Chapter V: Her Own (3)

Our old War-banners on the wind
Were waving merrily o'er them;
The hope of half the world behind--
The sullen Foe before them!
They trod their march of battle, bold
As death-devoted freemen;
Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old,
Or Rome's immortal Three Men.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow.
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?

With towering heart and lightsome feet
They went to their high places;
The fiery valour at white heat
Was kindled in their faces!
Magnificent in battle-robe,
And radiant, as from star-lands,
That spirit shone which girds our globe
With glory, as with garlands!
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?

They saw the Angel Iris o'er
Their deluge of grim fire;
And with their life's last tide they bore
The Ark of Freedom higher!
And grander 'tis i' the dash of death
To ride on battle's billows,
When Victory's kisses take the breath,
Than sink on balmiest pillows.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?

Brave hearts, with noble feelings flushed;
In valour's ruddy riot
But yesterday! how are ye hushed
Beneath the smile of quiet!
For us they poured their blood like wine,
From life's ripe-gathered clusters;
And far through History's night shall shine
Their deeds with starriest lustres.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?

We laid them not in churchyard home,
Beneath our darling daisies:
Where to their grave-mounds Love might come,
And sit and sing their praises.
But soothly sweet shall be their rest
Where Victory's hands have crowned them
To Earth our Mother's bosom pressed,
And Heaven's arms around them.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?

Yes, there they lie 'neath Alma's sod,
On pillows dark and gory--
As brave a host as ever trod
Old England's path to glory.
With head to home and face to sky,
And feet the tyrant spurning,
So grand they look, so proud they lie,
We weep for glorious yearning.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?

They in life's outer circle sleep,
As each in death stood sentry!
And like our England's dead still keep
Their watch for kin and country.
Up Alma, in their red footfalls,
Comes Freedom's dawn victorious,
Such graves are courts to festal halls!
They banquet with the Glorious.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?

Our Chiefs who matched the men of yore,
And bore our shield's great burden,
The nameless Heroes of the Poor,
They all shall have their guerdon.
In silent eloquence, each life
The Earth holds up to heaven,
And Britain gives for child and wife
As those brave hearts have given.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?

The Spirits of our Fathers still
Stand up in battle by us,
And, in our need, on Alma hill,
The Lord of Hosts was nigh us.
Let Joy or Sorrow brim our cup,
'Tis an exultant story,
How England's Chosen Ones went up
Red Alma's hill to glory.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?

BALACLAVA.

(October 25, 1854.) _THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE_.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

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 dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd.
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
Volley'd and thunder'd;
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.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd;
Plunged in the battery smoke
Right thro' the line they broke,
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not--
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' 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 wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

AFTER BALACLAVA,

BY JAMES WILLIAMS.

The fierce wild charge was over; back to old England's shore
Were borne her gallant troopers, who ne'er would battle more;
In hospital at Chatham, by Medway's banks they lay,
Dragoon, hussar, and lancer, survivors of the fray.

One day there came a message--'twas like a golden ray--
"Victoria, Britain's noble Queen, will visit you to-day;"
It lighted up each visage, it acted like a spell,
On Britain's wounded heroes, who'd fought for her so well.

One soldier lay among them, fast fading was his life,
A lancer from the border, from the good old county Fife;
Already was death's icy grasp upon his honest brow,
When through the ward was passed the word, "The Queen is coming
now!"

The dying Scottish laddie, with hand raised to his head,
Saluted Britain's Sovereign, and with an effort said--
"And may it please your Majesty, I'm noo aboot to dee,
I'd like to rest wi' mither, beneath the auld raugh tree.

"But weel I ken, your Majesty, it canna, mauna be,
Yet, God be thanked, I might hae slept wi' ithers o'er the sea,
'Neath Balaclava's crimsoned sward, where many a comrade fell,
But now I'll rest on Medway's bank, in sound of Christian bell."

She held a bouquet in her hand, and from it then she chose
For the dying soldier laddie a lovely snow-white rose;
And when the lad they buried, clasped in his hand was seen
The simple little snowy flower, the gift of Britain's Queen.

INKERMAN.

(November 5, 1854.)

BY GERALD MASSEY.

