Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English field, Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be heal'd, Lopping away of the limb by the pitifulpitiless knife, Torture and trouble in vain,-for it never could save us a life. Valour of delicate women who tended the hospital bed, Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead, Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for grief, Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief, Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher'd for all that we knew Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the still-shatter'd walls Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. VII. Hark cannonade, fusillade! is it true what 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, Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come out, Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good fusileers, Kissing the war-harden'd 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 valour 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. Heaven-sweet Evangel, ever-living By firth and loch thy silver sister grow,1 That were my rose, there my allegiance word, Who whilome spakest to the South in Greek About the soft Mediterranean shores, And then in Latin to the Latin crowd, As good need was-thou hast come to talk our isle. Hereafter thou, fulfilling Pentecost, Must learn to use the tongues of all the world. due. Self-starved, they say-nay, murder'd, doubtless dead. So to this king I cleaved: my friend was he, Once my fast friend: I would have given my life To help his own from scathe, a thousand lives Yet art thou thine own witness that thou To save his soul. He might have come In flying hither? that one night a crowd Throng'd the waste field about the city gates: The king was on them suddenly with a host. Why there? they came to hear their preacher. Then Some cried on Cobham, on the good Lord Cobham; to learn Our Wiclif's learning: but the worldly Priests Who fear the king's hard common-sense should find What rotten piles uphold their masonwork, Urge him to foreign war. O had he will'd I might have stricken a lusty stroke for him, But he would not; far liever led my friend Back to the pure and universal church, Ay, for they love me! but the king-nor But he would not: whether that heirless to him, Who finds the Saviour in his mother tongue. Tether'd to these dead pillars of th Church Rather than so, if thou wilt have it so. Burst vein, snap sinew, and crack hear and life Pass in the fire of Babylon! but ho long, O Lord, how long! My friend should meet me here Here is the copse, the fountain andCross! To thee, dead wood, I bow not head n knees. Rather to thee, green boscage, work God, Black holly, and white-flower'd wayfar ing-tree! Rather to thee, thou living water, draw By this good Wiclif mountain down from heaven, And speaking clearly in thy native tongue No Latin-He that thirsteth, come and drink! repent, Do penance in his heart, God hears him. 'Heresy― The Gospel, the Priest's pearl, flung Not shriven, not saved?' down to swine The swine, lay-men, lay-women, who will come, God willing, to outlearn the filthy friar. Ah rather, Lord, than that thy Gospel, meant To course and range thro' all the world, should be an ill Priest What profits Between me and my God? I would no On them the smell of burning had not past. That was a miracle to convert the king. These Pharisees, this Caiaphas-Arundel What miracle could turn? He here again, He thwarting their traditions of Himself, He would be found a heretic to Himself, And doom'd to burn alive. So, caught, I burn. Burn? heathen men have borne as much as this, For freedom, or the sake of those they loved, Or some less cause, some cause far less than mine; For every other cause is less than mine. The moth will singe her wings, and singed return, Her love of light quenching her fear of pain How now, my soul, we do not heed the fire? Faint-hearted? tut!-faint-stomach'd! faint as I am, God willing, I will burn for Him. Who comes? A thousand marks are set upon my head. Friend?-foe perhaps―a tussle for it |