Part 16

Green grows the grass around thy crumbling walls Where glorious Lawrence groaned his life away! And childhood’s footsteps echo through those halls Wherein thy wounded and thy dying lay! While blent with infant laughter seems to rise The far-off murmur of thy battle roll, The prayer--the shout--the groan-- Outram’s unselfish chivalry of soul, And white-haired Havelock’s strong, commanding tone!

Yet, what are names? The genius of the spot, Born of our womanhood and manhood brave, Shall fire our children’s children! Ne’er forgot Shall be the dust of thy historic grave While Reverence fills the sense with musing calm, While Glory stirs the pulse of prince or clown, While blooms on British sod The glorious flower of our fair renown, Our English valour and our trust in God!

The memory of the Living! Lo, they stand Engirt with honour while the day draws in, An ever lessening and fraternal band Linked in chivalric glory and akin To earth’s immortals! Time may bow the frame And plough deep wrinkles ’mid their honoured scars, But Death-like Night which brings To earth the blaze majestic of the stars, Shall but enhance their glory with his wings!

The memory of the Dead! A pilgrim, I Have bowed my face before thy honoured shrine, With pride deep-welling while the moments by Sped to a human ecstasy divine Tingling my very blood, to think that they, Martyrs and victors in our English need, Were children of the earth-- Yet better--heroes of our island breed And men and women of our British birth!

_John Renton Denning._

CCX

SOLDIERS OF IND

_Men of the Hills and men of the Plains, men of the Isles and Sea, Brothers in bond of battle and blood wherever the battle may be; A song and a thought for your fighting line, a song for the march and camp, A song to the beat of the rolling drums, a song to the measured tramp, When the feet lift up on the dusty road ’neath sun and moon and star, And the prayer is prayed by mother and maid for their best beloved afar!_

What say the Plains--the Plains that stretch along From hamlet and from field, from fold and byre? ‘Here once toiled one who sang his peasant song And now reaps harvest ’mid the tribesmen’s fire! The Spirit of a mightier world than springs From his poor village led him on To glory! Yea--to glory!’--Ever sings The Spirit of the Plains when he is gone!

What say the Hills whence come the Gurkha breed-- The bull-dogs of the East? From crest and vale Reverberate the echoes, swift they speed On falling waters or the mountain gale! ‘Our Hillmen brave as lions have gone forth; They were our sons; we bred them--even we-- To face thy foemen, Islands of the North, We know their worth and sing it thus to thee!’

What say the Passes? There the requiem Of battle lingers o’er the undying dead-- ‘Our Soldiers of the Sun, whose diadem Of honour glitters in the nullah bed, Or by the hillside drear, or dark ravine, Or on the _sangared_ steep--a solemn ray That touches thus the thing that once hath been, With glory--glory!’--So the Passes say!

And so the great world hears and men’s eyes blaze As each one to his neighbour cries ‘Well done!’ A little thing this speech--this flower of praise, Yet let it crown our Soldiers of the Sun! Not here alone--for here we know them well; But tell our English, waiting on the shore To welcome back _their_ heroes: ‘Lo! these fell Even as ours--as brave--for evermore!’

I hear the roar amid the London street:-- The earth hath not its equal, whether it be For ignorance or knowledge, and the feet That press therein and eyes that turn to see Know nothing of our sepoys--let them know That here be men beneath whose dark skin runs A battle-virtue kindred with the glow That fires the leaping pulses of their sons!

’Tis worth proclaiming. Yea, it seems to me This loyalty--to death--lies close akin To all the noblest human traits that be, Engendered whence we know not--yet within Choice spirits nobly gathered. Lo! we stand, Needs must, against the world, Yet war’s alarms Are nothing to our mightiest Motherland, While Nation circles Nation in her arms!