'Twas midnight ere our guns' loud laugh at their wild work did cease, And by the smouldering fires of war we lit the pipe of peace. At four a burst of bells went up through Night's cathedral dark, It seemed so like our Sabbath chimes, we could but wake, and hark! So like the bells that call to prayer in the dear land far away; Their music floated on the air, and kissed us--to betray. Our camp lay on the rainy hill, all silent as a cloud, Its very heart of life stood still i' the mist that brought its shroud; For Death was walking in the dark, and smiled his smile to see How all was ranged and ready for a sumptuous jubilee.

O wily are the Russians, and they came up through the mirk-- Their feet all shod for silence in the best blood of the Turk! While in its banks our fiery tide of War serenely slept, Their subtle serpentry unrolled, and up the hill-side crept. In the Ruins of the Valley do the birds of carnage stir? A creaking in the gloom like wheels! feet trample--bullets whir-- By God! the Foe is on us! Now the bugles with a start Thrill--like the cry of a wrongèd queen--to the red roots of the heart; And long and loud the wild war-drums with throbbing triumph roll-- A sound to set the blood on fire, and warm the shivering soul.

The war-worn and the weary leaped up ready, fresh, and true! No weak blood curdled white i' the face, no valour turned to dew. Majestic as a God defied, arose our little host-- All for the peak of peril pushed--each for the fieriest post! Thorough mist, and thorough mire, and o'er the hill brow scowling grim, As is the frown of Slaughter when he dreams his dreadful dream. No sun! but none is needed,--men can feel their way to fight, The lust of battle in their face--eyes filled with fiery light; And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the dark earth lay The prophesying morning-red of a great and glorious day.

As bridegroom leaves his wedded bride in gentle slumbers sealed, Our England slumbered in the West, when her warriors went afield. We thought of her, and swore that day to strike immortal blows, As all along our leagured line the roar of battle rose. Her banners waved like blessing hands, and we felt it was the hour For a glorious grip till fingers met in the throat of Russian power, And at a bound, and with a sound that madly cried to kill, The lion of Old England leapt in lightnings from the hill. And there he stood superb, through all that Sabbath of the Sword, And there he slew, with a terrible scorn, his hunters, horde on horde.

All Hell seemed bursting on us, as the yelling legions came-- The cannon's tongues of quick red fire licked all the hills aflame! Mad whistling shell, wild sneering shot, with devilish glee went past, Like fiendish feet and laughter hurrying down the battle-blast; And through the air, and round the hills, there ran a wrack sublime As though Eternity were crashing on the shores of Time. On bayonets and swords the smile of conscious victory shone, As down to death we dashed the Rebels plucking at our Throne. On, on they came with face of flame, and storm of shot and shell-- Up! up! like heaven-sealers, and we hurled them back to Hell.

Like the old sea, white-lipped with rage, they dash and foam despair On ranks of rock, ah! what a prize for the wrecker death was there! But as 'twere River Pleasaunce, did our fellows take that flood, A royal throbbing in the pulse that beat voluptuous blood: The Guards went down to the fight in gray that's growing gory red-- See! save them, they're surrounded! leap your ramparts of the dead, And back the desperate battle, for there is but one short stride Between the Russ and victory! One more tug, you true and tried-- The Red-Caps crest the hill! with bloody spur, ride, Bosquet, ride! Down like a flood from Etna foams their valour's burning tide.

Now, God for Merrie England cry! Hurrah for France the Grand! We charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand to hand! He caught a shadowy glimpse across the smoke of Alma's fray Of the Destroying Angel that shall blast his strength to-day. We shout and charge together, and again, again, again Our plunging battle tears its path, and paves it with the slain. Hurrah! the mighty host doth melt before our fervent heat; Against our side its breaking heart doth faint and fainter beat. And O, but 'tis a gallant show, and a merry march, as thus We sound into the glorious goal with shouts victorious!

From morn till night we fought our fight, and at the set of sun Stood conquerors on Inkerman--our Soldiers' Battle won. That morn their legions stood like corn in its pomp of golden grain! That night the ruddy sheaves were reaped upon the misty plain! We cut them down by thunder-strokes, and piled the shocks of slain: The hill-side like a vintage ran, and reeled Death's harvest-wain. We had hungry hundreds gone to sup in Paradise that night, And robes of Immortality our ragged braves bedight! They fell in boyhood's comely bloom, and bravery's lusty pride; But they made their bed o' the foemen dead, ere they lay down and died.

