Chapter 19

'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,