_John Renton Denning._

CCXI

SARANSAR

What are the bugles saying With a strain so long and so loud? They say that a soldier’s blanket Is meet for a soldier’s shroud! They say that their hill-tossed music, Blown forth of the living breath, Is full of the victor’s triumph And sad with the wail of death! _Bugles of Talavera!_

What are the bugles saying? They tell of the falling night, When a section of dog-tired English Drew close for a rear-guard fight; With an officer-boy to lead them, A lost and an outflanked squad, By the grace of a half-learned drill book, And a prayer to the unseen God! _Bugles of Talavera!_

What are the bugles saying Of the stand that was heel to heel? The click of the quick-pressed lever, The glint of the naked steel, The flame of the steady volley, The hope that was almost gone, As the leaping horde of the tribesmen Swept as a tide sweeps on! _Bugles of Talavera!_

What are the bugles saying? They say that the teeth are set, They say that the breath comes thicker, And the blood-red Night is wet; While the rough blunt speech of the English, The burr of the shires afar, Falls with a lone brave pathos ’Mid the hills of the Saransar! _Bugles of Talavera!_

What are the bugles saying? They say that the English there Feel a breath from their island meadows Like incense fill the air! They say that they stood for a moment With their dear ones by their side, For their spirits swept to the Homeland Before the English died! _Bugles of Talavera!_

And aye are the bugles saying, While the dust lies low i’ the dust, The strength of a strong man’s fighting, The crown of the soldier’s trust-- The wine of a full-brimmed battle, The peace of the quiet grave, And a wreath from the hands of glory Are the guerdon of the brave! _Bugles of Talavera!_

_John Renton Denning._

KIPLING

CCXII

THE GALLEY-SLAVE

O gallant was our galley from her carven steering-wheel To her figurehead of silver and her beak of hammered steel; The leg-bar chafed the ankle and we gasped for cooler air, But no galley on the water with our galley could compare!

Our bulkheads bulged with cotton and our masts were stepped in gold-- We ran a mighty merchandise of niggers in the hold; The white foam spun behind us, and the black shark swam below, As we gripped the kicking sweep-head and we made that galley go.

It was merry in the galley, for we revelled now and then-- If they wore us down like cattle, faith, we fought and loved like men! As we snatched her through the water, so we snatched a minute’s bliss, And the mutter of the dying never spoiled the lovers’ kiss.

Our women and our children toiled beside us in the dark-- They died, we filed their fetters, and we heaved them to the shark-- We heaved them to the fishes, but so fast the galley sped We had only time to envy, for we could not mourn our dead.

Bear witness, once my comrades, what a hard-bit gang were we-- The servants of the sweep-head but the masters of the sea! By the hands that drove her forward as she plunged and yawed and sheered, Woman, Man, or God or Devil, was there anything we feared?

Was it storm? Our fathers faced it and a wilder never blew; Earth that waited for the wreckage watched the galley struggle through. Burning noon or choking midnight, Sickness, Sorrow, Parting, Death? Nay, our very babes would mock you had they time for idle breath.

But to-day I leave the galley and another takes my place; There’s my name upon the deck-beam--let it stand a little space. I am free--to watch my messmates beating out to open main Free of all that Life can offer--save to handle sweep again.

By the brand upon my shoulder, by the gall of clinging steel, By the welt the whips have left me, by the scars that never heal; By eyes grown old with staring through the sunwash on the brine, I am paid in full for service--would that service still were mine!

Yet they talk of times and seasons and of woe the years bring forth, Of our galley swamped and shattered in the rollers of the North. When the niggers break the hatches and the decks are gay with gore, And a craven-hearted pilot crams her crashing on the shore.

She will need no half-mast signal, minute-gun, or rocket-flare, When the cry for help goes seaward, she will find her servants there. Battered chain-gangs of the orlop, grizzled drafts of years gone by, To the bench that broke their manhood, they shall lash themselves and die.

Hale and crippled, young and aged, paid, deserted, shipped away-- Palace, cot, and lazaretto shall make up the tale that day, When the skies are black above them, and the decks ablaze beneath, And the topmen clear the raffle with their clasp-knives in their teeth.

It may be that Fate will give me life and leave to row once more-- Set some strong man free for fighting as I take awhile his oar. But to-day I leave the galley. Shall I curse her service then? God be thanked--whate’er comes after, I have lived and toiled with Men!

_Rudyard Kipling._

VII

SOUTH AFRICA

PRINGLE

CCXIII

THE DESOLATE VALLEY

Far up among the forest-belted mountains, Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey, Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountains To wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay, A valley opens to the noontide ray, With green savannahs shelving to the brim Of the swift river, sweeping on its way To where Umtóka tries to meet with him, Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.

