breezes blew
over the main;
All were so hearty, so free, and so brave,--
But they
never came back again!
Half the wild ocean rose up to the clouds,
Half the broad sky scowled
in thunder and rain;
Twenty white crests rose around them like
shrouds,
And they stayed in the dancing main!
This is easy to sing, and often to mourn,
And the breaking of dawn is
no newer to-day;
But those who die young, or are left forlorn,
Think grief is no older than they!
IN THE ARTILLERY.
We are moving on in silence,
Save for rattling iron and steel,
And a
skirmish echoing round us,
Showering faintly, peal on peal.
Like a lion roars the North wind
As a-horse we sternly clank,
While
beside the guns our men drop,
Slyly shot from either flank.
You are musing, love, and smiling
By the hearth-fire of the Mill,
While the tangled oaks are cracking
Boughs upon the windy hill.
I can see the moonlight shining
Over fields of frozen calm;
I can
hear the chapel organ,
And the singing of the psalm.
Fare you well, then, English village,
Which of all I loved the most,
Where my ghost alone can wander
Once again, when life is lost.
Fare you well, then, Sally Dorset;
You will never utter wail
For the
soldier dead who loved you
With these tears of no avail!
I can see your drowsy lashes
Lifting as you hear them read
Prayers
in mercy for our souls' shrift
When we come to our last need.
I forgive you, matchless beauty,
Proudly conscious of your fame,
Loved by many a luckless youngster
Who will ne'er forget your
name!
Merry, though so cold of answer,
With a laughing glance of steel,
How your face swept like a banner,
Blushing down the village reel!
As you dance before my vision
On this deadly foreign morn,
Death
is charmed into the soothing
Of the love you chose to scorn.
We shall die--our hours are numbered--
As the sunlight dawns serene
Over yonder mountain ridges,
Rimming round this battle scene.
I shall die--few will return, dear;
I shall be of those who stay:
England sent us, but a handful,
Among hordes of heathen clay.
We will show the world how England
Has no dross to spend in war;
When she throws away her soldiers,
They are soldiers to the core.
You will wake to hear the twitter
Of the early sparrow's note:
I shall
lie beneath the heavens,
With the death-grip at my throat!
THE LOST BATTLE
To his heart it struck such terror
That he laughed a laugh of scorn,--
The man in the soldier's doublet,
With the sword so bravely worn.
It struck his heart like the frost-wind
To find his comrades fled,
While the battle-field was guarded
By the heroes who lay dead.
He drew his sword in the sunlight,
And called with a long halloo:
"Dead men, there is one living
Shall stay it out with you!"
He raised a ragged standard,
This lonely soul in war,
And called the
foe to onset,
With shouts they heard afar.
They galloped swiftly toward him.
The banner floated wide;
It sank;
he sank beside it
Upon his sword, and died.
THE OUTGOING RACE.
The mothers wish for no more daughters;
There is no future before
them.
They bow their heads and their pride
At the end of the many
tribes' journey.
The mothers weep over their children,
Loved and unwelcome
together,
Who should have been dreamed, not born,
Since there is
no road for the Indian.
The mothers see into the future,
Beyond the end of that Chieftain
Who shall be the last of the race
Which allowed only death to a
coward.
The square, cold cheeks, lips firm-set,
The hot, straight glance, and
the throat-line,
Held like a stag's on the cliff,
Shall be swept by the
night-winds, and vanish!
HIDDEN HISTORY.
I.
There was a maiden in a land
Was buried with all honor fine,
For
they said she had dared her pulsing life
To save a silent, holy shrine.
The cannon rode by the church's door,
The men's wild faces flashed
in the sun;
The woman had guarded with rifle poised,
While the
cassocked priests had run.
Ah, no! To save her pulsing life
The woman like a reindeer turned,
While hostile armies rolled by her in clouds,
And miles of sun and
metal burned.
But who should know? For she was dead
Before the leathern curtain's
wall,
When came her wide-eyed comrades, and found
Her body and
her weapon, all.
II.
There was a woman left to die
Who never told her sacrifice,
But
trusted for her crown to God,
As to its value and device.
No land was prouder for her heart,
No word has echoed long her deed,
And where she has lain, the angel flower
Looks like a common
weed.
A BALLAD OF THE MIST.
"I love the Lady of Merle," he said.
"She is not for thee!" her suitor
cried.
And in the valley the lovers fought
By the salt river's tide.
The braver fell on the dewy sward:
The unloved lover returned once
more;
In yellow satin the lady came
And met him at the door.
"Hast thou heard, dark Edith," laughed he grim,
"Poor Hugh hath
craved thee many a day?
Soon would it have been too late for him
His low-born will to say.
"I struck
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