HAVELOCK'S MARCH.
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Behold
a phantom-form appears, majestic in its gloom!
Mournfully it looks across a Chasm deep as doom:
A quivering heartache seems to move its withered, wordless lips;
Familiar eyes are kindling through their wan light of eclipse:
It is the Ancient Mother rising, Sphinx-like, 'mid her sands,
To plead with those who will not hear. She wrings her wrinkled
hands;
Yearns over both. As Brothers long ago she brought them forth,
Her dusky darlings and her great white Heroes of the North!
The Children have no memories of the Morning-Land, and yet
The Mother's heart remembers, though all the world forget.
We look with horror, when the blood grows
cold,
On that which stung us hotly enough of old;
Blame me not wantonly: I do but draw
Faintly the thing we felt; the sight we saw! |
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THE REVOLT. |
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"COME hither, my brave Soldier boy, and sit
you
by my side,
To hear the tale, a fearful tale, a glorious tale
of pride;
How Havelock with his handful, all so faithful
and so few,
Held on in that far Indian land, to bear our
England through
Her bloodiest pass of peril, and her reddest sea
of wrath;
And strode like Paladins of old on their avenging
path.
Though clothes were drenched, and flesh was
parched, or bones were chilled with cold,
The gallant hearts never gave up; they never
loosed their hold;
But fought right on, and triumphed, till our eyes
rained as we read
How proudly every place was filled, with living
and with dead.
"The stillness of a brooding storm lay on that
Eastern land;
The dark death-circle narrowed round our little
English band:
The false Sepoy stooped lower for his spring, and
in his eye
A bloody light was burning on them, as he
glided by:
Old Horrors rose, and leered at them, from out
the tide of time,—
The peering peaks of War's old world, whose
brows were stained with crime!
The conscious Silence was but dumb, a cursèd
Plot to hide;
The darkness only a mask of Death, ready to
slip aside.
Under the leafy palms they lay, and through
their gay green crown
Our English saw no Storm roll up: no Fate
swift-flaming down.
"At last it came. The Rebel drum was heard
at dead of night:
They dashed in dust the only torch that showed
the face of Right!
Once more the Devil clutches at his lost throne
of the earth,
And sends a people, smit with plague of madness,
howling forth.
As in a Demon's dream they swarm from horrible
hiding-nooks;
Red Murder stabs the air, and lights their way
with maddening looks!
Snuffing the smell of human blood, the cruel
Moloch stands;
Hearing the cry of 'Kill! Kill! Kill!' and claps
his gory hands.
At dead of night, while England slept, the fearful
vision came,
She looked, and with a dawn of hell the East
was all aflame.
"Stern tidings flashed to Havelock, of legions in
revolt:
'The Traitors turn upon us, and the eaters of our
salt,
Subtle as death, and false as hell, and cruel as the
grave,
Have sworn to rend us by the root; be quick, if ye
would save;
The wild beasts bloody and obscene, mad-drunk
with gore and lust,
Have wreaked a horrible vengeance on our England
rolled in dust.'
And such a withering wind doth blow, such
fearful sounds it brings,
The soul with shudders tries to shake off thoughts
like creeping things.
A vast invisible Terror twines its fingers in the
hair,
With one hand feeling for the throat; a hand
that will not spare.
"They slew the grizzled Warrior, who to them
had been so true;
The ruddy stripling with frank eyes of bonny
northern blue;
They slew the Maiden as she slept; the Mother
great with child;
The Babe, that smiled up in their face, they
stabbed it as it smiled!
The piteous, pleading, hoary hair they draggled
in red mire;
And mocked the dying as they dashed out,
frantic from the fire,
To fall upon their Tulwars, hacked to Death;
the bayonet
Held up some child; the demons danced around
it writhing yet:
Warm flesh, that kindled so with life, was torn,
and slowly hewn,
To daintiest morsels for the feast where Death
began too soon.
