Benjamin Brierley

Fall of Sebastopol

HUSH! methought I heard a sound,
As 'twere a booming thunder-burst,
Awake the startled echoes 'round,
And cleave the midnight air.   The first
Hath scarcely died ere pealing flies
A second volley to the skies:—
A third! and now a crash of bells
The new-born tale of triumph tells.
    Strange whispers pass from door to door,
Which grow to shouts from street to street,
    'Till swelling in one distant roar,—
Where rushing myriads, myriads meet,
Is climax'd by one thundering voice—
                    "Sebastopol hath fallen!"

                                               Rejoice,
Ye youths and maidens of the land;
Ye grey-haired sires, a noble band;
Ye mothers of a race as brave
As ever fought on field, or wave,—
Rejoice! this is no time to mourn,
Though heroes bleed and cities burn.
From crimson rain shall vineyards flow,—
From smouldering ashes harvests grow.

      Beside a humble cottage door
A woman stood, who oft before
Had lingered there to read of wars,
As presaged in the book of stars.
At times the face of heaven would seem
As if illumed by glory's beam.
At others, drops of lurid light
Would leave the sky to blackest night.
Then would despair the watcher seize,
Who, falling on her suppliant knees,
Would pray—and would 'twere not in vain!—
Her "Geordie" might come home again.

      "What does it mean?" the woman cries,
As past her door a neighbour flies.
"What does it mean?—What does it mean?
The war is o'er,—God bless the Queen!"
"The war is o'er; and England won!
Then shall I see—again—my son."
Yes, in thy visions, woman grey,
But not in dance or revel gay.
Look, where the battle's smoke divides;
Where 'mongst the slain the victor rides;
There see, the rising cloud reveals
A form that from a saddle reels.
A wound, made by a sabre stroke,
Like winter sun through fog and smoke,
Or iron bar in heated forge,
Marks for the grave thy darling George.

      "What will they say in England now?"
Exclaims the youth, with bleeding brow.
"Alas! I shall not hear what's said,
For now I'm quartered with the dead!"
Then takes he from his breast a charm,
Worn not to shield from battle's harm,
But one to kiss at evening prayer—
It is a lock of silver hair.

      "What will they say in mine own land?"
Exclaims a youth of another band.
Victorious you, and conquered we—
Though why we fought's unknown to me.
That fatal cut was from my sword,
And your own steel my blood hath gored!"
Then takes he from his breast a charm,
Worn not to shield from battle's harm,
But one to kiss at evening prayer—
It is a lock of golden hair.

      Two hands are clasped in death's embrace:
Two foes are prostrate, face to face.
"You leave a mother," said the one—
His power of utterance nearly gone:
"I leave a wife and children dear;
And 'twas not glory led me here.
They said 'twas fealty to the Czar
That forced his subjects into war.
But why it was that I slew you,
Or why it was that me you slew,
Is not for us but kings to say,
On Greater Field and Greater Day."

      Locked in each other's arms, the twain
Were told at roll-call with the slain.
As foes they fought, as friends they bled—
The martyr triumph of the dead.
What holier voice could sound afar
A protest 'gainst the sin of war?