There, couched at night in hunter’s wattled shieling, How wildly-beautiful it was to hear The elephant his shrill _reveillé_ pealing, Like some far signal-trumpet on the ear! While the broad midnight moon was shining clear, How fearful to look forth upon the woods, And see those stately forest-kings appear, Emerging from their shadowy solitudes-- As if that trump had woke Earth’s old gigantic broods!

Look round that vale! behold the unburied bones Of Ghona’s children withering in the blast! The sobbing wind, that through the forest moans, Whispers--‘The spirit hath for ever passed!’ Thus, in the vale of desolation vast, In moral death dark Afric’s myriads lie; But the appointed day shall dawn at last, When, breathed on by a spirit from on high, The dry bones shall awake, and shout-- ‘Our God is nigh!’

_Thomas Pringle._

COURTHOPE

CCXIV

ENGLAND IN SOUTH AFRICA

(1899)

Across the streaming flood, the deep ravine, Through hurricanes of shot, through hells of fire, To rocks where myriad marksmen lurk unseen, The steadfast legions mount, mount always higher.

Earth and her elements protect the foe: His are the covered trench, the ambushed hill, The treacherous pit, the sudden secret blow, The swift retreat--but ours the conquering will.

Against that will in vain the fatal lead, Vain is the stubborn heart, brute cunning vain: Strong in the triumphs of thy dauntless dead, Advance, Imperial Race, advance and reign!

_William John Courthope._

HENLEY

CCXV

FOR A GRAVE IN SOUTH AFRICA

We cheered you forth--brilliant and kind and brave, Under your country’s triumphing flag you fell; It floats, true heart, over no dearer grave. Brave and brilliant and kind, hail and farewell!

_William Ernest Henley._

HALL

CCXVI

ON LEAVING TABLE BAY

Sun-showered land! largess of golden light Is thine; and well-befitting since the night Of England voiced again Canute’s command; ah, not in vain! Backward the tides of savagery drew; And still the bright sands gain On the retreating main: A lost world leaping to the light and blue.

In state the mountains greet an eve so fair, And sunset-crowns and robes of purple wear: A sea of glass the ocean, gold-inwrought-- Pathway apocalyptic. From the prow A long bright ripple to the land is roll’d.... Haste thee and tell, tell of our love, with lips of gold, In soft sea-music tell! And thou, sweet bird, whose snowy wings have caught The universal glory, carry thou To that dear shore farewell--our hearts’ farewell!

_Arthur Vine Hall._

COOK

CCXVII

THE RELIEF OF MAFEKING

‘Well done!’ The cry goes ringing round the world, O’er land and sea, wherever pulse throbs fast At tales of courage, for relief at last Is theirs and ours: so dawn’s bright flag unfurled Hath challenge to the powers of darkness hurled, And made one glory of the empyrean vast; And when this day to history’s tome is passed Its name shall stand on golden page impearled.

O God! our Help, our Hope, our Refuge strong In days of trouble, still be Thou our Guide; So shall we pass the coming days along In certain trust whatever may betide, And on Thine Empire shine the glorious sun Till at last Thou say to her ‘Well done!’

_Hilda Mary Agnes Cook._

RUSSELL

CCXVIII

THE VANGUARD

(1842)

By the Boer lines at Congella, Where the west wind sheds its rain, All the yellow sands grew crimson With the wounded and the slain.

Etched upon the deadly sky-line, Mark for guns behind each dune, Flashed the silver of the bayonets In the lethal night’s high noon.

Far across the bay the booming Of the cannon rose and fell; Echoing to bluff and island, Rang the soldier’s passing-bell.

Blood of England shed for Empire At our southern Trasimene-- Such it is that fosters heroes, Keeps the graves of valour green.

All life’s nobler thoughts are strengthened By the valiance of our sires, As it glows undimmed, undying, Like Rome’s cherished vestal-fires.

Ever burning--happy omen For the progress of the State! Patriots give their lives as incense On the altars reared by Fate.