"Our English girls, whose sweet red blood went
dancing on its way,
A merry marriage-maker quick for its near
wedding-day,—
All life awaiting for the breath of Love's sweet
south to blow,
And budding bridal roses ripe with secret balms
to flow,—
They stripped them naked as they were born;
naked along the street,
In their own blood they made them dip their
delicate white feet:
With some last rag of shelter the poor helpless
darling tries
To hide her from the cruel hell of those devouring
eyes;
Then, plucking at the skirts of Death, she prayerfully
doth cling,
To hide her from the eyes that still gloat round
her in a ring.
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THE AVENGERS. |
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"'Now, Soldiers of our England, let your love arise
in power;
For never yet was greater need than in this awful
hour:
Together stand like old true hearts that never fear
nor flinch;
With feet that have been shod for death, never to
yield an inch.
Our Empire is a Ship on fire, before a howling
wind,
With such a smoke of torment, as might make high
heaven blind!
Wild Ruin waves his flag of flame, and ye must
spring on deck,
And quench the fire in blood, and save our treasures
from the wreck.'
Many a time has England thought she sent her
bravest forth;
But never went more gallant men of more heroic
worth.
"Hungry and lean, through rain and mire, our
War-wolves ravening go
On their long march, that shall not mete the red
grave of the foe:
Like winter trees stripped to their naked strength
of heart and arm,
That glory in their grimness as they tussle with
the storm!
Only a handful few and stern, and few and stern
their words;
Strange meaning in their eyes that meet and
strike out sparks like swords!
And there goes Havelock, leading the Forlorn
Hope of our land:
The quick heart spurring at their side; the
banner of their band:
Kindled, but calm, along their ranks his steady
eye doth run,
As Marksman seeks the death-line down the
level of his gun.
"Beneath the whitening snows of age his spirit-
ardours glow,
As glow the fragrant fires of spring in flowers
beneath the
snow.
Look in his grave and martial face, with Love's
dear pity
touched;
A saviour soul doth sanctify the sword his hand
hath clutched;
A little while his silent thoughts have gone
within to
pray,
And send a farewell of the heart to the dear
ones far
away.
He prays to God to light him through the perilous
darkness,
when
He grapples with the beasts of blood, and quells
them in their
den.
And now his look is lifted in the light of some
far goal;
His lips the living trumpet of a gray-haired
Seer's soul.
"On th' house-tops of Allahabad black, scowling
brows were
bent,
In hate, and deep, still curses, on our heroes as
they went
To fight their hundred-days-long fight; all true
as their good
steel,
The Highlanders of Havelock, the Fusileers of
Neil!
A falling firmament of rain the heavens were
pouring down;
They heeded not the drowning heavens, nor yet the
foeman's
frown:
Forward they strained with hearts afire, and gallantly
they toiled
Till darkness fell upon them: then the Moon
uprose and
smiled.
A little thing! and yet it seemed at such a time
to come
Just like a proud and mournful smile from the
very heart of
Home.
"That night they halted in a Snipe-swamp; hungry,
cold, and
drenched;
With hearts that kept the blitheness of brave
men that
never blenched.
Through flooding Nullah, slushy sand, onward
they strode
again,
Ere Dawn, a winèd glory, lit upon the burnished
rain,
And mists up-gathered sullenly along the rear
of flight,
Slowly as beaten Belooches might lounge from
out the
fight.
Then heaven grew like inverted hell; a blazing
vault of fire!
The Sun pursuing pitiless, to bring the brain-strokes
nigher;
With sworded splendours fierce in front, and
darting down
all day,
Intently as the eyes of Death a-feeding on his prey.
"All the day long, and every day, with patience
conquering
pain,
Our good and gallant fellows with one purpose
forward
strain;
For there is that within each heart nothing but
death can
stop;
They hurry on, and hurry on, and hurry till
they drop;
Trying to save the remnant; reach the leaguered
place in time
To grasp, with red-wet slaughtering hands, the
workers of
this crime.
They think of all the dead that float adown the
Ganges'
waters:
Those noble Englishmen of ours; their gentle
wives and
daughters!
Of Fire and Madness broken loose, and doing
deeds most
pitiful;
And then of vengeance dealt out by the choked
and blackened
city-full.
