Chapter 14

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword; And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word!

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.

* * * * *

THE THREE SCARS.

This I got on the day that Goring Fought through York, like a wild beast roaring-- The roofs were black, and the streets were full, The doors built up with packs of wool; But our pikes made way through a storm of shot, Barrel to barrel till locks grew hot; Frere fell dead, and Lucas was gone, But the drum still beat and the flag went on.

This I caught from a swinging sabre, All I had from a long night's labor; When Chester[A] flamed, and the streets were red, In splashing shower fell the molten lead, The fire sprang up, and the old roof split, The fire-ball burst in the middle of it; With a clash and a clang the troopers they ran, For the siege was over ere well began.

This I got from a pistol butt (Lucky my head's not a hazel nut); The horse they raced, and scudded and swore; There were Leicestershire gantlemen, seventy score; Up came the "Lobsters," covered with steel-- Down we went with a stagger and reel; Smash at the flag, I tore it to rag. And carried it off in my foraging bag.

[Footnote A: Siege of Chester, in the civil war, 1645.]

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.

* * * * *

FONTENOY.

[May 11, 1745.]

Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed, And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back diminished and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride! And mustering came his chosen troops like clouds at eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread; Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head. Steady they step adown the slopes, steady they mount the hill, Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace-blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast; And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve that mocked at hostile force. Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks, They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean-banks.

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bombshells and grape and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired; Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on my household cavalry," King Louis madly cried. To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged they died. On through the camp the column trod--King Louis turned his rein. "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed; "the Irish troops remain." And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement, and true.

"Lord Clare," he said, "you have your wish; there are your Saxon foes!" The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes. How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay! The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day: The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry; Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry; Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown-- Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands: "Fix bayonets--charge!" Like mountain-storm rush on those fiery bands. Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow, Yet mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill, to face that battle-wind! Their bayonets the breakers' foam, like rocks the men behind! One volley crashes from their line, when through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza! "Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanagh!"

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang; Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore; Through scattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags they tore. The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, scattered, fled; The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead. Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand--the field is fought and won!

THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS.

* * * * *

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

[April 2, 1801.]

Of Nelson and the north Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line-- It was ten of April morn by the chime. As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time.

But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom-- Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail, Or in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave: "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save; So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king."

Then Denmark blessed our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou-- Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

[Corunna, Spain, January 16, 1809.]

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

We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow. That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.

* * * * *

"PICCIOLA."

It was a Sergeant old and gray, Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage, Went tramping in an army's wake Along the turnpike of the village.

For days and nights the winding host Had through the little place been marching, And ever loud the rustics cheered, Till every throat was hoarse and parching.

The Squire and Farmer, maid and dame, All took the sight's electric stirring, And hats were waved and staves were sung, And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.

They only saw a gallant show Of heroes stalwart under banners, And, in the fierce heroic glow, 'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.

The Sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs, Where he behind in step was keeping; But glancing down beside the road He saw a little maid sit weeping.

"And how is this?" he gruffly said, A moment pausing to regard her;-- "Why weepest thou, my little chit?" And then she only cried the harder.

"And how is this, my little chit?" The sturdy trooper straight repeated, "When all the village cheers us on, That you, in tears, apart are seated?

"We march two hundred thousand strong, And that's a sight, my baby beauty, To quicken silence into song And glorify the soldier's duty."

"It's very, very grand, I know," The little maid gave soft replying; "And Father, Mother, Brother too, All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying;

"But think--O Mr. Soldier, think,-- How many little sisters' brothers Are going all away to fight And may be _killed_, as well as others!"

"Why, bless thee, child," the Sergeant said, His brawny hand her curls caressing, "'Tis left for little ones like thee To find that War's not all a blessing."

And "Bless thee!" once again he cried; Then cleared his throat and looked indignant, And marched away with wrinkled brow To stop the struggling tear benignaut.

And still the ringing shouts went up From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage; The pall behind the standard seen By one alone of all the village.

The oak and cedar bend and writhe When roars the wind through gap and braken; But 'tis the tenderest reed of all That trembles first when Earth is shaken.

ROBERT HENRY NEWELL.