We gathered round the tent-fire in the evening cold and gray, And thought of those who ranked with us in battle's rough array, Our comrades of the morn who came no more from that fell fray! The salt tears wrung out in the gloom of green dells far away-- The eyes of lurking Death that in Life's crimson bubbles play-- The stern white faces of the dead that on the dark ground lay Like statues of old heroes, cut in precious human clay-- Some with a smile as life had stopped to music proudly gay-- The household gods of many a heart all dark and dumb to-day! And hard hot eyes grew ripe for tears, and hearts sank down to pray.

From alien lands, and dungeon-grates, how eyes will strain to mark This waving Sword of Freedom burn and beckon through the dark! The martyrs stir in their red graves, the rusted armour rings Adown the long aisles of the dead, where lie the warrior kings. To the proud Mother England came the radiant victory With laurels red, and a bitter cup like some last agony. She took the cup, she drank it up, she raised her laurelled brow: Her sorrow seemed like solemn joy, she looked so noble now. The dim divine of distance died--the purpled past grew wan, As came that crowning glory o'er the heights of Inkerman.

KILLED IN ACTION.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

For him no words, the best were only weak
And could not say what love desires to speak;
For him no praise, no prizes did he ask,
To serve his Queen was a sufficient task;
For him no show, no idle tears be shed,
No fading laurels on that lowly head.
He fought for England, and for her he fell
And did his duty then--and it is well.

He deemed it but a little act, to give
His life and all, if Freedom thus might live;
And though he found the shock of battle rough,
He might not flinch--the glory was enough.
What if he broke, who would not tamely bend?
He strove for us, and craved no other end.
Nor should we ring too long his dying knell,
He has a soldier's crown--and it is well.

For him the tomb that is a nation's heart,
And doth endure when crumbling stones depart;
To him the honour, like the brave to stand,
With those who were in danger our right hand;
For him no empty epitaph of dust,
But that he kept for England safe her trust.
He is not dead; but, over war's loud swell,
Heard he his Captain's call--and it is well.

AT THE BREACH.

BY SARAH WILLIAMS.

All over for me
The struggle and possible glory!
All swept past,
In the rush of my own brigade.
Will charges instead,
And fills up my place in the story;
Well,--'tis well,
By the merry old games we played.

There's a fellow asleep, the lout! in the shade of the hillock yonder; What a dog it must be to drowse in the midst of a time like this! Why, the horses might neigh contempt at him; what is he like, I wonder? If the smoke would but clear away, I have strength in me yet to hiss.

Will, comrade and friend,
We parted in hurry of battle;
All I heard
Was your sonorous, "Up, my men!"
Soon conquering pæans
Shall cover the cannonade's rattle;
Then, home bells,
Will you think of me sometimes, then?

How that rascal enjoys his snooze! Would he wake to the touch of powder? A réveille of broken bones, or a prick of a sword might do. "Hai, man! the general wants you;" if I could but for once call louder: There is something infectious here, for my eyelids are dropping too.

Will, can you recall
The time we were lost on the Bright Down?
Coming home late in the day,
As Susie was kneeling to pray,
Little blue eyes and white night-gown,
Saying, "Our Father, who art,--
Art what?" so she stayed with a start.
"In Heaven," your mother said softly.
And Susie sighed, "So far away!"--
'Tis nearer, Will, now, to us all.

It is strange how that fellow sleeps! stranger still that his sleep should haunt me; If I could but command his face, to make sure of the lesser ill: I will crawl to his side and see, for what should there be to daunt me? What there! what there! Holy Father in Heaven, not Will!

Will, dead Will!
Lying here, I could not feel you!
Will, brave Will!
Oh, alas, for the noble end!
Will, dear Will!
Since no love nor remorse could heal you,
Will, good Will!
Let me die on your breast, old friend!

SANTA FILOMENA.

(FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.)

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[It was the practice of Florence Nightingale to pay a last visit to the wards of the military hospital in the Crimea after the doctors and the other nurses had retired for the night. Bearing a light in her hand she passed from bed to bed and from ward to ward, until she became known as "the Lady with the Lamp."]

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares,
Out of all meaner cares.

Honour to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow,
Raise us from what is low!

Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the dead,
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp,--

The wounded from the battle-plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain,
The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering gloom
And flit from room to room.

And slow as in a dream of bliss
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,
The light shone and was spent.

On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.

A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear,
The symbols that of yore
St. Filomena bore.

THE LITTLE HATCHET STORY.