"They think of those poor things that climb each
little eminence;
As, from the deluge of the dark, when day is
going hence,
The sheep will huddle up the hill, and gather
there forlorn;
So gather they in this dread night, to wait the
far-off morn.
Or, crouching in the Jungle, they look up in
Nature's face,
To find she has no heart, for all her Reptilinear
grace!
Each leaf a sword, or prickly spear, or lifted
jagged knife!
No shields of shelter like our leaves; but threatening
human life,
With ominous hints of blood; and there the
roots go writhing round,
Like curses coiled upon the spring, that rest not
underground.
"They find sure tokens all the day! and starting
from their dream
At night, they hear the Pariah dogs that howl
by Ganges' stream,
Knowing the waters bear their freight of corpses
stiff and stark,
Scenting the footfalls on the air, as Death glides
down the dark;
Only the Lotus with ripe lips, and arms caressing
clings.
The silence swarms with ghostly thoughts; each
sound with ghastly things.
There stands the plough i' the furrow; there the villagers
have flown!
There Fire ran dancing over roofs that underfoot
went down!
There Renaud hung his dangling dead, with but
short time for shrift,
He caught them on their way to hell, and gave
them a last lift.
"They saw the first sight of their foe as the fourth
dawn grew red;
Twenty miles to breakfast marched; and had to
fight instead.
The morning smiled on arms up-piled, and weary
wayworn men,
But soon the Assembly sounded, and they sprang
to arms again;
The heaviest heart up-leaping light, as flames
that tread on air.
The Rebel line bore down as they had caught us
unaware;
But Maude dashed forward with his Guns, across
the sandy mire,
And little did they relish our bright rain of rifle
fire:
Quickly the onward way was ploughed, with
heaps on either hand;
They broke the foe, then broke their fast, that
dauntless little band.
"Again they felt our withering fire, by Pandoo
Nuddee stream;
Again they feared the crashing charge, and fled
the vengeful gleam:
Small loss was his in battle when the Conqueror
looked round;
But many fell from weariness, and died without
a wound.
Soft, whispering flowery secrets, came a low
wind of the west
That eve, like breath made balmy with the sweet
love in the breast;
Breathing its freshness through the groves of
Mango and of Palm;
But the sweetest thing that wind could bring
was slumber's holy balm,
To bless them for the morrow, and give strength
for them to cope
With those ten thousand men that stood betwixt
them and their hope.
"It must have been a glorious sight to see them
as they went,
With veteran valour steady; sure of proud
accomplishment.
When Havelock bade his line advance, the
Highlanders swept on;
Each one at heart a thousand; a thousand men
as one;
Linked in their beautiful proud line across the
broken lands,
Straight on! they never paused to lift the
weapon in their hands;
Silent, compact and resolute, charged as a
thundercloud
That burst, and wrapped the dead and living in
one smoky shroud;
One volley of Defiance! one wild cheer! and
through the smoke
They flashed! and all the battle into flying
fragments broke.
"When night came down they lay there, gashed
all over, side by side,
The gray old warrior and the youth, his Mother's
darling pride!
Rolled with the rebel in the dust, and grim in
bloody death;
And over all the mist arose, dank as the graveyard's
breath.
But light of heart we took the hill, and very
proud that night
Was Havelock of his noble men, and Cawnpore
was in sight.
The men had neither food nor tent, but the red
road was won:
And very proud were they to hear their General's
'Well done';
Not knowing how their shout of triumph rang
a fatal knell;
Nor what that wretch had wrought who has no
match this side of Hell.
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CAWNPORE. |
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"Cawnpore was ghastly silent, as into it they
stepped;
There stood the blackened Ruin that the brave
old Soldier kept!
Where strained each ear for the English cheer,
and stretched the wan wide eyes,
Through all that awful night to see the signal-
rocket rise;
No tramp, no cheer of Brothers near; no distant
Cannon's boom;
Nothing but death goes to and fro betwixt the
glare and gloom.
