XIII

An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es I be mysen o' my cats,

But I niver not wish'd fur childer, I hev n't naw likin' fur brats;

Pretty anew when ya dresses 'em oop, an' they goäs fur a walk,

Or sits wi' their 'ands afoor 'em, an' does n't not 'inder the talk!

But their bottles o' pap, an' their mucky

bibs, an' the clats an' the clouts, An' their mashin' their toys to pieäces an' maäkin' ma deäf wi' their shouts, An' hallus a-joompin' about ma as if they was set upo' springs,

An' a haxin' ma hawkard questions, an' saäyin' ondecent things,

90

An' a-callin' ma 'hugly' mayhap to my
faäce, or a-teärin' my gown -
Dear! dear! dear! I mun part them
Tommies - Steevie, git down.

XIV

Ye be wuss nor the men-tommies, you. I
tell'd ya, na moor o' that!
Tom, lig theere o' the cushion, an' tother
Tom 'ere o' the mat.

XV

Theere! I ha' master'd them! Hed I married the Tommies - O Lord,

To loove an' obaäy the Tommies! I could n't 'a stuck by my word.

To be horder'd about, an' waäked, when Molly 'd put out the light,

By a man coomin' in wi' a hiccup at ony hour o' the night!

An' the taäble staäin'd wi' 'is aäle, an' the mud o' 'is boots o' the stairs, An' the stink o' 'is pipe i' the 'ouse, an' the mark o' 'is 'eäd o' the chairs! An' noän o' my four sweet-arts 'ud 'a let me 'a hed my oän waäy,

100

Sa I likes 'em best wi' taäils when they 'ev n't a word to saäy.

XVI

An' I sits i' my oän little parlor, an' sarved by my oän little lass,

Wi' my oän little garden outside, an' my oän bed o' sparrow-grass, An' my oän door-poorch wi' the woodbine an' jessmine a-dressin' it greeän, An' my oän fine Jackman i' purple a roäbin' the 'ouse like a queeän.

The poem introduced by this Prologue was printed in 'Macmillan's Magazine' for March, 1882. The Prologue and Epilogue were added when it appeared in the Tiresias' volume, 1885.

Sir Edward Bruce Hamley was born at Bodwin in Cornwall, April 27, 1824. He entered the army in 1843; served in the Crimean War; was successively professor of military history and commandant at the Staff College, Sandhurst (1858-77); was chief of the commission for the delimitation of the Balkan and Armenian frontiers (1879-80); and commanded a division in the Egyptian war of 1882. He was also the author of several works on military subjects. He died August 12, 1893.

OUR birches yellowing and from each The light leaf falling fast,

While squirrels from our fiery beech

Were bearing off the mast,

You came, and look'd and loved the view
Long-known and loved by me,
Green Sussex fading into blue
With one gray glimpse of sea;
And, gazing from this height alone,
We spoke of what had been

Most marvellous in the wars your own
Crimean eyes had seen;

And now like old-world inns that take Some warrior for a sign

That therewithin a guest may make

True cheer with honest wine Because you heard the lines I read

Nor utter'd word of blame,

I dare without your leave to head
These rhymings with your name,
Who know you but as one of those
I fain would meet again,

Yet know you, as your England knows
That you and all your men

Were soldiers to her heart's desire,
When, in the vanish'd year,
You saw the league-long rampart-fire
Flare from Tel-el-Kebir

Thro' darkness, and the foe was driven,
And Wolseley overthrew

Arâbi, and the stars in heaven
Paled, and the glory grew.

The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the fight!

Thousands of horsemen had gather'd there on the height,

With a wing push'd out to the left and a wing to the right,

And who shall escape if they close ? but he dash'd up alone

Thro' the great gray slope of men, Sway'd his sabre, and held his own Like an Englishman there and then. 'All in a moment follow'd with force Three that were next in their fiery course, Wedged themselves in between horse and horse,

Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made – Four amid thousands! and up the hill, up the hill,

Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade.

