Part 15

Therefore, in my dumb country’s stead, I come to thee, unheralded, Praying that Time’s peace may be shed Upon thine high, anointed head, --One with the wheat, The mountain pine, the prairie trail, The lakes, the thronging ships thereon, The valley of the blue Saint John, New France--her lilies,--not alone Empress, I bid thee, Hail!

_Francis Sherman._

STRINGER

CCII

CANADA TO ENGLAND

Sang one of England in his island home: ‘Her veins are million, but her heart is one;’ And looked from out his wave-bound homeland isle To us who dwell beyond its western sun.

And we among the northland plains and lakes, We youthful dwellers on a younger land, Turn eastward to the wide Atlantic waste, And feel the clasp of England’s outstretched hand.

For we are they who wandered far from home To swell the glory of an ancient name; Who journeyed seaward on an exile long, When fortune’s twilight to our island came.

But every keel that cleaves the midway waste Binds with a silent thread our sea-cleft strands, Till ocean dwindles and the sea-waste shrinks, And England mingles with a hundred lands.

And weaving silently all far-off shores A thousand singing wires stretch round the earth, Or sleep still vocal in their ocean depths, Till all lands die to make one glorious birth.

So we remote compatriots reply, And feel the world-task only half begun: ‘We are the girders of the ageing earth, Whose veins are million, but whose heart is one.’

_Arthur Stringer._

LIVINGSTON

CCIII

THE CANADIAN VOLUNTEERS

Wide are the plains to the north and the westward; Drear are the skies to the west and the north-- Little they cared, as they snatched up their rifles, And shoulder to shoulder marched gallantly forth. Cold are the plains to the north and the westward, Stretching out far to the grey of the sky-- Little they cared as they marched from the barrack-room, Willing and ready, if need be, to die.

Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets; Firm and erect was each man in his place; Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans; Smiling and fearless was every face; Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them; Never a fear of war’s terrible scenes; ‘Brave as the bravest,’ was stamped on each face of them; Half of them boys not yet out of their teens.

Many a woman gazed down at them longingly, Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed; Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of him, Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last. Many a maiden’s cheek paled as she looked at them, Seeing the lover from whom she must part; Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him, Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart.

Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them, Beat as it never had beaten before; Every voice of us, choked though it may have been, Broke from huzza to a deafening roar. Proud! were we proud of them? God! they were part of us, Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight; Swift at their country’s call, ready each man and all, Eager to battle for her and the right.

Wide are the plains to the north and the westward, Stretching out far to the grey of the sky-- Little they cared as they filed from the barrack-room, Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die. Was there one flinched? Not a boy, not a boy of them; Straight on they marched to the dread battle’s brunt-- Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them, Canada’s call found them all at the front.

_Stuart Livingston._

VI

INDIA

DUTT

CCIV

THE HINDU’S ADDRESS TO THE GANGES

The waves are dashing proudly down Along thy sounding shore; Lashing, with all the storm of power, The craggy base of mountain tower, Of mosque, and pagod hoar, That darkly o’er thy waters frown, As if their moody spirit’s sway Could hush their wild and boist’rous play!

Unconscious roll the surges down, But not unconscious thou, Dread Spirit of the rolling flood, For ages worshipped as a God, And worshipped even now, Worshipped, and not by serf or clown, For sages of the mightiest fame Have paid their homage to thy name.

Canst thou forget the glorious past, When mighty as a God, With hands and heart unfettered yet, And eyes with slavish tears unwet, Each sable warrior trod Thy sacred shore, before the blast Of Moslem conquest hurried by, Ere yet the Mogul spear was nigh?

O’er crumbled thrones thy waters glide, Through scenes of blood and woe; And crown and kingdom, might and sway, The victor’s and the poet’s bay, Ignobly sleep below; Sole remnant of our ancient pride, Thy waves survive the wreck of time, And wanton free as in their prime.