The living remnant try to hold their bit of bloodstained
ground;
Dark gaps continual in their midst; the dead
all lying round;
And saddest corpses still are those that die, and
do not die:
With just a little glimmering light of life to
show them by.
"Each drop of water cost a wound to fetch it from
the well;
The father heard his crying child and went, but
surely fell.
They had drunk all their tears, and now dry
agony drank their blood;
The sand was killing in their souls; the wind a
fiery flood;
Oh, for one waft of heather-breath from off a
Scottish wold!
One shower that makes our English leaves smile
greener for its gold!
Then life drops inward from the eyes; turns
upward with last prayer,
To look for its deliverance; the only way lies
there:
And then triumphant Treachery made leap each
trusting heart,
Like some poor Bird called from the nest, uppoising
for the dart.
"'Come, let us pray,' their Chaplain said. No
other boon was craved:
No pleading word for mercy sued; no face the
white flag waved;
But all grasped hands and prayed, till peace
their souls serenely filled;
Then like our noble Martyrs, there they stood
up, and were killed.
Only One saved!
He led our soldiers to the House of Blood;
An eager, panting, cursing crew! but stricken
dumb they stood
In silence that was breathlessness of vengeance
infinite;
A-many wept like women who were fiercest in
the fight:
There grew a look in human eyes as though a
wild beast came
Up in them at that scent of blood and glared
devouring flame.
"All the Babes and Women butchered! all the
dear ones dead;
The story of their martyrdom in lines of awful
red!
The blood-black floor, the clotted gore, fair
tresses, deep sword-dints;
Last message-scrawl upon the wall, and tiny
finger-prints:
Gathered in one were all strange sights of horror
and despair,
That make the vision blood-shot, freeze the life,
or lift the hair.
Faces to faces flashed hell-fire! Oh, but they
felt 'twould take
The very cup of God's own wrath, that gasping
thirst to slake:
For many a day 'Cawnpore' was hissed, and, at
its word of guilt,
The slaying sword went merciless, right ruddy
to the hilt.
"There came a time we caught them, with a vast
o'erwhelming wave,
And of their grand Secunder Bagh we made a
trophied grave.
Once more the Highlanders pressed on with
stern avenging tread,
And Peel was there with his big guns, and
Campbell at their head:
A spring of daring madness! and they leapt
upon their prey
With hungry hearts on fury fed, for many and
many a day.
For hours and hours they slew, and slew, the
devils in their den:
'Ye wreaked your will on Women weak, now try
it with strong men.'
The blood that cried to heaven long in vapours
from our slain,
Fell hot and fast upon their heads in showers
of ruddy rain.
"That day they saw their delicate white marbles
glow and swim;
There rose a cry like hell from out a slaughter
great and grim:
And as they clasped their hands and sued for
mercy where they fell,
One last sure thrust was given for that red and
writhing Well.
And there was joy in every heart, and light in
every eye,
To see the Traitor hordes that fled, make one last
stand to die!
While from the big wide wounds, like snakes,
the runlets crawled along
And stole away; the reptiles who had done the
cruel wrong!
A terrible reprisal for each precious drop they
spilled.
Seventeen hundred cowardly killers there were
bravely killed. |
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THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. |
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"England's unseen, dead Sorrow doth a visible
Angel rise;
The sword of Justice in her hand; Revenge looks
through her eyes:
Stern with the purpose in her soul right onward
hastens she,
Like one that bears the doom of worlds, with
vengeful majesty;
Sombre, superb, and terrible, before them still
she goes!
And though they lessen day by day, they deal
such echoing blows,
That still dilating with success, still grows that
little band,
Till in the place of hundreds, ten thousand seem
to stand.
With arms that weary not at work, they bear
our victor flag,
To plant it high on hills of dead, a torn and
bloody rag.
"Proud Lucknow lies before them,—all its pageantry
unrolled;
Against the smiling sapphire gleam her tops of
lighted gold.
Each royal wall is fretted all with frostwork
and with fire,
A glory of colour jewel-rich, that makes a
splendour-pyre,
As wave on wave the wonder breaks, the pointed
flames burn higher,
On dome of Mosque and Minaret, on pinnacle
and spire;
Fairy Creations, seen mid-air, that in their pleasaunce
wait,
Like wingèd creatures sitting just outside their
heaven-gate.