WITH OCCASIONAL QUESTIONS BY A FIVE-YEAR-OLD HEARER.

BY BURDETTE.

Mrs. Caruthers had left her infant prodigy, Clarence, in our care for a little while that she might not be distracted by his innocent prattle while selecting the material for a new gown.

He was a bright, intelligent boy, of five summers, with a commendable thirst for knowledge, and a praiseworthy desire to understand what was said to him.

We had described many deep and mysterious things to him, and to escape the possibility of still more puzzling questions, offered to tell him a story--_the_ story--the story of George Washington and his little hatchet. After a few necessary preliminaries we proceeded.

"Well, one day, George's father--"

"George who?" asked Clarence.

"George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his father--"

"Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest.

"George Washington's; this great man we are telling you of. One day George Washington's father gave him a little hatchet for a--"

"Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear child interrupted with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn't. We know how to talk to children. So we went on.

"George Washington."

"Who gave him the little hatchet?"

"His father. And his father--"

"Whose father?"

"George Washington's."

"Oh!"

"Yes, George Washington's. And his father told him--"

"Told who?"

"Told George."

"Oh, yes, George."

And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We took up the story right where the boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said:

"And he was told--"

"George told him?" queried Clarence.

"No, his father told George--"

"Oh!"

"Yes, told him he must be careful with the hatchet--"

"Who must be careful?"

"George must."

"Oh!"

"Yes, must be careful with his hatchet--"

"What hatchet?"

"Why, George's."

"Oh!"

"Careful with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave it out of doors all night. So George went around cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. At last he came to a splendid apple tree, his father's favourite apple tree, and cut it down--"

"Who cut it down?"

"George did."

"Oh!"

"But his father came home and saw it the first thing, and--"

"Saw the hatchet?"

"No, saw the apple tree. And he said, 'Who has cut down my favourite apple tree?'"

"What apple tree?"

"George's father's. And everybody said they didn't know anything about it, and--"

"Anything about what?"

"The apple tree."

"Oh!"

"And George came up and heard them talking about it--"

"Heard who talking about it?"

"Heard his father and the men."

"What were they talking about?"

"About the apple tree."

"What apple tree?"

"The favourite tree that George had cut down."

"George who?"

"George Washington."

"Oh!"

"So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he--"

"What did he cut it down for?"

"Just to try his little hatchet."

"Whose little hatchet?"

"Why, his own, the one his father gave him--"

"Gave who?"

"Why, George Washington."

"Oh!"

"So George came up, and he said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I--"

"Who couldn't tell a lie?"

"George couldn't."

"Oh, George; oh, yes."

"It was I who cut down your apple tree; I did--"

"His father did?"

"No, no; it was George said this."

"Said he cut his father?"

"No, no, no; said he cut down his apple tree."

"George's apple tree?"

"No, no; his father's."

"Oh!"

"He said--"

"His father said?"

"No, no, no; George said, 'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little hatchet.' And his father said, 'Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand apple trees than have you tell a lie.'"

"George did?"

"No, his father said that."

"Said he'd rather have a thousand apple trees?"

"No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple trees than--"

"Said he'd rather George would?"

"No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie."

"Oh, George would rather have his father lie?"

We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of the snarl.

And as Clarence Alençon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father named George, and he told him to cut down an apple tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple tree.

THE LOSS OF THE "BIRKENHEAD."

(February 25, 1852.)

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

[The _Birkenhead_ was lost off the coast of Africa by striking on a hidden rock, when the soldiers on board sacrificed themselves, in order that the boats might be left free for the women and children.]

Right on our flank the sun was dropping down;
The deep sea heaved around in bright repose;
When, like the wild shriek from some captured town,
A cry of women rose.

The stout ship _Birkenhead_ lay hard and fast,
Caught without hope upon a hidden rock;
Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when thro' them passed
The spirit of that shock.

And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranks
In danger's hour, before the rush of steel,
Drifted away, disorderly, the planks
From underneath her keel.

So calm the air--so calm and still the flood,
That low down in its blue translucent glass
We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood,
Pass slowly, then repass.

They tarried, the waves tarried, for their prey!
The sea turned one clear smile! Like things asleep
Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay,
As quiet as the deep.

Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush, and wreck,
Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply,
Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deck
Form'd us in line to die.

To die!--'twas hard, while the sleek ocean glow'd
Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers:
"_All to the Boats!_" cried one--he was, thank God,
No officer of ours.

