“ By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights were won.
Oh! thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free—
Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.
AFTER ALMA, (September 20, 1854.)
BY GERALD MASSEY. Our old War-banners on the wind
Were waving merrily o'er them;
The hope of half the world behind—
The sullen Foe before them!
They trod their march of battle, bold
As death-devoted freemen;
Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old,
Or Rome's immortal Three Men.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow. ”

“ There's a flag that waves o'er every sea,
No matter when or where;
And to treat that flag as aught but the free
Is more than the strongest dare.
For the lion spirits that tread the deck
Have carried the palm of the brave;
And that flag may sink with a shot-torn wreck,
But never float o'er a slave;
Its honour is stainless—deny it who can—
And this is the flag of the Englishman.
There's a heart that beats with burning glow,
The wrong'd and the weak to defend;
And strikes as soon for a trampled foe
As it does for a soul-bound friend. ”

“ Sir Robert Verdon foremost hies,
Through Regan's forest flying;
Each moment on our course they gain,
Alas! why did I break thy chain,
And urge thee, from thy prison, here,
To make the mossy turf thy bier?"
"Cheer up! cheer up! my own dear maid,"
Kildare cried to the weeping lady;
"Soon, soon, shall come the promised aid,
With shield and lance for battle ready;
Look out, while swift we ride, and tell
What see'st thou now at Tenachelle.
Does aught on Clemgaum's Hill now move?
Cheer up, and look, my own dear love!" ”

“ And the flag shall float in the blue on high
Till the last of the Volunteers shall die,
And Hell shall tear it out of the sky—
From Freedom's trampled grave!
Right is Might in ever a fight,
And Truth is Bravery,
And the Right and True are the Ready too,
When the bolt is hurl'd in the peaceful blue
By the hand of Knavery.
And the Land that fears for its Volunteers
Is a Land of Slavery.
DOWN IN AUSTRALIA. BY GERALD MASSEY. Quaff a cup and send a cheer up for the Old Land!
We have heard the Reapers shout,
For the Harvest going out,
With the smoke of battle closing round the bold Land ”

“ On driving up I discovered why there was a crowd, and the discovery did not bring comfort with it. On the deck, on one leg, stood the stork. Whether it was the sea voyage, or the leaving his home, or, that being a stork of high moral principle, he was grieving at the persistent swearing of the parrot, I do not know, but I never saw a more melancholy looking object in my life.
I went down on the deck, and did not like the expression of relief that came over the captain's face when he found what I had come for. ”

“ The tumult of battle was hush'd for awhile,—
Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle,
The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath,
His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath;
The princes of Erin despair'd of relief,
And knelt to the lawless Norwegian chief.
His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile;
But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful isle,
Did he know with what mild, yet resistless control,
That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror's soul:
And oh! 'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthral,
He soon met with one—he thought sweetest of all. ”

“ We sound into the glorious goal with shouts victorious!
From morn till night we fought our fight, and at the set of sun
Stood conquerors on Inkerman—our Soldiers' Battle won.
That morn their legions stood like corn in its pomp of golden grain!
That night the ruddy sheaves were reaped upon the misty plain!
We cut them down by thunder-strokes, and piled the shocks of slain:
The hill-side like a vintage ran, and reeled Death's harvest-wain.
We had hungry hundreds gone to sup in Paradise that night,
And robes of Immortality our ragged braves bedight! ”

“ Honour the Brave.
Here's to the boys of the Shamrock,
Here's to the gallant and gay,
Bearing the flag upon donga or crag,
Blithely as children at play.
The shamrock, the leek, and the thistle,
The shamrock, the leek, and the rose,
One though the bullets may whistle,
One in a red grave's repose.
Each has a need of his fellows,
Sharing the glory or grave,
Each the same destiny mellows—
Honour the Brave.
Here's to the girls of the shamrock,
Here's to the glamour and grace,
Laughing on all, in hovel and hall,
Ever from Erin's young face! ”

“ The Red-Caps crest the hill! with bloody spur, ride, Bosquet, ride!
Down like a flood from Etna foams their valour's burning tide.
Now, God for Merrie England cry! Hurrah for France the Grand!
We charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand to hand!
He caught a shadowy glimpse across the smoke of Alma's fray
Of the Destroying Angel that shall blast his strength to-day.
We shout and charge together, and again, again, again
Our plunging battle tears its path, and paves it with the slain.
Hurrah! the mighty host doth melt before our fervent heat ”

“ Where the Cameron men are wanted."
Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from a bow
Into the midst of the plunging foe,
And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent,
Sweeping the rocks in its foamy current;
And he fell the first in the fervid fray,
Where a deathful shot had shove its way,
But his men pushed on where the work was rough,
Giving the Frenchmen a taste of their stuff,
Where the Cameron men were wanted.
'Brave Cameron, then, front the battle's roar
His foster-brother stoutly bore,
His foster-brother with service true,
Back to the village of Waterloo. ”

“ On, sweep the foe before,
Till the great sea-hold's volleys
Roll through the ghastly roar!
Till your resistless onset
The mighty fortress know,
And storm-won fort and rampart
Your conquering standards show.
Yes—clash, ye bells, in triumph!
Yes—roar, ye cannon, roar!
Not for the living only,
But for those who come no more.
For the brave hearts coldly lying
In their far-off gory graves,
By the Alma's reddened waters,
And the Euxine's dashing waves.
For thee, thou weeping mother,
We grieve; our pity hears
Thy wail, O wife; the fallen,
For them we have no tears ”