The City in its beauty lies, with flowers about
her feet;
Green fields, and goodly gardens, make so foul
a thing seem sweet.
"The Bugle rings out for the march, and, with
its fiercest thrill,
Goes to the heart of Havelock's men, and works
its lordly will,
Making their spirits thrill as leaves are thrilled
in some wild wind;
Hunger and heartache, weariness and wounds,
all left behind.
Their sufferings all forgotten now, as in the
ranks they form;
And every soul in stature rose to wrestle with
the storm.
All silent! what was hid at heart could not be
said in words:
With faces set for Lucknow, ground to sharpness,
keen as swords.
A tightening twitch all over! a grim glistening
in the eye,
'Forward!' and on their way they strode to
dare, and do, and die.
"Hope whispers at the ear of some, that they
shall meet again,
And clasp their long-lost darlings, after all the
toil and pain;
A-many know that they will sleep to-night
among the slain;
And many a cheek will bloom no more for all the
tearful rain:
And some have only vengeance; but to-day 'tis
bitter sweet;
And there goes Havelock! his the aim too lofty
for defeat;
With steady tramp the column treads, true as
the firm heart's-bea:
Strung for its headlong murderous march through
that long fatal street.
All ready to win a soldier's grave, or do the
daring deed!
But not a man that fears to die for England in
her need.
"The masked artillery raked the road, and
ploughed them front and flank;
Some gallant fellow every step was stricken
from the rank;
But, as he staggered, in his place another sternly
stepped;
And, firing fast as they could load, their onward
way they kept.
Now, give them the good bayonet! with England's
sternest foes,
Strong arm, cold steel has done it, in the wildest,
bloodiest close:
And now their Bayonets flash in forks of
Lightning up the ridge,
And with a cheer they take the guns, another,
clear the bridge.
One good home-thrust! and surely, as the dead
in doom are sure,
They send them where that British cheer can
trouble them no more.
"The fire is biting bitterly; onward the battle
rolls;
Grim Death is glaring at them, from ten thousand
hiding-holes;
Death stretches up from earth to heaven, spreading
his darkness round;
Death piles the heaps of helplessness face downward
to the ground;
Death flames from sudden Ambuscades, where
all was still and dark;
Death swiftly speeds on whizzing wings the
bullets to their mark;
Death from the doors and windows, all around
and overhead,
Darts, with his cloven fiery tongues, incessant,
quick, and red:
Death everywhere, Death in all sounds, and,
through its smoke of breath,
Victory beckons at the end of long dark lanes
of death.
"Another charge, another cheer, another Battery
won!
And in a whirlwind of fierce fire the fight went
roaring on
Into the very heart of hell: with Comrades falling
fast,
Through all that tempest terrible, the glorious
remnant passed.
No time to help a dear old friend: but where
the wounded fell,
They knew it was all over, and they looked a last
farewell.
And dying eyes, slow-setting in a cold and stony
stare,
Turned upward, saw a map of murder scribbled
on the air
With crossing flames; and others read their
fiery fearful fate,
In dark, swart faces waiting for them, whitening
with their hate.
"But, proudly men will march to death, when
Havelock leads them on:
Through all the storm he sat his horse as he
were cut in stone!
But now his look grows dark; his eye gleams
with uneasy flash:
'On, for the Residency, we must make a last brave
dash.'
And on dashed Highlander and Sikh through a
sea of fire and steel,
On, with the lion of their strength, our first in
glory, Niel!
It seemed the face of heaven grew black, so
close it held its breath,
Through all the glorious agony of that long
march of death.
The round shot tears, the bullets rain; dear
God, outspread Thy shield!
Put forth Thy red right arm, for them, Thy
sword of sharpness wield!
"One wave breaks forward on the shore, and one
falls helpless back:
Again they club their wasted strength, and fight
like 'Hell-fire Jack.'1
And ever as fainter grows the fire of that
intrepid band,
Again they grasp the bayonet as 'twere Salvation's
hand.
