Whilst thick on Alma's blood-stained river
The war-smoke lingered still,
A long, low beat of unseen feet
Rose from her vine-clad hill;

By a swift change to music, nobler
Than e'er was heard by man,

From those red banks the gathered ranks
That other march began.

On, on, through wild and wondrous regions Echoed their iron tread,

Whilst voices old before them rolled'Make way for Alma's dead.'

Like mighty winds before them ever,
Those ancient voices rolled;

Swept from their track, huge bars run back,
And giant gates unfold;

Till, to the inmost home of heroes

They led that hero line,

Where with a flame no years can tame

The stars of honour shine.

As forward stepped each fearless soldier,
So stately, firm, and tall,

Wide, wide outflung, grim plaudits rung
On through that endless hall.

Next, upon gloomy phantom chargers,
The self-devoted came,

Who rushed to die, without reply,

For duty, not for fame.

Then, from their place of ancient glory,
All sheathed in shining brass,

Three hundred men, of the Grecian glen,
Marched down to see them pass.

And the long-silent flutes of Sparta
Poured haughty welcome forth,
Stern hymns to crown, with just renown,
Her brethren of the North.

Yet louder at the solemn portal,
The trumpet floats and waits;
And still more wide, in living pride,
Fly back the golden gates.

And those from Inkerman swarm onwards,
Who made the dark fight good—

One man to nine, till their thin line

Lay, where at first it stood.

But, though cheered high by mailèd millions,
Their steps were faint and slow,

In each proud face the eye might trace
A sign of coming woe.

A coming woe which deepened ever,
As down that darkening road,

Our bravest, tossed to plague and frost,
In streams of ruin flowed.

All through that dim despairing winter,
Too noble to complain,

Bands hunger-worn, in raiment torn,
Came, not by foemen slain.

And patient, from the sullen trenches
Crowds sunk, by toil and cold—
Then murmurs slow, like thunders low,
Wailed through the brave of old.

Wrath glided o'er the Hall of Heroes,
Anguish, and shame, and scorn,

As clouds that drift breathe darkness swift
O'er seas of shining corn.

Wrath glided o'er the Hall of Heroes,
And veiled it like a pall,

Whilst all felt fear, lest they should hear
The Lion-banner fall.

And if unstained that ancient banner
Keep yet its place of pride,

Let none forget how vast the debt
We owe to those who died.

Let none forget THE OTHERS, marching
With steps we feel no more,

Whose bodies sleep, by that grim deep

Which shakes the Euxine shore.

Sir Francis Doyle.

187

THE END OF ALL

(From the Persian of Omar Khayyam.)

THE worldly hope men set their hearts upon
Turns ashes, or it prospers; and anon,

Like snow upon the desert's dusty face,
Lighting a little hour or two-was gone.
Think in this battered caravanserai
Whose portals are alternate night and day,

How Sultan after Sultan with his pomp
Abode his destined hour, and went his way.

They say the lion and the lizard keep
The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep;
And Bahram, that great hunter-the wild ass
Stamps o'er his head, but cannot break his sleep.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
That every hyacinth the garden wears
Dropped in her lap from some once lovely head.

And this reviving herb whose tender green
Fledges the river-lip on which we lean,—

Ah, lean upon it lightly, for who knows
From what once lovely lip it springs unseen!
Ah, my Belovèd, fill the cup that clears
To-day of past regret and future fears:

To-morrow!-why, to-morrow I may be
Myself with yesterday's seven thousand years.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their cup a round or two, before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.

And we, that now make merry in the room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,

Ourselves must we beneath the couch of earth Descend ourselves to make a couch-for whom? Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the dust descend;

Dust into dust, and under dust, to lie

Sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and-sans end! Edward FitzGerald.

188

SPRING

(Pippa Passes.)

THE year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven ;

The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven-
All's right with the world.

Robert Browning.

189

THE TIDE-RIVER

CLEAR and cool, clear and cool,
By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool and clear,

By shining shingle, and foaming weir;
Under the crag where the ouzel sings,
And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings,
Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul,
By the smoky town in its murky cowl;
Foul and dank, foul and dank,
By wharf and sewer and slimy bank;
Darker and darker the farther I go,
Baser and baser the richer I grow;

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled?
Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free,
The floodgates are open, away to the sea.
Free and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along
To the golden sands, and the leaping bar,
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
As I lose myself in the infinite main,

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again.
Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Charles Kingsley.