Lucile [81]
that Autocrat Will of the north!
V.
In the dawn of a moody October, a pale Ghostly motionless vapor began to prevail Over city and camp; like the garment of death Which (is formed by) the face it conceals. 'Twas the breath War, yet drowsily yawning, began to suspire; Wherethrough, here and there, flash'd an eye of red fire, And closed, from some rampart beginning to bellow Hoarse challenge; replied to anon, through the yellow And sulphurous twilight: till day reel'd and rock'd And roar'd into dark. Then the midnight was mock'd With fierce apparitions. Ring'd round by a rain Of red fire, and of iron, the murtherous plain Flared with fitful combustion; where fitfully fell Afar off the fatal, disgorged scharpenelle, And fired the horizon, and singed the coil'd gloom With wings of swift flame round that City of Doom.
VI.
So the day--so the night! So by night, so by day, With stern patient pathos, while time wears away, In the trench flooded through, in the wind where it wails, In the snow where it falls, in the fire where it hails Shot and shell--link by link, out of hardship and pain, Toil, sickness, endurance, is forged the bronze chain Of those terrible siege-lines! No change to that toil Save the mine's sudden leap from the treacherous soil. Save the midnight attack, save the groans of the maim'd, And Death's daily obolus due, whether claim'd By man or by nature.
VII.
Time passes. The dumb, Bitter, snow-bound, and sullen November is come. And its snows have been bathed in the blood of the brave; And many a young heart has glutted the grave: And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story.
VIII.
The moon, swathed in storm, has long set: through the camp No sound save the sentinel's slow sullen tramp, The distant explosion, the wild sleety wind, That seems searching for something it never can find. The midnight is turning: the lamp is nigh spent: And, wounded and lone, in a desolate tent Lies a young British soldier whose sword . . . In this place, However, my Muse is compell'd to retrace Her precipitous steps and revert to the past. The shock which had suddenly shatter'd at last Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holiday nature, Had sharply drawn forth to his full size and stature The real man, conceal'd till that moment beneath All he yet had appear'd. From the gay broider'd sheath Which a man in his wrath flings aside, even so Leaps the keen trenchant steel summon'd forth by a blow. And thus loss of fortune gave value to life. The wife gain'd a husband, the husband a wife, In that home which, though humbled and narrow'd by fate, Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low their state, But large their possessions. Sir Ridley, forgiven By those he unwittingly brought nearer heaven By one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek speech The hypocrite brought his own soul, safe from reach Of the law, died abroad. Cousin John, heart and hand, Purse and person, henceforth (honest man!) took his stand By Matilda and Alfred; guest, guardian, and friend Of the home he both shared and assured, to the end, With his large lively love. Alfred Vargrave meanwhile Faced the world's frown, consoled by his wife's faithful smile. Late in life he began life in earnest; and still, With the tranquil exertion of resolute will, Through long, and laborious, and difficult days, Out of manifold failure, by wearisome ways, Work'd his way through the world; till at last he began (Reconciled to the work which mankind claims for man), After years of unwitness'd, unwearied endeavor, Years impassion'd yet patient, to realize ever More clear on the broad stream of current opinion The reflex of powers in himself--that dominion Which the life of one man, if his life be a truth, May assert o'er the life of mankind. Thus, his youth In his manhood renew'd, fame and fortune
V.
In the dawn of a moody October, a pale Ghostly motionless vapor began to prevail Over city and camp; like the garment of death Which (is formed by) the face it conceals. 'Twas the breath War, yet drowsily yawning, began to suspire; Wherethrough, here and there, flash'd an eye of red fire, And closed, from some rampart beginning to bellow Hoarse challenge; replied to anon, through the yellow And sulphurous twilight: till day reel'd and rock'd And roar'd into dark. Then the midnight was mock'd With fierce apparitions. Ring'd round by a rain Of red fire, and of iron, the murtherous plain Flared with fitful combustion; where fitfully fell Afar off the fatal, disgorged scharpenelle, And fired the horizon, and singed the coil'd gloom With wings of swift flame round that City of Doom.
VI.
So the day--so the night! So by night, so by day, With stern patient pathos, while time wears away, In the trench flooded through, in the wind where it wails, In the snow where it falls, in the fire where it hails Shot and shell--link by link, out of hardship and pain, Toil, sickness, endurance, is forged the bronze chain Of those terrible siege-lines! No change to that toil Save the mine's sudden leap from the treacherous soil. Save the midnight attack, save the groans of the maim'd, And Death's daily obolus due, whether claim'd By man or by nature.
VII.
Time passes. The dumb, Bitter, snow-bound, and sullen November is come. And its snows have been bathed in the blood of the brave; And many a young heart has glutted the grave: And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous in story.
VIII.
The moon, swathed in storm, has long set: through the camp No sound save the sentinel's slow sullen tramp, The distant explosion, the wild sleety wind, That seems searching for something it never can find. The midnight is turning: the lamp is nigh spent: And, wounded and lone, in a desolate tent Lies a young British soldier whose sword . . . In this place, However, my Muse is compell'd to retrace Her precipitous steps and revert to the past. The shock which had suddenly shatter'd at last Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holiday nature, Had sharply drawn forth to his full size and stature The real man, conceal'd till that moment beneath All he yet had appear'd. From the gay broider'd sheath Which a man in his wrath flings aside, even so Leaps the keen trenchant steel summon'd forth by a blow. And thus loss of fortune gave value to life. The wife gain'd a husband, the husband a wife, In that home which, though humbled and narrow'd by fate, Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low their state, But large their possessions. Sir Ridley, forgiven By those he unwittingly brought nearer heaven By one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek speech The hypocrite brought his own soul, safe from reach Of the law, died abroad. Cousin John, heart and hand, Purse and person, henceforth (honest man!) took his stand By Matilda and Alfred; guest, guardian, and friend Of the home he both shared and assured, to the end, With his large lively love. Alfred Vargrave meanwhile Faced the world's frown, consoled by his wife's faithful smile. Late in life he began life in earnest; and still, With the tranquil exertion of resolute will, Through long, and laborious, and difficult days, Out of manifold failure, by wearisome ways, Work'd his way through the world; till at last he began (Reconciled to the work which mankind claims for man), After years of unwitness'd, unwearied endeavor, Years impassion'd yet patient, to realize ever More clear on the broad stream of current opinion The reflex of powers in himself--that dominion Which the life of one man, if his life be a truth, May assert o'er the life of mankind. Thus, his youth In his manhood renew'd, fame and fortune