Alas, alas, all round how drear, How mangled and how torn! Where are the damsels proud and gay, Where warriors in their dread array, ‘In Freedom’s temple born?’ Can heroes sleep? Can patriots fear? Or is the spark for ever gone, That lights the soul from sire to son?

I gaze upon thy current strong Beneath the blaze of day; What conjured visions throng my sight, Of war and carnage, death and flight! Thy waters to the Bay In purple eddies sweep along, And Freedom shrieking leaves the shrine, Alas! no longer now divine.

Roll, Gunga, roll in all thy pride Thy hallowed groves among! Still glorious thou in every mood, Thou boast of India’s widowhood, Thou theme of every song! Blent with the murmurs of thy tide The records of far ages lie, And live, for thou canst never die!

_Shoshee Chunder Dutt._

LYALL

CCV

THEOLOGY IN EXTREMIS

Oft in the pleasant summer years, Reading the tales of days bygone, I have mused on the story of human tears, All that man unto man has done, Massacre, torture, and black despair; Reading it all in my easy-chair.

Passionate prayer for a minute’s life; Tortured crying for death as rest; Husband pleading for child or wife, Pitiless stroke upon tender breast. Was it all real as that I lay there Lazily stretched on my easy-chair?

Could I believe in those hard old times, Here in this safe luxurious age? Were the horrors invented to season rhymes, Or truly is man so fierce in his rage? What could I suffer, and what could I dare? I who was bred to that easy-chair.

They were my fathers, the men of yore, Little they recked of a cruel death; They would dip their hands in a heretic’s gore, They stood and burnt for a rule of faith. What would I burn for, and whom not spare? I, who had faith in an easy-chair.

Now do I see old tales are true, Here in the clutch of a savage foe; Now shall I know what my fathers knew, Bodily anguish and bitter woe, Naked and bound in the strong sun’s glare, Far from my civilised easy-chair.

Now have I tasted and understood The old-world feeling of mortal hate; For the eyes all round us are hot with blood; They will kill us coolly--they do but wait; While I, I would sell ten lives, at least, For one fair stroke at that devilish priest,

Just in return for the kick he gave, Bidding me call on the prophet’s name; Even a dog by this may save Skin from the knife and soul from the flame; My soul! if he can let the prophet burn it, But life is sweet if a word may earn it.

A bullock’s death, and at thirty years! Just one phrase, and a man gets off it; Look at that mongrel clerk in his tears Whining aloud the name of the prophet; Only a formula easy to patter, And, God Almighty, what _can_ it matter?

‘Matter enough,’ will my comrade say Praying aloud here close at my side, ‘Whether you mourn in despair alway, Cursed for ever by Christ denied; Or whether you suffer a minute’s pain All the reward of Heaven to gain.’

Not for a moment faltereth he, Sure of the promise and pardon of sin; Thus did the martyrs die, I see, Little to lose and muckle to win; Death means Heaven, he longs to receive it, But what shall I do if I don’t believe it?

Life is pleasant, and friends may be nigh, Fain would I speak one word and be spared; Yet I could be silent and cheerfully die, If I were only sure God cared; If I had faith, and were only certain That light is behind that terrible curtain.

But what if He listeth nothing at all, Of words a poor wretch in his terror may say? That mighty God who created all To labour and live their appointed day; Who stoops not either to bless or ban, Weaving the woof of an endless plan.

He is the Reaper, and binds the sheaf, Shall not the season its order keep? Can it be changed by a man’s belief? Millions of harvests still to reap; Will God reward, if I die for a creed, Or will He but pity, and sow more seed?

Surely He pities who made the brain, When breaks that mirror of memories sweet, When the hard blow falleth, and never again Nerve shall quiver nor pulse shall beat; Bitter the vision of vanishing joys; Surely He pities when man destroys.

Here stand I on the ocean’s brink, Who hath brought news of the further shore? How shall I cross it? Sail or sink, One thing is sure, I return no more; Shall I find haven, or aye shall I be Tossed in the depths of a shoreless sea?

