Successful Recitations Part 45

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

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

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

Then Jessie Brown stood listening, And then a broad gladness broke All over her face, and she took my hand And drew me near and spoke:

"_The Highlanders!_ Oh! dinna ye hear The slogan far awa-- The McGregor's? Ah! I ken it weel; It's the grandest o' them a'.

"G.o.d bless thae bonny Highlanders!

We're saved! we're saved!" she cried: And fell on her knees, and thanks to G.o.d Pour'd forth, like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery-line her cry Had fallen among the men: And they started, for they were there to die: Was life so near them then?

They listen'd, for life: and the rattling fire Far off, and the far-off roar Were all:--and the colonel shook his head, And they turn'd to their guns once more.

Then Jessie said--"That slogan's dune; But can ye no hear them, noo,-- _The Campbells are comin'?_ It's no a dream; Our succours 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 must be heard,-- A shrilling, ceaseless sound: It was no noise of the strife afar, Or the sappers underground.

It _was_ the pipes of the Highlanders, And now they play'd "_Auld Lang Syne_:"

It came to our men like the voice of G.o.d, And they shouted along the line.

And they wept and shook one another's hands, And the women sobb'd in a crowd: And every one knelt down where we stood, And we all thank'd G.o.d aloud.

That happy day when we welcomed them, Our men put Jessie first; And the General took her hand, and cheers From the men, like a volley, burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream'd Marching round and round our line; And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, For the pipes play'd "_Auld Lang Syne_."

A BALLAD OF WAR.

BY MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY.

(By permission of Messrs. Isbister & Co.)

"Oh! were you at war in the red Eastern land?

What did you hear, and what did you see?

Saw you my son, with his sword in his hand?

Sent he, by you, any dear word to me?"

"I come from red war, in that dire Eastern land; Three deeds saw I done one might well die to see; But I know not your son with his sword in his hand; If you would hear of him, paint him to me."

"Oh, he is as gentle as south winds in May!"

"'Tis not a gentle place where I have been."

"Oh, he has a smile like the outbreak of day!"

"Where men are dying fast, smiles are not seen."

"Tell me the mightiest deeds that were done.

Deeds of chief honour, you said you saw three: You said you saw three--I am sure he did one.

My heart shall discern him, and cry, 'This is he!'"

"I saw a man scaling a tower of despair, And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud."

"That was my son! Had he streams of fair hair?"

"Nay; it was black as the blackest night-cloud."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the fortress was won, And they said it was grand for a man to die so."

"Alas for his mother! He was not my son.

Was there no fair-hair'd soldier who humbled the foe?"

"I saw a man charging in front of his rank, Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die: Straight as an arrow hurled into the flank Of a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nigh."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the battle was won, And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air.

Be comforted, mother; he was not thy son; Worn was his forehead, and gray was his hair."

"Oh! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose; I kissed it last night in my dream. I have heard Two legends of fame from the land of our foes; But you said there were three; you must tell me the third."

"I saw a man flash from the trenches and fly In a battery's face; but it was not to slay: A poor little drummer had dropp'd down to die, With his ankle shot through, in the place where he lay.

"He carried the boy like a babe through the rain, The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and sh.e.l.l; And he walked at a foot's pace because of the pain, Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but he rescued the boy.

Such a death is more n.o.ble than life (so they said).

He had streams of fair hair, and a face full of joy, And his name"--"Speak it not! 'Tis my son! He is dead!

"Oh, dig him a grave by the red rowan tree, Where the spring moss grows softer than fringes of foam!

And lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me, For I shall be ready before he comes home.

"And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath, And a tale to touch hearts through the slow-spreading years-- How he died his n.o.ble and beautiful death, And his mother who longed for him, died of her tears.

"But what is this face s.h.i.+ning in at the door, With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair?

Are you come, blessed ghost, from the far heavenly sh.o.r.e?

Do not go back alone--let me follow you there!"

"Oh! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain; I come to your heart, and G.o.d answers your prayer.

Your son is alive from the hosts of the slain, And the Cross of our Queen on his breast glitters fair!"

THE ALMA.

(September 20, 1854.) BY RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.