Slike strani
PDF
ePub

As light as if he felt no wouud;
Though in the action burst the tide
In torrents from his wounded side.
"Then it was truth!" he said "I knew
That the dark presage must be true.
I would the fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay

It may not be?—this dizzy trance-
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling monk.

With fruitless labor, Clare bound,

And strove to stanch the gushing wound:
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers.
Ever, he said, that close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,

And that the priest he could not hear,

For that she ever sung,

"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying. Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung:

"Avaunt thee, fiend!-with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!

O, look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine:

O, think on faith and bliss:
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."

The war that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale,
And STANLEY! was the cry:

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand above his head
He took the fragment of his blade,

And shouted "Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion.

-Sir Walter Scott.

O

THE charge at Balaklava!

Balaklava.

O that rash and fatal charge!

Never was a fiercer, braver,
Than that charge at Balaklava,

On the battle's bloody marge!
All the day the Russian columns,

Fortress huge, and blazing banks,
Poured their dread destructive volumes
On the French and English ranks-
On the gallant allied ranks !
Earth and sky seemed rent asunder
By the loud incessant thunder!
When a strange but stern command-
Needless, heedless, rash command-
Came to Lucan's little band-
Scarce six hundred men and horses
Of those vast contending forces:
"England's lost unless you save her!
Charge the pass at Balaklava !

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Far away the Russian eagles

Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, And their hordes, like howling beagles, Dense and countless, round them yell ! Thundering cannon, deadly mortar, Sweep the field in every quarter! Never, since the days of Jesus, Trembled so the Chersonesus!

Here behold the Gallic Lilies-
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies-
Float as erst at old Ramillies!
And beside them, lo! the Lion!
With her trophied cross, is flying!
Glorious standards! shall they waver
On the field of Balaklava?

No, by heavens at that command-
Sudden, rash, but stern command-
Charges Lucan's little band!

Brave six hundred! lo! they charge,
On the battle's bloody marge !

Down yon deep and skirted valley,

Where the crowded cannon playWhere the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli

Down that gorge they swept away! Down that new Thermopyla, Flashing swords and helmets see! Underneath the iron shower,

To the brazen cannon's jaws, Heedless of their deadly power,

Press they without fear or pause— To the very cannon's jaws! Gallant Noland, brave as Roland

At the field of Roncesvalles,
Dashes down the fatal valley,
Dashes on the bolt of death,
Shouting with his latest breath,
"Charge, then, gallants! do not waver,
Charge the pass at Balaklava!"

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Now the bolts of volleyed thunder
Rend that little band asunder,
Steed and rider wildly screaming,

Screaming wildly, sink away;
Late so proudly, proudly gleaming,
Now but lifeless clods of clay-
Now but bleeding clods of clay!
Never, since the days of Jesus,
Saw such sight the Chersonesus !
Yet your remnant, brave six hundred,
Presses onward, onward, onward,

Till they storm the bloody pass

Till, like brave Leonidas,

They storm the deadly pass, Sabering Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli, In that wild, shot-rended valleyDrenched with fire and blood, like lava, Awful pass at Balaklava !

O that rash and fatal charge,

On the battle's bloody marge!

For now Russia's rallied forces,
Swarming hordes of Cossack horses,
Trampling o'er the reeking corses,

Drive the thinned assailants back,
Drive the feeble remnant back,
O'er their late heroic track!
Vain, alas! now rent and sundered,
Vain your struggles, brave two hundred !
Thrice your number lie asleep,
In that valley dark and deep.
Weak and wounded, you retire
From that hurricane of fire-
That tempestuous storm of fire-
But no soldiers, firmer, braver,
Ever trod the field of fame,
Than the Knights of Balaklava-
Honor to each hero's name!
Yet their country long shall mourn
For her ranks so rashly shorn-
So gallantly, but madly shorn

In that fierce and fatal charge,
On that battle's bloody marge.

-Alexander Beaufort Meek.

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

66

"CAP

The Drummer Boy.

[An incident of the Crimean War.]

APTAIN GRAHAM, the men were
sayin'

Ye would want a drummer lad,
So I've brought my boy Sandie,
Tho' my heart is woful sad;
But nae bread is left to feed us,
And no siller to buy more,
For the gudeman sleeps forever,
Where the heather blossoms o'er.
"Sandie, make your manners quickly,
Play your blithest measure true-
Give us Flowers of Edinboro';
While yon fifer plays it too.
Captain, heard ye e'er a player

Strike in truer time than he?"
"Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray
Drummer of our corps shall be."

"I give ye thanks-but Captain, maybe
Ye will hae a kindly care
For the friendless, lonely laddie,

When the battle wark is sair:

For Sandie's aye been good and gentle,
And I've nothing else to love,
Nothing but the grave off yonder,
And the Father up above."

Then, her rough hand gently laying,
On the curl-encircled head,

She blessed her boy. The tent was silent, And not another word was said;

For Captain Graham was sadly dreamiag Of a benison, long ago,

Breathed above his head, then golden, Bending now, and touched with snow.

"Good bye, Sandie." "Good-bye, mother,
I'll come back some summer day;
Don't you fear-they don't shoot drummers
Ever. Do they, Captain Gra?
One more kiss-watch for me, mother,
You will know 'tis surely me
Coming home-for you will hear me
Playing soft the reveille."

After battle. Moonbeams ghastly
Seemed to link in strange affright,
As the scudding clouds before them
Shadowed faces dead and white;
And the night-wind softly whispered,
When low moans its light wing bore-
Moans that ferried spirit over
Death's dark wave to yonder shore.

Wandering where a footstep careless Might go splashing down in blood, Or a helpless hand lie grasping Death and daisies from the sod

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

STO

The Battle of Waterloo.

TOP! for thy tread is on an empire's dust;
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below;
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.

How that red rain hath made the harvest grow
And this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields, king making victory!

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered there
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 widened 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

« PrejšnjaNaprej »