They tell fair tales of a far-off land, Of love rekindled, of forms renewed; There may I only touch one hand Here life’s ruin will little be rued; But the hand I have pressed and the voice I have heard, To lose them for ever, and all for a word!

Now do I feel that my heart must break All for one glimpse of a woman’s face; Swiftly the slumbering memories wake Odour and shadow of hour and place; One bright ray through the darkening past Leaps from the lamp as it brightens last,

Showing me summer in western land Now, as the cool breeze murmureth In leaf and flower--And here I stand In this plain all bare save the shadow of death; Leaving my life in its full noonday, And no one to know why I flung it away.

Why? Am I bidding for glory’s roll? I shall be murdered and clean forgot; Is it a bargain to save my soul? God, whom I trust in, bargains not; Yet for the honour of English race, May I not live or endure disgrace.

Ay, but the word, if I could have said it, I by no terrors of hell perplext; Hard to be silent and have no credit From man in this world, or reward in the next; None to bear witness and reckon the cost Of the name that is saved by the life that is lost.

I must be gone to the crowd untold Of men by the cause which they served unknown, Who moulder in myriad graves of old; Never a story and never a stone Tells of the martyrs who die like me, Just for the pride of the old countree.

_Sir Alfred Lyall._

WEBB

CCVI

THE RESIDENCY CHURCHYARD

From domes and palaces I bent my way Where, like some Titan by Jove’s thunder marred, From the old battered portal-towers that guard The storied ruins of a glorious fray. In patient stillness house and bastion lay, As they had fallen; for the fight was hard That saw their walls by myriad bullets scarred, When those few steadfast warriors stood at bay. There, by the English tombs of those that fell In that fierce struggle ’twixt the East and West, A few green mounds are seen, where peaceful rest India’s brave sons who perished fighting well For England too. What heart its feud can keep Beside these graves where our dark comrades sleep?

_William Trego Webb._

CCVII

THE MEMORIAL WELL

Speak gently, gently tread, And breathe one sigh profound; In memory of the dead Each spot is holy ground.

Theirs was no common doom, And some were young to die; Within this narrow tomb Women and infants lie.

They drank the bitter cup Of fear and anguish deep, Ere they were rendered up To death’s unruffled sleep.

Meek be our sorrow here, For them we could not save; And soft be Pity’s tear Above the children’s grave.

Quenched here be passion’s heat, Let strife and vengeance cease; Within their garden sweet Leave them to rest in peace.

For Nature hath made clean This place of human guilt; And now the turf is green Where English blood was spilt.

Earth’s healing hand hath spread Her flowers about their tomb; Around the quiet dead Trees wave and roses bloom.

Then lift not wrathful hands, But pass in silence by; Their carven Angel stands And watches where they lie.

_William Trego Webb._

CCVIII

SPRING IN CALCUTTA

The cool and pleasant days are past, The sun above the horizon towers; And Eastern Spring, arriving fast, Leads on too soon the sultry hours.

From greener height the palm looks down; A livelier hue the peepuls share; And sunlit poinsianas crown With golden wreaths their branches bare.

The ships that, by the river’s brim, At anchor, lift their shining sides Against the red sun’s westering rim, Swing to the wash of stronger tides.

No insects hum in sylvan bower; In spectral Stillness stand the trees;-- Come, blessing of our evening hour, Come forth and blow, sweet southern breeze!

To us the ocean freshness lend Which from the wave thy breath receives; Ripple these glassy tanks and send A murmur through the silent leaves!

See, blurred with amber haze, the sun ’Neath yon dim flats doth sink to rest; And tender thoughts, that homeward run, Move fondly with him to the west.

They leave these hot and weary hours, The iron fate that girds us round, And wander ’mid the meadow flowers And breezy heights of English ground.

The sun is set; we’ll dream no more; Vainly for us the vision smiles;-- Why did we quit thy pleasant shore, Our happiest of the Happy Isles!

