembles first when Earth is shaken. ROBERT HENRY NEWELL. * * * * * WATERLOO. [June 15, 1815.] FROM "CHILDE HAROLD," CANTO III. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet,— But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who would guess If evermore should meet those mutual eyes Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips,—"The foe! they come! they come!" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard,—and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instills The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,—alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent! Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song! And his was of the bravest, and when showered The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along, Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered, They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard! There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring. I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honored but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: The tree will wither long before it fall; The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness; the ruined wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; The bars survive the captive they enthrall; The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on; Even as a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies, and makes A thousand images of one that was The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. LORD BYRON. * * * * * BY THE ALMA RIVER. [September 20, 1854,] Willie, fold your little hands; Let it drop,—that "soldier" toy; Look where father's picture stands,— Father, that here kissed his boy Not a mouth since,—father kind, Who this night may (never mind Mother's sob, my Willie dear) Cry out loud that He may hear Who is God of battles,—cry, "God keep father safe this day By the Alma River!" Ask no more, child. Never heed Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk; Right of nations, trampled creed, Chance-poised victory's bloody work; Any flag i' the wind may roll On thy heights, Sevastopol! Willie, all to you and me Is that spot, whate'er it be, Where he stands—no other word— Stands —God sure the child's prayers heard— Near the Alma River. Willie, listen to the bells Ringing in the town to-day; That's for victory. No knell swells For the many swept away,— Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep, We, who need not,—just to keep Reason clear in thought and brain Till the morning comes again; Till the third dread morning tell Who they were that fought and— fell By the Alma River. Come, we'll lay us down, my child; Poor the bed is,—poor and hard; But thy father, far exiled, Sleeps upon the open sward, Dreaming of us two at home; Or, beneath the starry dome, Digs out trenches in the dark, Where he buries—Willie, mark!— Where he buries those who died Fighting—fighting at his side— By the Alma River. Willie, Willie, go to sleep; God will help us, O my boy! He will make the dull hours creep Faster, and send news of joy; When I need not shrink to meet Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare In some eyes—child, say that prayer Once again,—a different one,— Say, "O God! Thy will be done By the Alma River." DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK. * * * * * CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. [October 25, 1854.] Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward. All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said; Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well; Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell, Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered: Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right through the line they broke: Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre-stroke, Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not— Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell,— All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. * * * * * THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. [September 25, 1857.] O, that last day in Lucknow fort! We knew that it was the last; That the enemy's lines crept surely on. And the end was coming fast. To yield to that foe meant worse than death; And the men and we all worked on; It was one day more of smoke and roar, And then it would all be done. There was one of us, a corporal's wife, A fair, young, gentle thing, Wasted with fever in the siege. And her mind was wandering. She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, And I took her head on my knee; "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, "Oh! then please wauken me." She slept like a child on her father's floor, In the flecking of woodbine-shade, When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, And the mother's wheel is stayed. It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, And hopeless waiting for death; And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, Seemed scarce to draw her breath. I sank to sleep; and I had my dream Of an English village-lane. And wall and garden;—but one wild scream Brought me back to the roar again. There Jessie Brown stood listening Till a sudden gladness broke All over her face; and she caught my hand And drew me near as she spoke:— "The Hielanders! O, dinna ye hear The slogan far awa, The McGregor's?