Volume I Part 11 (1/2)

XI.

Roar upon roar--in a moment two mines, by the enemy sprung, Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades.

Riflemen, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be as true.

Sharp is the fire of a.s.sault, better aimed are your flank fusilades; Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung, Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand grenades--, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.

XII.

Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out-tore Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more.

Riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun-- One has leapt up on the breach, crying out, ”Follow me, follow me!”

Mark him--he falls! then another, and him, too, and down goes he.

XIII.

Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but that the traitors had won?

Boardings, and raftings, and doors--an embrasure; make way for the gun!

Now, double charge it with grape! It is charged, and we fire, and they run.

Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due.

Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few, Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew-- That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew.

XIV.

Hark! cannonade! fusilade! is it true that was told by the scout?

Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers?

Surely, the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears!

All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout; Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers.

XV.

Forth from their holes and their hidings our women and children come out, Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good fusileers, Kissing the war-hardened hand of the Highlander wet with their tears.

Dance to the pibroch! saved! we are saved! is it you?

is it you?

Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven!

”Hold it for fifteen days!” we have held it for eighty- seven!

And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England blew.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

SONNETS.

To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy gra.s.s, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,--an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,