* * * * *

WATERLOO.

[June 15, 1815.]

FROM "CHILDE HAROLD," CANTO III.

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet,-- But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who would guess If evermore should meet those mutual eyes Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips,--"The foe! they come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard,--and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instills The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!

Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song! And his was of the bravest, and when showered The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along, Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered, They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring.

I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honored but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.

They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: The tree will wither long before it fall; The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn; The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness; the ruined wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; The bars survive the captive they enthrall; The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on;

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies, and makes A thousand images of one that was The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.

LORD BYRON.

* * * * *

BY THE ALMA RIVER.

[September 20, 1854,]

Willie, fold your little hands; Let it drop,--that "soldier" toy; Look where father's picture stands,-- Father, that here kissed his boy Not a mouth since,--father kind, Who this night may (never mind Mother's sob, my Willie dear) Cry out loud that He may hear Who is God of battles,--cry, "God keep father safe this day By the Alma River!"

Ask no more, child. Never heed Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk; Right of nations, trampled creed, Chance-poised victory's bloody work; Any flag i' the wind may roll On thy heights, Sevastopol! Willie, all to you and me Is that spot, whate'er it be, Where he stands--no other word-- _Stands_--God sure the child's prayers heard-- Near the Alma River.

Willie, listen to the bells Ringing in the town to-day; That's for victory. No knell swells For the many swept away,-- Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep, We, who need not,--just to keep Reason clear in thought and brain Till the morning comes again; Till the third dread morning tell Who they were that fought and--_fell_ By the Alma River.

Come, we'll lay us down, my child; Poor the bed is,--poor and hard; But thy father, far exiled, Sleeps upon the open sward, Dreaming of us two at home; Or, beneath the starry dome, Digs out trenches in the dark, Where he buries--Willie, mark!-- Where _he buries_ those who died Fighting--fighting at his side-- By the Alma River.

Willie, Willie, go to sleep; God will help us, O my boy! He will make the dull hours creep Faster, and send news of joy; When I need not shrink to meet Those great placards in the street, That for weeks will ghastly stare In some eyes--child, say that prayer Once again,--a different one,-- Say, "O God! Thy will be done By the Alma River."

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

* * * * *

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

[October 25, 1854.]

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward. All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said; Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well; Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell, Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered: Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right through the line they broke: Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre-stroke, Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not-- Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell,-- All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

[September 25, 1857.]

O, that last day in Lucknow fort! We knew that it was the last; That the enemy's lines crept surely on. And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death; And the men and we all worked on; It was one day more of smoke and roar, And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife, A fair, young, gentle thing, Wasted with fever in the siege. And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, And I took her head on my knee; "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, "Oh! then please wauken me."

She slept like a child on her father's floor, In the flecking of woodbine-shade, When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, And the mother's wheel is stayed.

It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, And hopeless waiting for death; And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, Seemed scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep; and I had my dream Of an English village-lane. And wall and garden;--but one wild scream Brought me back to the roar again.

There Jessie Brown stood listening Till a sudden gladness broke All over her face; and she caught my hand And drew me near as she spoke:--

"The Hielanders! O, dinna ye hear The slogan far awa, The McGregor's?--O, I ken it weel; It's the grandest o' them a'!

"God bless thae bonny Hielanders! We're saved! we're saved!" she cried; And fell on her knees; and thanks to God Flowed forth like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery-line her cry Had fallen among the men, And they started back;--they were there to die; But was life so near them, then?

They listened for life; the rattling fire Far off, and the far-off roar, Were all; and the colonel shook his head, And they turned to their guns once more.

But Jessie said, "The slogan's done; But winna ye hear it noo, _The Campbells are comin'_? It's no' a dream; Our succors hae broken through!"

We heard the roar and the rattle afar, But the pipes we could not hear; So the men plied their work of hopeless war And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it made its way,-- A thrilling, ceaseless sound: It was no noise from the strife afar, Or the sappers under ground.

It _was_ the pipes of the Highlanders! And now they played _Auld Lang Syne;_ It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line.

And they wept, and shook one another's hands, And the women sobbed in a crowd; And every one knelt down where he stood, And we all thanked God aloud.