III

Fell like a cannon-shot,
Burst like a thunderbolt,
Crash'd like a hurricane,

Broke thro' the mass from below,
Drove thro' the midst of the foe,
Plunged up and down, to and fro,
Rode flashing blow upon blow,
Brave Inniskillens and Greys

Whirling their sabres in circles of light!
And some of us, all in amaze,

Who were held for a while from the fight, And were only standing at gaze,

When the dark-muffled Russian crowd Folded its wings from the left and the

right,

And roll'd them around like a cloud, O, mad for the charge and the battle were we,

When our own good redcoats sank from sight,

Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea, And we turn'd to each other, whispering, all dismay'd,

'Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's Brigade !'

IV

'Lost one and all' were the words
Mutter'd in our dismay;

But they rode like victors and lords
Thro' the forest of lances and swords
In the heart of the Russian hordes,
They rode, or they stood at bay —
Struck with the sword-hand and slew,
Down with the bridle-hand drew
The foe from the saddle and threw
Underfoot there in the fray
Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock
In the wave of a stormy day;
Till suddenly shock upon shock
Stagger'd the mass from without,
Drove it in wild disarray,

For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout,

And the foeman surged, and waver'd, and reel'd

Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field,

And over the brow and away.

POET.

Yet tho' this cheek be gray, And that bright hair the modern sun, Those eyes the blue to-day, You wrong me, passionate little friend. I would that wars should cease, I would the globe from end to end Might sow and reap in peace, And some new Spirit o'erbear the old, Or Trade re-frain the Powers From war with kindly links of gold,

Or Love with wreaths of flowers. Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all My friends and brother souls, With all the peoples, great and small, That wheel between the poles. But since our mortal shadow, Ill, To waste this earth beganPerchance from some abuse of Will In worlds before the man

Involving ours he needs must fight
To make true peace his own,

He needs must combat might with might,
Or Might would rule alone;

And who loves war for war's own sake
Is fool, or crazed, or worse;

But let the patriot-soldier take

His meed of fame in verse; Nay-tho' that realm were in the wrong For which her warriors bleed,

It still were right to crown with song
The warrior's noble deed
A crown the Singer hopes may last,
For so the deed endures;
But Song will vanish in the Vast;

And that large phrase of yours
'A star among the stars,' my dear,
Is girlish talk at best;

For dare we dally with the sphere
As he did half in jest,

Old Horace? I will strike,' said he,
'The stars with head sublime,'
But scarce could see, as now we see,
The man in space and time,

So drew perchance a happier lot
Than ours, who rhyme to-day.
The fires that arch this dusky dot
Yon myriad-worlded way

The vast sun-clusters' gather'd blaze,
World-isles in lonely skies,

Whole heavens within themselves, amaze
Our brief humanities.

And so does Earth; for Homer's fame,
Tho' carved in harder stone

Let it live then-ay, till when? Earth passes, all is lost

In what they prophesy, our wise men,
Sun-flame or sunless frost,

And deed and song alike are swept
Away, and all in vain

As far as man can see, except

The man himself remain;
And tho', in this lean age forlorn,

Too many a voice may cry
That man can have no after-morn,
Not yet of those am I.
The man remains, and whatsoe'er

He wrought of good or brave Will mould him thro' the cycle-year That dawns behind the grave.

Thou that seest Universal

Nature moved by Universal Mind;

Thou majestic in thy sadness

at the doubtful doom of human kind;

VII

Light among the vanish'd ages;

star that gildest yet this phantom shore;

Golden branch amid the shadows, kings and realms that pass to rise no more;

MANTUANS FOR THE NINETEENTH CENTENARY OF VIRGIL'S DEATH

First printed in 'The Nineteenth Century' for November, 1882.

I

ROMAN VIRGIL, thou that singest

Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,

Ilion falling, Rome arising,

wars, and filial faith, and Dido's руге;

II

Landscape-lover, lord of language

more than he that sang the 'Works and Days,'

All the chosen coin of fancy

I salute thee, Mantovano,

I that loved thee since my day began,

phrase;

ever moulded by the lips of man,