They leap the broad, deep trenches, rush through
archways streaming fire;
Every step some brave heart bursts, heaving
deliverance nigher:
'I'm hit,' cries one, 'you'll take me on your back,
old Comrade, I
Should like to see their dear white faces once before
I die;
My body may save you from the shot.'
His Comrade bore him on:
But, ere they reached the Bailie Guard, the
hurrying soul was gone.
1
Sobriquet of Captain Olpherts
"And now the Gateway arched in sight; the last
grim tussle came.
One moment makes immortal! dead or living,
endless fame!
They heard the voice of fiery Niel, that for the
last time thrilled;
'Push on, my men, 'tis getting dark': he sat
where he was killed.
Another frantic surge of life, and plunging o'er
the bar,
Right into harbour hurling goes their whirling
wave of war,
And breaks in mighty thunders of reverberating
cheers,
Then dances on in frolic foam of kisses, blessings,
tears.
Stabbed by mistake, one native cries with the
last breath he draws,
'Welcome, My Friends, never you mind, it's all for
the good cause.'
"How they had leaned and listened, as the battle
sounded nigher;
How they had strained their eyes to see them
coming crowned with fire!
Till in the flashing street below they heard them
pant for breath,
And then the friendly faces smiled clear from
the cloud of death;
And iron grasp met tender clasp; wan weeping
women fold
Their dear Deliverers, down whose long brown
beards the big tears rolled.
Another such a meeting will not be on this side
heaven!
The little wine they have hoarded, to the last
drop shall be given
To those who, in their mortal need, fought on
through fearful odds,
Bled for them, reached them, saved them, less
like men than glorious gods.
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DEATH OF HAVELOCK. |
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"The Warrior may be ripe for rest, and laurelled
with great deeds,
But till their work be done, no rest for those
whom God yet needs:
Whether in rivers of ruin their onward way
they tear,
Or healing waters trembling with the beauty
that they bear;
Blasting or blessing they must on: on, on, for
ever on!
Divine unrest is in their breast, until their work
is done.
Nor is it all a pleasant path the sacred band
must tread,
With life a summer holiday, and death a downy
bed!
They wear away with noble use, they drink the
tearful cup;
And they must bear the Cross who are bidden
with the Christ to sup.
"Each day his face grew thinner, and sweeter,
saintlier grew
The smiling soul that every day was burning
keenlier through.
And higher, each day higher, did the life-flame
heavenward climb,
Like sad sweet sunshine up the wall, that for
the sunset time
Seems watching till the signal that shall call it
hence is
given;
Even so his spirit kept the watch, till beckoned
home to heaven.
His work was done, his eyes with peace were
soft and
satisfied;
War-worn and wasted, in the arms of Victory
he died.
'Havelock's dead,' and darkness fell on every upturned
face;
The shadow of an Angel passing from its earthly
place.
"In the red pass of peril, with a fame shall never
dim,
Died Havelock, the Good Soldier: who would
not die like
him?
In grandest strength he fell, full-length; and
now our hero climbs
To those who stood up in their day and spoke
with after
times:
There on the battlements of Heaven, they watch
us, looking back
To see the blessing flow for those who follow in
their track.
He smileth from his heaven now; the Martyr
with his palm;
The weary warrior's tired life is crowned with
starry calm.
On many sailing through the storm another star
shall shine,
And they shall look up through the night and
conquer at the sign.
"They laid it low, the old gray head, not only
gray with years;
It had been bowed in Sorrow's lap and silvered
with her tears;
Our England may not crown it, with her heart
too full for speech;
The hand that draws into the dark, hath borne
it beyond reach.
The eyes of far-away heaven-blue, with such
keen lustre lit,
As they could pierce the dark of death, and,
star-like, fathom it,
They may not swim with sweetness as the happy
Children run
To welcome home the Reaper, when the weary
day is done!
How would the tremulous radiance round the
old man's mouth have smiled;
Our good gray-headed hero, with the heart of a
little child.