Our English hearts beat true--we would not stir:
That base appeal we heard, but heeded not:
On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir,
To keep without a spot.

They shall not say in England, that we fought
With shameful strength, unhonour'd life to seek;
Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought
By trampling down the weak.

So we made the women with their children go,
The oars ply back again, and yet again;
Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low,
Still, under steadfast men.

----What follows, why recall?--The brave who died,
Died without flinching in the bloody surf,
They sleep as well beneath that purple tide
As others under turf.

They sleep as well! and, roused from their wild grave,
Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again,
Joint heirs with Christ, because they bled to save
His weak ones, not in vain.

If that day's work no clasp or medal mark,
If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press,
Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower or Park,
This feel we none the less:

That those whom God's high grace there saved from ill,
Those also left His martyrs in the bay,
Though not by siege, though not in battle, still
Full well had earned their pay.

ELIHU.

BY ALICE CAREY.

"O sailor, tell me, tell me true,
Is my little lad--my Elihu--
A-sailing in your ship?"
The sailor's eyes were dimmed with dew.
"Your little lad? Your Elihu?"
He said with trembling lip;
"What little lad--what ship?"

What little lad?--as if there could be
Another such a one as he!
"What little lad, do you say?
Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee.
It was just the other day
The _Grey Swan_ sailed away."

The other day? The sailor's eyes
Stood wide open with surprise.
"The other day?--the _Swan?_"
His heart began in his throat to rise.
"Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies
The jacket he had on."
"And so your lad is gone!"

"Gone with the _Swan_." "And did she stand
With her anchor clutching hold of the sand
For a month, and never stir?"
"Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land,
Like a lover kissing his lady's hand,
The wild sea kissing her--
A sight to remember, sir."

"But, my good mother, do you know,
All this was twenty years ago?
I stood on the _Grey Swan's_ deck,
And to that lad I saw you throw--
Taking it off, as it might be so--
The kerchief from your neck;"
"Ay, and he'll bring it back."

"And did the little lawless lad,
That has made you sick and made you sad,
Sail with the _Grey Swan's_ crew?"
"Lawless! the man is going mad;
The best boy ever mother had;
Be sure, he sailed with the crew--
What would you have him do?"

"And he has never written line,
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,
To say he was alive?"
"Hold--if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine;
Besides, he may be in the brine;
And could he write from the grave?
Tut, man! what would you have?"

"Gone twenty years! a long, long cruise;
'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;
But if the lad still live,
And come back home, think you you can
Forgive him?" "Miserable man!
You're mad as the sea; you rave--
What have I to forgive?"

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,
And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild:
"My God!--my Father!--is it true?
My little lad--my Elihu?
And is it?--is it?--is it you?
My blessed boy--my child--
My dead--my living child!"

THE LAST OF THE "EURYDICE."

BY SIR NOEL PATON.

(Sunday, March 24, 1878.)

The training ship _Eurydicé_--
As tight a craft, I ween,
As ever bore brave men who loved
Their country and their queen--
Built when a ship, sir, _was_ a ship,
And not a steam-machine.

Six months or more she had been out,
Cruising the Indian Sea;
And now, with all her canvas bent--
A fresh breeze blowing free--
Up Channel in her pride she came,
The brave _Eurydicé_.

On Saturday it was we saw
The English cliffs appear,
And fore and aft from man and boy
Uprang one mighty cheer;
While many a rough-and-ready hand
Dashed off the gathering tear.

We saw the heads of Dorset rise
Fair in the Sabbath sun.
We marked each hamlet gleaming white,
The church spires one by one.
We thought we heard the church bells ring
To hail our voyage done!

"Only an hour from Spithead, lads:
Only an hour from home!"
So sang the captain's cheery voice
As we spurned the ebbing foam;
And each young sea-dog's heart sang back,
"Only an hour from home!"

No warning ripple crisped the wave,
To tell of danger nigh;
Nor looming rack, nor driving scud;
From out a smiling sky,
With sound as of the tramp of doom,
The squall broke suddenly,

A hurricane of wind and snow
From off the Shanklin shore.
It caught us in its blinding whirl
One instant, and no more;--
For ere we dreamt of trouble near,
All earthly hope was o'er.