—O, I ken it weel; It's the grandest o' them a'! "God bless thae bonny Hielanders! We're saved! we're saved!" she cried; And fell on her knees; and thanks to God Flowed forth like a full flood-tide. Along the battery-line her cry Had fallen among the men, And they started back;—they were there to die; But was life so near them, then? They listened for life; the rattling fire Far off, and the far-off roar, Were all; and the colonel shook his head, And they turned to their guns once more. But Jessie said, "The slogan's done; But winna ye hear it noo, The Campbells are comin' ? It's no' a dream; Our succors hae broken through!" We heard the roar and the rattle afar, But the pipes we could not hear; So the men plied their work of hopeless war And knew that the end was near. It was not long ere it made its way,— A thrilling, ceaseless sound: It was no noise from the strife afar, Or the sappers under ground. It was the pipes of the Highlanders! And now they played Auld Lang Syne; It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line. And they wept, and shook one another's hands, And the women sobbed in a crowd; And every one knelt down where he stood, And we all thanked God aloud. That happy day, when we welcomed them, Our men put Jessie first; And the general gave her his hand, and cheers Like a storm from the soldiers burst. And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed, Marching round and round our line; And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, As the pipes played Auld Long Syne . ROBERT T.S. LOWELL. * * * * * DANNY DEEVER. "What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade. "To turn you out, to turn you out," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade. "I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the Color-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play, The regiment's in 'ollow square—they're hangin' him to-day; They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. "What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" says Files-on-Parade. "A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun," the Color-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round, They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground; An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound— O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'! "'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Color-Sergeant said. "I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Color-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place, For 'e shot a comrade sleepin'—you must look 'im in the face; Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace, While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. "What's that so black agin the sun?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Color-Sergeant said. "What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Color-Sergeant said. For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play, The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away; Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day, After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. RUDYARD KIPLING. * * * * * WHERE ARE THE MEN? Where are the men who went forth in the morning, Hope brightly beaming in every face? Fearing no danger,—the Saxon foe scorning,— Little thought they of defeat or disgrace! Fallen is their chieftain—his glory departed— Fallen are the heroes who fought by his side! Fatherless children now weep, broken-hearted, Mournfully wandering by Rhuddlan's dark tide! Small was the band that escaped from the slaughter, Flying for life as the tide 'gan to flow; Hast thou no pity, thou dark rolling water? More cruel still than the merciless foe! Death is behind them, and death is before them; Faster and faster rolls on the dark wave; One wailing cry—and the sea closes o'er them; Silent and deep is their watery grave. From the Welsh of TALIESSIN, Translation of THOMAS OLIPHANT * * * * * BRUCE AND THE SPIDER. [About 1307.] For Scotland's and for freedom's right The Bruce his part had played, In five successive fields of fight Been conquered and dismayed; Once more against the English host His band he led, and once more lost The meed for which he fought; And now from battle, faint and worn, The homeless fugitive forlorn A hut's lone shelter sought. And cheerless was that resting-place For him who claimed a throne: His canopy, devoid of grace, The rude, rough beams alone; The heather couch his only bed,— Yet well I ween had slumber fled From couch of eider-down! Through darksome night till dawn of day, Absorbed in wakeful thoughts he lay Of Scotland and her crown. The sun rose brightly, and its gleam Fell on that hapless bed, And tinged with light each shapeless beam Which roofed the lowly shed; When, looking up with wistful eye, The Bruce beheld a spider try His filmy thread to fling From beam to beam of that rude cot; And well the insect's toilsome lot Taught Scotland's future king. Six times his gossamery thread The wary spider threw; In vain the filmy line was sped, For powerless or untrue Each aim appeared, and back recoiled The patient insect, six times foiled, And yet unconquered still; And soon the Bruce, with eager eye, Saw him prepare once more to try His courage, strength, and skill. One effort more, his seventh and last— The hero hailed the sign!— And on the wished-for beam hung fast That slender, silken line! Slight as it was, his spirit caught The more than omen, for his thought The lesson well could trace, Which even "he who runs may read," That Perseverance gains its meed, And Patience wins the race. BERNARD BARTON. * * * * * BANNOCKBURN. [June 24, 1314.] Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie. Now's the day, and now's the hour See the front o' battle lour: See approach proud Edward's power,— Chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa'? Let him follow me! By Oppression's woes and pains! By our sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow! Let us do, or die! ROBERT BURNS. * * * * * SONG OF CLAN-ALPINE. FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE," CANTO II. Loud a hundred clansmen raise Their voices in their chieftain's praise. Each boatman, bending to his oar, With measured sweep the burthen bore, In such wild cadence, as the breeze Makes through December's leafless trees. The chorus first could Allen know, "Roderigh Vich Alpine, ho! ieroe!" And near, and nearer, as they rowed, Distinct the martial ditty flowed. Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Honored and blessed be the evergreen Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shouts back again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" Ours is no sapling chance-sown by the fountain. Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. Moored in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, And Bannachar's groans to our slogan replied; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe; Lennox and Leven-glen Shake when they hear again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! Stretch to your oars for the evergreen Pine! O that the rosebud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem, Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from the deepmost glen, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!" SIR WALTER SCOTT. * * * * * BEAL' AN DHUINE. [1411.] FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE," CANTO VI. There is no breeze upon the fern, No ripple on the lake, Upon her eyrie nods the erne, The deer has sought the brake; The small birds will not sing aloud, The springing trout lies still, So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud, That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, Or echoes from the groaning ground The warrior's measured tread? Is it the lightning's quivering glance That on the thicket streams, Or do they flash on spear and lance The sun's retiring beams? I see the dagger crest of Mar, I see the Moray's silver star Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, That up the lake comes winding far! To hero bound for battle strife, Or bard of martial lay, 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, One glance at their array! Their light-armed archers far and near Surveyed the tangled ground, Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frowned, Their barbèd horsemen, in the rear, The stern battalia crowned. No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, The sullen march was dumb. There breathed no wind their crests to shake, Or wave their flags abroad; Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake, That shadowed o'er their road. Their vaward scouts no tidings bring, Can rouse no lurking foe, Nor spy a trace of living thing, Save when they stirred the roe; The host moves like a deep sea wave, Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, High swelling, dark, and slow. The lake is passed, and now they gain A narrow and a broken plain, Before the Trosach's rugged jaws; And here the horse and spearmen pause, While, to explore the dangerous glen, Dive through the pass the archer men. At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell. As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, Had pealed the banner cry of hell! Forth from the pass in tumult driven, Like chaff before the winds of heaven, The archery appear: For life! for life! their flight they ply— And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, And plaids and bonnets waving high, And broadswords flashing to the sky, Are maddening in the rear. Onward they drive, in dreadful race, Pursuers and pursued; Before that tide of flight and chase, How shall it keep its rooted place, The spearmen's twilight wood? —"Down, down," cried Mar, "your lances down! Bear back both friend and foe!" Like reeds before the tempest's frown, That serried grove of lances brown At once lay levelled low; And closely shouldering side to side, The bristling ranks the onset bide.— —"We'll quell the savage mountaineer, As their Tinchel[A] cows the game; They come as fleet as forest deer, We'll drive them back as tame." Bearing before them, in their course, The relics of the archer force, Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. Above the tide, each broadsword bright Was brandishing like beam of light, Each targe was dark below; And with the ocean's mighty swing, When heaving to the tempest's wing, They hurled them on the foe. I heard the lance's shivering crash, As when the whirlwind rends the ash; I heard the broadsword's deadly clang, As if a hundred anvils rang! But Moray wheeled his rearward flank— Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank— "My bannerman, advance! I see," he cried, "their columns shake. Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake, Upon them with the lance!" The horsemen dashed among the rout, As deer break through the broom; Their steeds are stout, their swords are out, They soon make lightsome room. Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne— Where, where was Roderick then? One blast upon his bugle-horn Were worth a thousand men! And refluent through the pass of fear The battle's tide was poured; Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, Vanished the mountain sword. As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, Receives her roaring linn, As the dark caverns of the deep Suck the wild whirlpool in, So did the deep and darksome pass Devour the battle's mingled mass; None linger now upon the plain, Save those who ne'er shall fight again. [Footnote A: A circle of sportsmen, surrounding the deer.] SIR WALTER SCOTT. * * * * *

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