"Honour to Henry Havelock! though not of
kingly blood,
He wore the double royalty of being great and
good.
He rose and reached the topmost height; our
Hero lowly born:
So from the lowly grass hath grown the proud
embattled Corn!
He rose up in our cruel need, and towering on
he trod;
Baring his brow to battle bold, as humbly to his
God.
He did his work, nor thought of nations ringing
with his name,
He walked with God, and talked with God, nor
cared if following Fame
Should find him toiling in the field, or sleeping
underground;
Nor did he mind what resting-place, with heaven
embracing round.
"When swarming hell had broken bounds, he
showed us how to stand
With rootage like the Palm amidst the maddest
whirl of sand;
Undaunted while the swarthy storm around him
swirled and swirled,
A winding-sheet of all white life! a wild Sahara
world!
The drowning waves closed over him, lost to all
human view,
And, like an arrow straight from God, he cleft
their Twelve Hosts through.
No swerving as he walked along the rearing
earthquake-ridge;
He made a way for Victory, his body was her
bridge.
Grand in the mouths of men his fame along the
Centuries runs;
Women shall read of his great deed and bear
heroic sons.
"He leant a trusting hand on heaven, a gentle
heart on home;
In secret he grew ready, ere the Judgment hour
was come.
War blew away the ashes gray, and kindled at
the core
Live sparkles of the Ironside fire that glowed on
Marston Moor.
Some Angel-Mute had led him blindfold through
his thorny ways,
Till, on a sudden, lo, he stood, full in the glory's
blaze.
Aloud, for all the world to hear, God called His
servant's name,
And led him forth, where all might see, upon
the heights of fame.
His arch of life, suspended as it sprang, in heaven
appears,
Our bow of promise o'er the storm, seen through
rejoicing tears.
"Joy to old England! she has stuff for storm-sail
and for stay,
While she can breed such heroes, in her quiet,
homely way:
Such martial souls that go with grim, war-figured
brows pulled down,
As men that are resolved to bear Death's heavy,
iron crown.
So long as she has sons like these, no foe shall
make her bow,
While Ocean washes her white feet; Heaven
kisses her fair brow.
If India's fate had rested on each single saviour
soul,
They would have kept their grasp of it till we
regained the whole.
The Lightnings of that bursting Cloud, which
were to blast our might,
But served to show its majesty clear in the
sterner light.
"Our England towers up beautiful with her dilating
form,
To greater stature in the strife, and glory in the
storm;
Her wrath's great wine-press trodden on so
many vintage fields,
With crush and strain, and press of pain, a
ripened spirit yields,
To warm us in our winter, when the times are
coward and cold,
And work divinely in young veins: wake boyhood
in the old.
Behold her flame from field to field on Victory's
chariot wheels,
Till to its den, bleeding to death, Rebellion backwards
reels.
Her Martyrs are avenged! ye may search that
Indian land,
And scarcely find a single soul of all the traitor
band.
"We've many a nameless Hero lying in his unknown
grave,
Their life's gold fragment glinting but a sunfleck
on the wave.
But rest, you unknown, noble dead! our Living
are one hand
Of England's power; but, with her Dead she
grasps into the land.
The flower of our Race shall make that Indian
desert bud,
Its shifting sands drench firm, and fertilize with
English blood.
In many a country they sleep crowned, our conquering,
faithful Dead:
They pave our path where shines her sun of
empire overhead;
They circle in a glorious ring, with which the
world is wed,
And where their blood has turned to bloom, our
England's Rose is red.
"Your brother Willie, Boy, was one of Havelock's
little band;
My Son! my beautiful brave Son, lies in that
Indian Land.
They buried him by the wayside where he bowed
him down to die,
While Homeward in its Eastern pomp the
Triumph passed him by.
And even yet mine eyes are wet, but 'tis with
that proud tear
A lofty feeling in its front doth like a jewel
wear.
I see him! on his forehead shines the conqueror's
radiant crest,
And God's own Cross of Victory is on his martial
breast.
I should have liked to have felt him near, when
these old eyes grow dim,
But gave him to our England in her greater
need of him." |
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