THE SOLDIERS’ BATTLE

In the solid sombre mist

And the drizzling dazzling shower

They may mass them as they list,

The gray-coat Russian power;

They are fifties‘ gainst our tens, they, and more!

And from the fortress-town

In silent squadrons down

O'er the craggy mountain-crown

Unseen, they pour.

On the meagre British line

That northern ocean press'd;

But we never knew how few

Were we who held the crest!

While within the curtain-mist dark shadows loom

Making the gray more gray,

Till the volley-flames betray

With one flash the long array:

And then, the gloom.

For our narrow line too wide

On the narrow crest we stood,

And in pride we named it Home,

As we sign'd it with our blood.

And we held-on all the morning, and the tide

Of foes on that low dyke

Surged up, and fear'd to strike,

Or on the bayonet-spike

Flung them, and died.

It was no covert, that,

‘ Gainst the shrieking cannon-ball!

But the stout hearts of our men

Were the bastion and the wall:—

And their chiefs hardly needed give command;

For they tore through copse and gray

Mist that before them lay,

And each man fought, that day,

For his own hand!

Yet should we not forget

‘ Gainst that dun sea of foes

How Egerton bank'd his line,

Till in front a cloud uprose

From the level rifle-mouths; and they dived

With bayonet-thrust beneath;

Clench'd teeth and sharp-drawn breath,

Plunging to certain death,—

And yet survived!

Nor the gallant chief who led

Those others, how he fell;

When our men the captive guns

Set free they loved so well,

And embraced them as live things, by loss endear'd:—

Nor, when the crucial stroke

On their last asylum broke,

And e'en those hearts of oak

Might well have fear'd,—

How Stanley to the fore

The citadel rush'd to guard,

With that old Albuera cry

Fifty-seventh! Die hard!

Yet saw not how his lads clear the crest,

And, each one confronting five,

The stubborn squadrons rive,

And backward, downward, drive,—

— Death-call'd to rest!

— O proud and sad for thee!

And proud and sad for those

Who on that stern foreign field

Not seeking, found repose,

As for England dear their life they gladly shed!

Yet in death bethought them where,

Not on these hillsides bare,

But within sweet English air

Their own home-dead

In a green and sure repose

Beside God's house are laid:—

Then faced the charging foes

Unmoved, unhelp'd, unafraid:—

For they knew that God would rate each shatter'd limb

Death-torn for England's sake,

And in Christ's own mercy take

On the day when souls shall wake,

Their souls to Him!