Successful Recitations Part 47

AFTER BALACLAVA,

BY JAMES WILLIAMS.

The fierce wild charge was over; back to old England's sh.o.r.e Were borne her gallant troopers, who ne'er would battle more; In hospital at Chatham, by Medway's banks they lay, Dragoon, hussar, and lancer, survivors of the fray.

One day there came a message--'twas like a golden ray-- "Victoria, Britain's n.o.ble Queen, will visit you to-day;"

It lighted up each visage, it acted like a spell, On Britain's wounded heroes, who'd fought for her so well.

One soldier lay among them, fast fading was his life, A lancer from the border, from the good old county Fife; Already was death's icy grasp upon his honest brow, When through the ward was pa.s.sed the word, "The Queen is coming now!"

The dying Scottish laddie, with hand raised to his head, Saluted Britain's Sovereign, and with an effort said-- "And may it please your Majesty, I'm noo aboot to dee, I'd like to rest wi' mither, beneath the auld raugh tree.

"But weel I ken, your Majesty, it canna, mauna be, Yet, G.o.d be thanked, I might hae slept wi' ithers o'er the sea, 'Neath Balaclava's crimsoned sward, where many a comrade fell, But now I'll rest on Medway's bank, in sound of Christian bell."

She held a bouquet in her hand, and from it then she chose For the dying soldier laddie a lovely snow-white rose; And when the lad they buried, clasped in his hand was seen The simple little snowy flower, the gift of Britain's Queen.

INKERMAN.

(November 5, 1854.)

BY GERALD Ma.s.sEY.

'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 G.o.d! the Foe is on us! Now the bugles with a start Thrill--like the cry of a wronged 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 s.h.i.+vering 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 G.o.d 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 l.u.s.t 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 h.e.l.l seemed bursting on us, as the yelling legions came-- The cannon's tongues of quick red fire licked all the hills aflame!

Mad whistling sh.e.l.l, 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 cras.h.i.+ng on the sh.o.r.es 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 sh.e.l.l-- Up! up! like heaven-sealers, and we hurled them back to h.e.l.l.

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 b.l.o.o.d.y spur, ride, Bosquet, ride!

Down like a flood from Etna foams their valour's burning tide.

Now, G.o.d 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 l.u.s.ty 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 G.o.ds 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 n.o.ble 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.