Such pure light streamed o’er the cities Of the pulsing Punic world; Lit their galleys through the Pillars Of the West, with sails unfurled.

In wild camps it thrilled Rome’s legions, Stemmed the East at Marathon; Bore sea-heroes through the Syrtes, Through strange seas and tropic dawn.

Diaz and Da Gama snatched it From their Lusitanian pyre; Bore it over hungry surges To the Cape of Storms and Fire;

And it gleamed upon our verdure From their storm-vexed caravel-- Band of afternoon undying-- O’er tired visions cast its spell.

Clear the deathless flame was glowing By the wide bay’s tender blue, When their blood was shed for England By the men of ’Forty-two.

_Robert Russell._

VIII

AUSTRALIA

SUPPLE

CCXIX

DAMPIER’S DREAM

The seaman slept--all nature sleeps; a sacred stillness there Is on the wood--is on the waves--is in the silver air. The sky above--the silent sea--with stars were all aglow; There shone Orion and his belt--Arcturus and his bow! The seaman slept--or does he sleep?--what chorus greets him now?-- Wild music breaking from the deep around the vessel’s bow? He starts, he looks, he sees rise shadowy--can he only dream? A sovereign form, wrathful, yet beauteous--in the moon’s cold beam!

‘Mortal, hath fallen my star in the hour Of the dread eclipse, that thou scornest my power? Herald thus soon of that mystic race Fated to reign in my people’s place, Bringing arts of might--working wondrous spells Where now but the simple savage dwells; Before whom my children shall pass away, As the morntide passes before the day. The time is not yet, why dost thou come, The bale of thy presence to cast o’er my home? Its shadow of doom is on air and waves-- E’en the still soft gloom of my deep sea caves A shudder has reached; over shore and bay Bodeful the shivering moonbeams play! The Spirit of this zone am I-- Mine are the isles and yon mainlands nigh; And roused from my rest by the wood-wraith’s sigh, And the sea-maid’s moan on the coral reef-- Voices never till now foreboding grief-- Hither I fly-- Here at the gate of my South Sea realm To bid thee put back thy fateful helm! Not yet is the hour, why art thou here Presaging dole, and scaith, and fear?’

Not yet is the time-- Woe-bringer, go back to thy cloud-wrapped clime! Meeter for thee the drear Northern sky, And where wintry breakers ceaseless roar, And strew with wrecks a dusky shore; Where the iceberg rears its awful form, Where along the billows the petrels cry-- For, like thee, that dark bird loves the storm! Thou child of the clime of the Vikings wild-- Who wert nursed upon the tempest’s wing, A boy on the wind-beaten mast to cling-- Whose quest is prey, who hailest the day When gleam the red swords and the death-bolts ring! Thy joy is with restless men and seas, What dost thou in scenes as soft as these?

The hour is not yet, but the doom appears As I gaze thro’ the haze of long distant years. A mighty people speaking thy tongue, Sea-borne from their far, dark strands Shall spread abroad over all these lands Where man now lives as when Time was young. I see their stately cities rise Thro’ the clouds where the future’s horizon lies; Thro’ the purple mists shrouding river and plain, Where the white-foaming bay marks the hidden main; And clearer now--I behold more clear Great ships--sails swelling to the breeze, Their keels break all the virgin seas; Vast white-winged squadrons, they come and go Where only has skimmed the light canoe! Yes, the seats and the paths of empire veer, A highway of nations will yet be here! As Tyre was in an ancient age; As Venice of palaces, strong and sage; As the haughty ports of your native shore Whose fleets override the waters’ rage, So shall the pride of yon cities soar. From the frigid Pole to the torrid Line, Their sway shall stretch--their standards shine!’

_Gerald Henry Supple._

GORDON

CCXX

BY FLOOD AND FIELD

I remember the lowering wintry morn, And the mist on the Cotswold hills, Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman’s horn, Not far from the seven rills. Jack Esdale was there, and Hugh St. Clair, Bob Chapman, and Andrew Kerr, And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care, And--black Tom Oliver. And one who rode on a dark brown steed, Clean-jointed, sinewy, spare, With the lean game head of the Blacklock breed, And the resolute eye that loves the lead, And the quarters massive and square-- A tower of strength, with a promise of speed (There was Celtic blood in the pair).

