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Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! they come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's Gathering" rose!
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard; and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:-
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers

With the fierce native daring which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

(B 838)

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,

Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!

Byron.

The

Hallowing of the Fleet

(1854)

ER captains for the Baltic bound
In silent homage stood around;

H

Silent, whilst holy dew

Dimmed her kind eyes. She stood in tears,
For she had felt a mother's fears,

And wifely cares she knew.

She wept, she could not bear to say,
"Sail forth, my mariners, and slay
The liegemen of my foe".
Meanwhile on Russian steppe and lake
Are women weeping for the sake

Of them that seaward go.

Oh warriors, when you stain with gore,
If this indeed must be, the floor

Whereon that lady stept,

When the fierce joy of battle won
Hardens the heart of sire and son,

Remember that she wept.

W. Cory.

T

Alma

(1854)

HOUGH till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be,

Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.

Yesterday unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known,

Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown.

In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless

name,

And a star for ever shining in their firmament of fame.

Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower, and shrine,

Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine,

Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head,

Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead.

Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say

When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away

"He has past from us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died

By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side ".

Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those,

Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose,

Thou on England's banners blazoned with the famous fields of old,

Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold:

And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done,

By that twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were won.

O thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free, Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the

sea.

R. C. Trench.

The Order of Valour

(1856)

HUS saith the Queen! "For him who gave
His life as nothing in the fight,-

So he from Russian wrong might save

My crown, my people and my right,— Let there be made a cross of bronze And grave thereon my queenly crest, Write VALOUR on its haughty scroll And hang it on his breast."

Thus saith the Land! "He who shall bear
Victoria's cross upon his breast,

In token that he did not fear

To die-had need been-for her rest;
For the dear sake of her who gives,
And the high deeds of him who wears,
Shall, high or low, all honour have
From all, through all his years."

Sir Edwin Arnold.

E travelled in the print of olden wars;
Yet all the land was green;

W

And love we found, and peace,

Where fire and war had been.

They pass and smile, the children of the

sword

No more the sword they wield;

And O, how deep the corn

Along the battlefield!

R. L. Stevenson.

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