No time to shorten sail--no time
To change the vessel's course;
The storm had caught her crowded masts
With swift, resistless force.
Only one shrill, despairing cry
Rose o'er the tumult hoarse,

And broadside the great ship went down
Amid the swirling foam;
And with her nigh four hundred men
Went down in sight of home
(Fletcher and I alone were saved)
Only an hour from home!

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

BY H.W. LONGFELLOW.

(September 13, 1852.)

A mist was driving down the British Channel,
The day was just begun,
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
And the white sails of ships;
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover,
Were all alert that day,
To see the French war-steamers speeding over,
When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
Their cannon through the night,
Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance,
The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations
On every citadel;
Each answering each, with morning salutations,
That all was well.

And down the coast, all taking up the burden,
Replied the distant forts,
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden
And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,
No drum-beat from the wall,
No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure
Awaken with its call!

No more, surveying with an eye impartial
The long line of the coast,
Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal
Be seen upon his post!

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,
In sombre harness mailed,
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer,
The rampart wall has scaled.

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The dark and silent room,
And as he entered, darker grew and deeper
The silence and the gloom.

He did not pause to parley or dissemble,
But smote the Warden hoar;
Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble,
And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead:
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead.

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

BY FELICIA HEMANS.

Son of the ocean isle!
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is reared o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free, the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'erswayed,
With fearful power the noon-day reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun
From Heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!
_There_ slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far, by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread
For those that from their toils are gone;--
_There_ slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should _they_ reck whose task is done?
_There_ slumber England's dead.

The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

But let the storms rage on!
Let the forest-wreaths be shed:
For the Roncesvalles' field is won,--
_There_ slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern-night-clouds lour;

But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
_Their_ course with mast and flag is done,
Even _there_ sleep England's dead.

The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles?
The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.

MEHRAB KHAN.

BY SIR F.H. DOYLE.

["Mehrab Khan died, as he said he would, sword in hand, at the door of his own Zenana."--_Capture of Kelat_.]

(1839.)

With all his fearless chiefs around
The Moslem leader stood forlorn,
And heard at intervals the sound
Of drums athwart the desert borne.
To him a sign of fate, they told
That Britain in her wrath was nigh,
And his great heart its powers unrolled
In steadiness of will to die.

"Ye come, in your mechanic force,
A soulless mass of strength and skill--
Ye come, resistless in your course,
What matters it?--'Tis but to kill.
A serpent in the bath, a gust
Of venomed breezes through the door,
Have power to give us back to dust--
Has all your grasping empire more?

"Your thousand ships upon the sea,
Your guns and bristling squares by land,
Are means of death--and so may be
A dagger in a damsel's hand.
Put forth the might you boast, and try
If it can shake my seated will;
By knowing when and how to die,
I can escape, and scorn you still.

"The noble heart, as from a tower,
Looks down on life that wears a stain;
He lives too long who lives an hour
Beneath the clanking of a chain.
I breathe my spirit on my sword,
I leave a name to honour known,
And perish, to the last the lord
Of all that man can call his own."

Such was the mountain leader's speech;
Say ye, who tell the bloody tale,
When havoc smote the howling breach,
Then did the noble savage quail?
No--when through dust, and steel, and flame,
Hot streams of blood, and smothering smoke,
True as an arrow to its aim,
The meteor-flag of England broke;

And volley after volley threw
A storm of ruin, crushing all,
Still cheering on a faithful few,
He would not yield his father's hall.
At his yet unpolluted door
He stood, a lion-hearted man,
And died, A FREEMAN STILL, before
The merchant thieves of Frangistan.

THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR.

BY SIR F.H. DOYLE.

[Told to the author by the late Sir Charles James Napier.]

Eleven men of England
A breast-work charged in vain;
Eleven men of England
Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain.
Slain; but of foes that guarded
Their rock-built fortress well,
Some twenty had been mastered,
When the last soldier fell.

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way
Across the sand-waves of the desert sea,
Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay,
Lord of their wild Truckee.

These missed the glen to which their steps were bent,
Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard,
And, in that glorious error, calmly went
To death without a word.

The robber chief mused deeply,
Above those daring dead,
"Bring here," at length he shouted,
"Bring quick, the battle thread.
Let Eblis blast for ever
Their souls, if Allah will:
But we must keep unbroken
The old rules of the Hill.