_William Trego Webb._

DENNING

CCIX

THE LUCKNOW GARRISON

Still stand thy ruins ’neath the Indian sky, Memorials eloquent of blood and tears! O! for the spirit of those days gone by To wake a strain amid these later years Worthy of thee and thine! I seem to see, When thinking on thy consecrated dead, From thy scarred chambers start The heroes whom thy fiery travail bred And made thee--for us English--what thou art!

Green grows the grass around thy crumbling walls Where glorious Lawrence groaned his life away! And childhood’s footsteps echo through those halls Wherein thy wounded and thy dying lay! While blent with infant laughter seems to rise The far-off murmur of thy battle roll, The prayer--the shout--the groan-- Outram’s unselfish chivalry of soul, And white-haired Havelock’s strong, commanding tone!

Yet, what are names? The genius of the spot, Born of our womanhood and manhood brave, Shall fire our children’s children! Ne’er forgot Shall be the dust of thy historic grave While Reverence fills the sense with musing calm, While Glory stirs the pulse of prince or clown, While blooms on British sod The glorious flower of our fair renown, Our English valour and our trust in God!

The memory of the Living! Lo, they stand Engirt with honour while the day draws in, An ever lessening and fraternal band Linked in chivalric glory and akin To earth’s immortals! Time may bow the frame And plough deep wrinkles ’mid their honoured scars, But Death-like Night which brings To earth the blaze majestic of the stars, Shall but enhance their glory with his wings!

The memory of the Dead! A pilgrim, I Have bowed my face before thy honoured shrine, With pride deep-welling while the moments by Sped to a human ecstasy divine Tingling my very blood, to think that they, Martyrs and victors in our English need, Were children of the earth-- Yet better--heroes of our island breed And men and women of our British birth!

_John Renton Denning._

CCX

SOLDIERS OF IND

_Men of the Hills and men of the Plains, men of the Isles and Sea, Brothers in bond of battle and blood wherever the battle may be; A song and a thought for your fighting line, a song for the march and camp, A song to the beat of the rolling drums, a song to the measured tramp, When the feet lift up on the dusty road ’neath sun and moon and star, And the prayer is prayed by mother and maid for their best beloved afar!_

What say the Plains--the Plains that stretch along From hamlet and from field, from fold and byre? ‘Here once toiled one who sang his peasant song And now reaps harvest ’mid the tribesmen’s fire! The Spirit of a mightier world than springs From his poor village led him on To glory! Yea--to glory!’--Ever sings The Spirit of the Plains when he is gone!

What say the Hills whence come the Gurkha breed-- The bull-dogs of the East? From crest and vale Reverberate the echoes, swift they speed On falling waters or the mountain gale! ‘Our Hillmen brave as lions have gone forth; They were our sons; we bred them--even we-- To face thy foemen, Islands of the North, We know their worth and sing it thus to thee!’

What say the Passes? There the requiem Of battle lingers o’er the undying dead-- ‘Our Soldiers of the Sun, whose diadem Of honour glitters in the nullah bed, Or by the hillside drear, or dark ravine, Or on the _sangared_ steep--a solemn ray That touches thus the thing that once hath been, With glory--glory!’--So the Passes say!

And so the great world hears and men’s eyes blaze As each one to his neighbour cries ‘Well done!’ A little thing this speech--this flower of praise, Yet let it crown our Soldiers of the Sun! Not here alone--for here we know them well; But tell our English, waiting on the shore To welcome back _their_ heroes: ‘Lo! these fell Even as ours--as brave--for evermore!’

I hear the roar amid the London street:-- The earth hath not its equal, whether it be For ignorance or knowledge, and the feet That press therein and eyes that turn to see Know nothing of our sepoys--let them know That here be men beneath whose dark skin runs A battle-virtue kindred with the glow That fires the leaping pulses of their sons!