I remember how merry a start we got, When the red fox broke from the gorse, In a country so deep, with a scent so hot, That the hound could outpace the horse; I remember how few in the front rank show’d, How endless appeared the tail, On the brown hillside, where we cross’d the road And headed towards the vale. The dark brown steed on the left was there, On the right was a dappled grey, And between the pair on a chestnut mare The duffer who writes this lay. What business had ‘this child’ there to ride? But little or none at all; Yet I hold my own for awhile in the pride That goeth before a fall. Though rashness can hope but for one result, We are heedless when fate draws nigh us, And the maxim holds good, ‘_Quem perdere vult Deus dementat prius_.’

The right-hand man to the left-hand said, As down in the vale we went, ‘Harden your heart like a millstone, Ned, And set your face as flint; Solid and tall is the rasping wall That stretches before us yonder; You must have it at speed or not at all, ’Twere better to halt than to ponder; For the stream runs wide on the take off side, And washes the clay bank under; Here goes for a pull, ’tis a madman’s ride, And a broken neck if you blunder!’

No word in reply his comrade spoke, Nor waver’d, nor once look’d round, But I saw him shorten his horse’s stroke As we splash’d through the marshy ground; I remember the laugh that all the while On his quiet features played:-- So he rode to his death, with that careless smile, In the van of the Light Brigade; So stricken by Russian grape, the cheer Rang out while he toppled back, From the shattered lungs as merry and clear As it did when it roused the pack. Let never a tear his memory stain, Give his ashes never a sigh, One of the many who fell--not in vain-- A TYPE OF OUR CHIVALRY!

I remember one thrust he gave to his hat, And two to the flanks of the brown, And still as a statue of old he sat, And he shot to the front, hands down; I remember the snort and the stag-like bound Of the steed six lengths to the fore, And the laugh of the rider while, landing sound, He turned in his saddle and glanced around; I remember--but little more, Save a bird’s-eye gleam of the dashing stream, A jarring thud on the wall, A shock, and the blank of a nightmare’s dream,-- I was down with a stunning fall!

_Adam Lindsay Gordon._

STEPHENS

CCXXI

FULFILMENT

(_January 1, 1901_)

Ah, now we know the long delay But served to assure a prouder day, For while we waited, came the call To prove and make our title good-- To face the fiery ordeal That tries the claim to Nationhood-- And now, in pride of challenge, we unroll, For all the world to read, the record-scroll Whose bloody script attests a Nation’s soul.

O ye, our Dead, who at the call Fared forth to fall as heroes fall, Whose consecrated souls we failed To note beneath the common guise Till all-revealing Death unveiled The splendour of your sacrifice, Now, crowned with more than perishable bays, Immortal in your country’s love and praise, Ye too have portion in this day of days!

And ye who sowed where now we reap, Whose waiting eyes, now sealed in sleep, Beheld far off with prescient sight This triumph of rejoicing lands-- Yours too the day! for though its light Can pierce not to your folded hands, These shining hours of advent but fulfil The cherished purpose of your constant will Whose onward impulse liveth in us still.

Still lead thou vanward of our line Who, shaggy, massive, leonine, Couldst yet most finely phrase the event-- For if a Pisgah view was all Vouchsafed to thine uncrowned intent, The echoes of thy herald-call Not faintlier strive with our saluting guns, And at thy words through all Australia’s sons The ‘crimson thread of kinship’ redder runs.

But not the memory of the dead, How loved soe’er each sacred head, To-day can change from glad to grave The chords that quire a Nation born-- Twin-offspring of the birth that gave, When yester-midnight chimed to morn, Another age to the Redeemer’s reign, Another cycle to the widening gain Of Good o’er Ill and Remedy o’er Pain.

Our sundering lines with love o’ergrown, Our bounds the girdling seas alone-- Be this the burden of the psalm That every resonant hour repeats, Till day-fall dusk the fern and palm That forest our transfigured streets, And night still vibrant with the note of praise Thrill brotherhearts to song in woodland ways, When gum-leaves whisper o’er the camp-fire’s blaze.

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