"Before the Ghiznee tiger
Leapt forth to burn and slay;
Before the holy Prophet
Taught our grim tribes to pray;
Before Secunder's lances
Pierced through each Indian glen;
The mountain laws of honour
Were framed for fearless men.

"Still when a chief dies bravely,
We bind with green one wrist--
Green for the brave, for heroes
One crimson thread we twist.
Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen,
For these, whose life has fled,
Which is the fitting colour,
The green one, or the red?"

"Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear
Their green reward," each noble savage said;
"To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear,
Who dares deny the red?"

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right,
Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came;
Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height
Rolled back its loud acclaim.

Once more the chief gazed keenly
Down on those daring dead;
From his good sword their heart's blood
Crept to that crimson thread.
Once more he cried, "The judgment,
Good friends, is wise and true,
But though the red be given,
Have we not more to do?

"These were not stirred by anger,
Nor yet by lust made bold;
Renown they thought above them,
Nor did they look for gold.
To them their leader's signal
Was as the voice of God:
Unmoved, and uncomplaining,
The path it showed they trod.

"As, without sound or struggle,
The stars unhurrying march,
Where Allah's finger guides them,
Through yonder purple arch.
These Franks, sublimely silent,
Without a quickened breath,
Went, in the strength of duty,
Straight to their goal of death.

"If I were now to ask you
To name our bravest man,
Ye all at once would answer,
They called him Mehrab Khan.
He sleeps among his fathers,
Dear to our native land,
With the bright mark he bled for
Firm round his faithful hand.

"The songs they sing of Roostrum
Fill all the past with light;
If truth be in their music,
He was a noble knight.
But were those heroes living,
And strong for battle still,
Would Mehrab Khan or Roostrum
Have climbed, like these, the Hill?"

And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave
As chief, he chose himself what risks to run;
Prince Roostrum lied, his forfeit life to save,
Which these had never done."

"Enough!" he shouted fiercely;
"Doomed though they be to hell,
Bind fast the crimson trophy
Round _both_ wrists--bind it well.
Who knows but that great Allah
May grudge such matchless men,
With none so decked in heaven,
To the fiends' flaming den?"

Then all those gallant robbers
Shouted a stern "Amen!".
They raised the slaughtered sergeant,
They raised his mangled ten.
And when we found their bodies
Left bleaching in the wind,
Around _both_ wrists in glory
That crimson thread was twined.

Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core,
Rung like an echo to that knightly deed;
He bade its memory live for evermore,
That those who run may read.

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

["Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the _Kotow_. The Sikhs obeyed, but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill."--_Times_.]

_Last night_ among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs
Who never looked before.
_To-day_ beneath the foeman's frown
He stands in Elgin's place
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,
A heart with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord or axe or flame;
He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

For Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleam'd
One sheet of living snow;
The smoke above his father's door,
In grey, soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more
Doom'd by himself, so young?

Yes, honour calls!--with strength like steel
He put the vision by.
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untamed,
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring--
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.

A FISHERMAN'S SONG.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Hurrah! the craft is dashing
Athwart the briny sea;
Hurrah! the wind is lashing
The white sails merrily;
The sun is shining overhead,
The rough sea heaves below;
We sail with every canvas spread,
Yo ho! my lads, yo ho!

Simple is our vocation,
We seek no hostile strife;
But 'mid the storm's vexation
We succour human life;
O, simple are our pleasures,
We crave no miser's hoard,
But haul the great sea's treasures
To spread a frugal board.

But if at usurpation
We needs must strike a blow,
Our hardy avocation
Shall fit us for the foe;
Then let the despot's strength compete
Upon the open sea,
And on the proudest of his fleet
Our flag shall flutter free.

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

BY LORD BYRON.

Stop!--for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be;
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?...

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 window'd 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 stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rush'd 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
Blush'd 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 ever more 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 instils
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 valour, 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 of 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, heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!

THE LAY OF THE BRAVE CAMERON.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

At Quatre Bras, when the fight ran high,
Stout Cameron stood with wakeful eye,
Eager to leap as a mettlesome hound,
Into the fray with a plunge and a bound,
But Wellington, lord of the cool command,
Held the reins with a steady hand,
Saying, "Cameron, wait, you'll soon have enough.
Give the Frenchmen a taste of your stuff,
When the Cameron men are wanted."

