In the solid sombre mist And the drizzling dazzling shower They may mass them as they list, The gray-coat Russian power;
They are fifties‘ gainst our tens, they, and more! And from the fortress-town In silent squadrons down O'er the craggy mountain-crown
Unseen, they pour. On the meagre British line That northern ocean press'd; But we never knew how few
Were we who held the crest! While within the curtain-mist dark shadows loom Making the gray more gray, Till the volley-flames betray
With one flash the long array: And then, the gloom. For our narrow line too wide On the narrow crest we stood,
And in pride we named it Home, As we sign'd it with our blood. And we held-on all the morning, and the tide Of foes on that low dyke
Surged up, and fear'd to strike, Or on the bayonet-spike Flung them, and died. It was no covert, that,
‘ Gainst the shrieking cannon-ball! But the stout hearts of our men Were the bastion and the wall:— And their chiefs hardly needed give command;
For they tore through copse and gray Mist that before them lay, And each man fought, that day, For his own hand!
Yet should we not forget ‘ Gainst that dun sea of foes How Egerton bank'd his line, Till in front a cloud uprose
From the level rifle-mouths; and they dived With bayonet-thrust beneath; Clench'd teeth and sharp-drawn breath, Plunging to certain death,—
And yet survived! Nor the gallant chief who led Those others, how he fell; When our men the captive guns
Set free they loved so well, And embraced them as live things, by loss endear'd:— Nor, when the crucial stroke On their last asylum broke,
And e'en those hearts of oak Might well have fear'd,— How Stanley to the fore The citadel rush'd to guard,
With that old Albuera cry Fifty-seventh! Die hard! Yet saw not how his lads clear the crest, And, each one confronting five,
The stubborn squadrons rive, And backward, downward, drive,— — Death-call'd to rest! — O proud and sad for thee!
And proud and sad for those Who on that stern foreign field Not seeking, found repose, As for England dear their life they gladly shed!
Yet in death bethought them where, Not on these hillsides bare, But within sweet English air Their own home-dead
In a green and sure repose Beside God's house are laid:— Then faced the charging foes Unmoved, unhelp'd, unafraid:—
For they knew that God would rate each shatter'd limb Death-torn for England's sake, And in Christ's own mercy take On the day when souls shall wake,
Their souls to Him!
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