“ The sun is shining overhead,
The rough sea heaves below;
We sail with every canvas spread,
Yo ho! my lads, yo ho!
Simple is our vocation,
We seek no hostile strife;
But 'mid the storm's vexation
We succour human life;
O, simple are our pleasures,
We crave no miser's hoard,
But haul the great sea's treasures
To spread a frugal board.
But if at usurpation
We needs must strike a blow,
Our hardy avocation
Shall fit us for the foe;
Then let the despot's strength compete
Upon the open sea,
And on the proudest of his fleet
Our flag shall flutter free. ”

“ Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue,
Which might be thine to sow and reap?—Thus saith the king to Rou:
"'I'll give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure,
And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee fast and sure;
If thou but kneel to Christ our God, and sheathe thy paynim sword,
And hold thy land, the Church's son, a fief from Charles thy lord.'"
The Norman on his warriors looked—to counsel they withdrew;
The Saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou. ”

“ As others under turf.
They sleep as well! and, roused from their wild grave,
Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again,
Joint heirs with Christ, because they bled to save
His weak ones, not in vain.
If that day's work no clasp or medal mark,
If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press,
Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower or Park,
This feel we none the less:
That those whom God's high grace there saved from ill,
Those also left His martyrs in the bay,
Though not by siege, though not in battle, still
Full well had earned their pay. ”

“ Its very heart of life stood still i' the mist that brought its
shroud;
For Death was walking in the dark, and smiled his smile to see
How all was ranged and ready for a sumptuous jubilee.
O wily are the Russians, and they came up through the mirk—
Their feet all shod for silence in the best blood of the Turk!
While in its banks our fiery tide of War serenely slept,
Their subtle serpentry unrolled, and up the hill-side crept.
In the Ruins of the Valley do the birds of carnage stir?
A creaking in the gloom like wheels! feet trample—bullets whir—
By God! the Foe is on us! ”

“ Though loud the death-shot peal, and louder,
He will only neigh the prouder;
Though nigh the death-flash glare, and nigher,
He will face the storm of fire;
He will leap the mound of slain,
Only let him have the rein.
The Arab horse will not shrink back,
Though death confront him in his track,
The Arab horse will not shrink back,
And shall his rider's arm be slack?
No!—By the God who gave us life,
Our souls are ready for the strife.
We need no serried lines, to show
A gallant bearing to the foe.
We need no trumpet to awake The thirst,
which blood alone can slake. ”

“ But ne'er was known to lend it;
He never helped his brother;
The poor he ne'er befriended;
He hath no need of property
Who knows not how to spend it.
"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend,
And thrifty Tom to hoard;
Let Thomas be the steward then,
And Edward be the lord;
And as the honest labourer
Is worthy his reward,
"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son,
And my successor dear,
To pay to his intendant
Five hundred pounds a year;
And to think of his old father,
And live and make good cheer.'"
Such was old Brentford's honest testament. ”

“ Lo, when grim battle rages and is shed
A dreadful crimson dew,
God is at work and of the gallant dead
He maketh man anew.
The hero courage, the endurance stout,
The self-renouncing will,
The shock of onset and the thunder shout
That triumph over ill—
All wreak His purpose though at bitter cost
And fashion forth His plan,
While not a single sob or ache is lost
Which in His Breath began.
Each act august, which bravely in despite
Of suffering dared to be,
Is one with the grand order infinite
Which sets the kingdoms free. ”

“ And thought of those who ranked with us in battle's rough array,
Our comrades of the morn who came no more from that fell fray!
The salt tears wrung out in the gloom of green dells far away—
The eyes of lurking Death that in Life's crimson bubbles play—
The stern white faces of the dead that on the dark ground lay
Like statues of old heroes, cut in precious human clay—
Some with a smile as life had stopped to music proudly gay—
The household gods of many a heart all dark and dumb to-day! ”

“ Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay!
In bridal adorning, the star of the day;
Now, weep for the lover—his triumph is sped,
His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead!
But, O! for the maiden who mourns for that chief,
With heart overladen and rending with grief!
She sinks on the meadow—in one morning-tide,
A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!
Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole!
Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul:
True—true, 'twas a story for ages of pride ”

“ Looks down on life that wears a stain;
He lives too long who lives an hour
Beneath the clanking of a chain.
I breathe my spirit on my sword,
I leave a name to honour known,
And perish, to the last the lord
Of all that man can call his own."
Such was the mountain leader's speech;
Say ye, who tell the bloody tale,
When havoc smote the howling breach,
Then did the noble savage quail?
No—when through dust, and steel, and flame,
Hot streams of blood, and smothering smoke,
True as an arrow to its aim,
The meteor-flag of England broke ”

“ For no man liveth to himself
Or to himself alone;
And we must bear together
A common weal and woe,
In all we are, in all we have,
In all we feel and know.
I am my brother's keeper,
In all that I can be,
Of high and pure example,
Of true integrity;
A guide to go before him,
In darkness and in light;
A very cloud of snow by day,
A cloud of fire by night.
I am my brother's keeper,
In all that I can say,
To help him on his journey
To cheer him by the way;
To succour him in weakness,
To solace him in woe;
To strengthen him in conflict,
And fit him for the foe. ”

“ And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name,
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine) ,
For the honour of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the Rhine!
"There's another—not a Sister,—in the happy days gone by,
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye:
Too innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;—
Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest
mourning! ”

“ The man who does not respect himself is not likely to command the respect of others. And the Nation which takes no pride in its history is not likely to make a history of which it can be proud.
But self-respect involves self-restraint, and no man who wishes to retain his own respect and to merit the respect of others would think of advertising his own virtues or bragging of his own deeds. Nor would any Nation wishing to stand well in its own eyes and in the eyes of the world boast of its own conquests over weaker foes or shout itself hoarse in the exuberance of vainglory. ”