Now hotter and hotter the battle grew,
With tramp and rattle, and wild halloo,
And the Frenchmen poured, like a fiery flood,
Right on the ditch where Cameron stood.
Then Wellington flashed from his steadfast stance
On his captain brave a lightning glance,
Saying, "Cameron, now have at them, boy,
Take care of the road to Charleroi,
Where the Cameron men are wanted."

Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from a bow
Into the midst of the plunging foe,
And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent,
Sweeping the rocks in its foamy current;
And he fell the first in the fervid fray,
Where a deathful shot had shove its way,
But his men pushed on where the work was rough,
Giving the Frenchmen a taste of their stuff,
Where the Cameron men were wanted.

'Brave Cameron, then, front the battle's roar
His foster-brother stoutly bore,
His foster-brother with service true,
Back to the village of Waterloo.
And they laid him on the soft green sod,
And he breathed his spirit there to God,
But not till he heard the loud hurrah
Of victory billowed from Quatre Bras,
Where the Cameron men were wanted.

By the road to Ghent they buried him then,
This noble chief of the Cameron men,
And not an eye was tearless seen
That day beside the alley, green:
Wellington wept--the iron man!
And from every eye in the Cameron clan
The big round drop in bitterness fell,
As with the pipes he loved so well
His funeral wail they chanted.

And now he sleeps (for they bore him home,
When the war was done across the foam),
Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben,
With his sires, the pride of the Cameron men.
Three thousand Highlandmen stood round,
As they laid him to rest in his native ground;
The Cameron brave, whose eye never quailed,
Whose heart never sank, and whose hand never failed,
Where a Cameron man was wanted.

A SONG FOR STOUT WORKERS.

BY JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

Onward, brave men, onward go,
Place is none for rest below;
He who laggeth faints and fails.
He who presses on prevails!

Monks may nurse their mouldy moods
Caged in musty solitudes;
Men beneath the breezy sky
March to conquer or to die!

Work and live--this only charm
Warms the blood and nerves the arm,
As the stout pine stronger grows
By each gusty blast that blows.

On high throne or lonely sod,
Fellow-workers we with God;
Then most like to Him when we
March through toil to victory.

If there be who sob and sigh.
Let them sleep or let them die;
While we live we strain and strive,
Working most when most alive!

Where the fairest blossom grew,
There the spade had most to do;
Hearts that bravely serve the Lord,
Like St. Paul, must wear the sword!

Onward, brothers, onward go!
Face to face to find the foe!
Words are weak, and wishing fails,
But the well-aimed blow prevails!

AT THE BURIAL OF A VETERAN.

"Hodie tibi, cras mihii."

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Yours to-day and ours to-morrow,
Hither, comrade, hence to go;
Yours the joy and ours the sorrow,
Yours the weal and ours the woe.

What the profit of the stronger?
Life is loss and death is gain;
Though we live a little longer,
Longer life is longer pain.

Which the better for the weary--
Longer travel? Longer rest?
Death is peace, and life is dreary:
He must die who would be blest.

You have passed across the borders,
Death has led you safely home;
We are standing, waiting orders,
Ready for the word to come.

Empty-handed, empty-hearted,
All we love have gone before,
And since they have all departed,
We are loveless evermore.

Yours to-day and ours to-morrow,
Hither, comrade, hence to go;
Yours the joy and ours the sorrow,
Yours the weal and ours the woe.

NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

I love contemplating--apart
From all his homicidal glory--
The traits that soften to our heart
Napoleon's story.

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne,
Armed in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.

They suffered him,--I know not how,
Unprisoned on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow
On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain, half-way over,
With envy--_they_ could reach the white
Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought
To England nearer.

At last, when care had banished sleep,
He saw one morning, dreaming, doating,
An empty hogshead from the deep
Come shoreward floating.

He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The livelong day, laborious, lurking,
Until he launched a tiny boat,
By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond
Description wretched: such a wherry,
Perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or crossed a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt-sea field,
It would have made the boldest shudder;
Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,--
No sail--no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipped he would have passed
The foaming billows.

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,
His little Argo sorely jeering.
Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger,
And, in his wonted attitude,
Addressed the stranger.

"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned,
Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassioned."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad;
"But,--absent years from one another,--
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother."

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said,
"You've both my favour fairly won,
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold,
And, with a flag of truce, commanded
He should be shipped to England old,
And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift
To find a dinner, plain and hearty,
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Buonaparte.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

(January 16, 1809.)

BY REV. CHARLES WOLFE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampant we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.