Inkerman

'TwAS Midnight ere our Guns' grim .laugh o'er their
wild work did cease,
And at the smouldering fires of War we lit the pipe of
peace.

At Four, a burst of Bells went up thro' Night's Cathe-
dral dark,
It seemed so like our Sabbath chimes, we could but
lie, and hark!
So like the Bells that call to prayer in the dear land
far away;

Their music floated on the air, and kist us — to betray.
Our camp lay on the rainy hill, all silent as a cloud,
Its very heart of life stood still — and the white Mist
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 thro' 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 stealthily they
crept!
In the Ruins of the "Valley do the Birds of Carnage
stir?
A rustle in the gloom like wheels! feet trample —
bullets whir —
Blessed God! 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 shivering
soul.

The war-worn and the weary leapt 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 English Host —
All for the peak of peril pusht — each for the fieriest
post!

Thro' the mist, and thro' the mire, and o'er the hill-
brow scowling grim,
As is the frown of Murder when he dreams his dread-
ful 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.

yz INKERMAN.

As Bridegroom leaves his wedded Bride in gentle
slumbers sealed,
Our England slumbered in the West, when her War-
riors went a-field.

We thought of her, and swore that day to strike im-
mortal blows,
As all along our leaguered line the roar of battle rose.

Her Banners waved like blessing hands, and we knew
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 like lightning from the
hill.

And there he stood superb, thro' 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 lickt all the
hills a-flame!
Mad whistling shell, wild sneering shot, with devilish
glee went past,
Like fiendish feet and laughter hurrying down the
battle-blast.
And thro' the air, and round the hills, there ran a
wrack sublime
As tho' the Eternal's Ark were crashing on the shores
of Time.
On Bayonets and Swords the smile of conscious victory
shone,
As down to death we dasht 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, and 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 grey, but now
they're gory red —
Christ 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,
And charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand ten
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 victo-
rious!

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 reapt 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 reel'd 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 Russian dead, ere they
lay down and died.

We gathered round the tent-fire in the evening cold
and gray,
And thought of those who rankt with us in Battle's
rich 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 stopt 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 thro'
the dark!
The Martyrs stir in bloody 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
Yictory
With Laurels red, and a bitter cup like Christ's last
agony.

She took the cup, she drank it up, she raised her
laurelled brow:
Her sorrow seemed like solemn joy, she lookt 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.