’Tis worth proclaiming. Yea, it seems to me This loyalty--to death--lies close akin To all the noblest human traits that be, Engendered whence we know not--yet within Choice spirits nobly gathered. Lo! we stand, Needs must, against the world, Yet war’s alarms Are nothing to our mightiest Motherland, While Nation circles Nation in her arms!

_John Renton Denning._

CCXI

SARANSAR

What are the bugles saying With a strain so long and so loud? They say that a soldier’s blanket Is meet for a soldier’s shroud! They say that their hill-tossed music, Blown forth of the living breath, Is full of the victor’s triumph And sad with the wail of death! _Bugles of Talavera!_

What are the bugles saying? They tell of the falling night, When a section of dog-tired English Drew close for a rear-guard fight; With an officer-boy to lead them, A lost and an outflanked squad, By the grace of a half-learned drill book, And a prayer to the unseen God! _Bugles of Talavera!_

What are the bugles saying Of the stand that was heel to heel? The click of the quick-pressed lever, The glint of the naked steel, The flame of the steady volley, The hope that was almost gone, As the leaping horde of the tribesmen Swept as a tide sweeps on! _Bugles of Talavera!_

What are the bugles saying? They say that the teeth are set, They say that the breath comes thicker, And the blood-red Night is wet; While the rough blunt speech of the English, The burr of the shires afar, Falls with a lone brave pathos ’Mid the hills of the Saransar! _Bugles of Talavera!_

What are the bugles saying? They say that the English there Feel a breath from their island meadows Like incense fill the air! They say that they stood for a moment With their dear ones by their side, For their spirits swept to the Homeland Before the English died! _Bugles of Talavera!_

And aye are the bugles saying, While the dust lies low i’ the dust, The strength of a strong man’s fighting, The crown of the soldier’s trust-- The wine of a full-brimmed battle, The peace of the quiet grave, And a wreath from the hands of glory Are the guerdon of the brave! _Bugles of Talavera!_

_John Renton Denning._

KIPLING

CCXII

THE GALLEY-SLAVE

O gallant was our galley from her carven steering-wheel To her figurehead of silver and her beak of hammered steel; The leg-bar chafed the ankle and we gasped for cooler air, But no galley on the water with our galley could compare!

Our bulkheads bulged with cotton and our masts were stepped in gold-- We ran a mighty merchandise of niggers in the hold; The white foam spun behind us, and the black shark swam below, As we gripped the kicking sweep-head and we made that galley go.

It was merry in the galley, for we revelled now and then-- If they wore us down like cattle, faith, we fought and loved like men! As we snatched her through the water, so we snatched a minute’s bliss, And the mutter of the dying never spoiled the lovers’ kiss.

Our women and our children toiled beside us in the dark-- They died, we filed their fetters, and we heaved them to the shark-- We heaved them to the fishes, but so fast the galley sped We had only time to envy, for we could not mourn our dead.

Bear witness, once my comrades, what a hard-bit gang were we-- The servants of the sweep-head but the masters of the sea! By the hands that drove her forward as she plunged and yawed and sheered, Woman, Man, or God or Devil, was there anything we feared?

Was it storm? Our fathers faced it and a wilder never blew; Earth that waited for the wreckage watched the galley struggle through. Burning noon or choking midnight, Sickness, Sorrow, Parting, Death? Nay, our very babes would mock you had they time for idle breath.

But to-day I leave the galley and another takes my place; There’s my name upon the deck-beam--let it stand a little space. I am free--to watch my messmates beating out to open main Free of all that Life can offer--save to handle sweep again.

By the brand upon my shoulder, by the gall of clinging steel, By the welt the whips have left me, by the scars that never heal; By eyes grown old with staring through the sunwash on the brine, I am paid in full for service--would that service still were mine!

Yet they talk of times and seasons and of woe the years bring forth, Of our galley swamped and shattered in the rollers of the North. When the niggers break the hatches and the decks are gay with gore, And a craven-hearted pilot crams her crashing on the shore.