home a cage.

And I know that, when our couriers

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they With news of victory come,

meet and crowd around, They will bring a bitter message

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant Of hopeless grief to some.

vineyard ground,

That we fought the battle bravely, and when the Again I turn to the woodlands,

day was done, And I shudder as I see

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath tho The mock-grape's * blood-red banner

setting sun; Hung out on the cedar-tree ;

And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown

old in wars, And I think of days of slaughter,

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the And the night-sky red with flames,

last of many scars ; On the Chattahoochee's meadows,

And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's And the wasted banks of the James.

morn decline,

And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bingen O for the fresh spring-season,

on the Rhine. When the groves are in their prime, And far away in the future

“Tell my mother that her other son shall come Is the frosty autumn-time!

fort her old age ;

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his O for that better season, When the pride of the foe shall yield,

For my father was a soldier, and even as a And the hosts of God and Freedom

child March back from the well-won field ;

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of strug.

gles fierce and wild ; And the matron shall clasp her first-born And when he died, and left us to divide his With tears of joy and pride ;

scanty hoard, And the scarred and war-worn lover

I let them take whate'er they would, -- but kept Shall claim his promised bride !

my father's sword ;

And with boyish love 1 hung it where the bright The leaves are swept from the branches ;

light used to shine, But the living buds are there,

On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen With folded flower and foliage,

on the Rhine. To sprout in a kinder air. October, 1864

“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with

drooping head, When the troops come marching home again

with glad and gallant tread, BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and

steadfast eye, A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid There was lack of woman's nursing, there was to die ; dearth of woman's tears ;

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away,

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he And to hang the old sword in its place (my famight say.

ther's sword and mine) The dying soldier faltered, and he took that com- For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on rade's hand,

the Rhine. And he said, “I nevermore shall see my own, my native land ;

“There's another, - not a sister; in the happy Take a message, and a token, to some distant days gone by friends of mine,

You 'd have known her by the merriment that For I was born at Bingen,

at Bingen on the sparkled in her eye ; Rhine.

Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle

scorning, * Ampelopis, mock-grape. I have here literally trans- O friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes some Jated the botanical name of the Virginia creeper, an appellation too cumbrous for verse.

times heaviest mourning !




Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon And upon platforms where the oak-trees grew, be risen,

Trumpets he set, huge beyond dreams of won. My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of der, prison),

Craftily purposed, when his arms withdrew, I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow To make him thought still housed there, like sunlight shine

the thunder : On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, -fair Bingen on And it so fell ; for when the winds blew right, the Rhine.

They woke their trumpets to their calls of might. “I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, - I heard, Unseen, but heard, their calls the trumpets blew, or seemed to hear,

Ringing the granite rocks, their only bearers, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus Till the long fear into religion grew, sweet and clear;

And nevermore those heights had human darers. And down the pleasant river, and up the slant- Dreadful Doolkarnein was an earthly god ; ing hill,

His walls but shadowed forth his mightier The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening

frowning; calm and still ;

Armies of giants at his bidding trod And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed,

From realm to realm, king after king diswith friendly talk,

crowning Down many a path beloved of yore, and well- When thunder spoke, or when the earthquake remembered walk !

stirred, And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in Then, muttering in accord, his host was heard.

mine, But we'll meet no more at Bingen, - loved Bin. But when the winters marred the mountain gen on the Rhine."


And softer changes came with vernal mornings, His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, - his

Something had touched the trumpets' lofty selves, grasp was childish weak,

And less and less rang forth their sovereign His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and

warnings ; ceased to speak ;

Fewer and feebler; as when silence spreads His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,

In plague-struck tents, where haughty chiefs,

left dying, The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly

Fail by degrees upon their angry beds,

Till, one by one, ceases the last stern sighing. she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody One by one, thus, their breath the trumpets

drew, corses strewn; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light | Till now no more the imperious music blew.

seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bingen on

Is hic then dead? Can great Doolkarnein die ?
the Rhine.

Or can his endless hosts elsewhere be needed ?
Were the great breaths that blew his minstrelsy

Phantoms, that faded as himself receded ?
Or is he angered ? Surely he still comes ;

This silence ushers the dread visitation ;

Sudden will burst the torrent of his drums, (In Eastern history are two Iskanders, or Alexanders, who are

And then will follow bloody desolation. nein, or the Two-Horned, in allusion to their subjugation of East So did fear dream ; though now, with not a sound and West, horns being an Oriental symbol of power.

To scare good hope, summer had twice crept round. One of these heroes is Alexander of Macedon; the other a conqueror of more ancient times, who built the marvellous series of ramparts on Mount Caucasus, known in fable as the wall of Gog Then gathered in a band, with lifted eyes, and Magng, that is to say, of the people of the North. It reachel from the Euxine Sea to the Caspian, where its Aanks originated the The neighbors, and those silent heights assubsequent appellation of the Caspian Gates.)

cended. With awful walls, far glooming, that possessed Giant, nor aught blasting their bold emprise, The passes 'twixt the snow-fed Caspian foun They met, though twice they halted, breath tains,

stuspended : Doolkarnein, the dread lord of East and West, Once, at a coming like a god's in rage Shut up the northern nations in their moun With thunderous leaps, but 't was the piled tains;

snow, falling;


sometimes confounded, and both of whom are called Doolkar.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow !
What cares he ? he cannot know;

Lay him low !

And once, when in the woods an oak, for age,

Fell dead, the silence with its groan appalling. At last they came where still, in dread array, Asthough they still might speak, the trumpets lay. Unhurt they lay, like caverns above ground,

The rifted rocks, for hands, about them clinging, Their tubes as straight, their mighty mouths as

round And firm as when the rocks were first set ring

ing Fresh from their unimaginable mould They might have seemed, save that the storms

had stained them With a rich rust, that now, with gloomy gold In the bright sunshine, beauteously engrained

them. Breathless the gazers looked, nigh faint for awe, Then leaped, then laughed. What was it now

they saw ?

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Myriads of birds. Myriads of birds, that filled

The trumpets all with nests and nestling voices ! The great, huge, stormy music had been stilled By the soft needs that nursed those small, sweet

noises ! O thou Doolkarnein, where is now thy wall ?

Where now thy voice divine and all thy forces ? Great was thy cunning, but its wit was small

Compared with nature's least and gentlest



Fears and false creeds may fright the realms

Last night, among his fellow roughs,

He jested, quaffed, and swore ; A drunken private of the Buffs,

Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,

He stands in Elgin's place, Ambassador from Britain's crown,

And type of all her race.

awhile ;

But heaven and earth abide their time, and smile.



Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?.
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch-tree !
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, -- and the birch in its stead is grown,
The knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I trust.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,

Bewildered, and alone,
A heart, with English instinct fraught,

He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limby

Bring cord or axe or flame,
He only knows that not through him

Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,

Like dreams, to come and go ;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,

One sheet of living snow ;
The smoke above his father's door

In gray soft eddyings hung;
Must he then watch it rise no more,

Doomed by himself so young ?


DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. Close his eyes; his work is done !

What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon or set of sun,

Hand of man or kiss of woman ?

Yes, honor calls ! — with strength like steel

He put the vision by ;
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel,

An English lad must die.

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And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then :
Though they to onc be ten,

Be not amazed ;
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

Our good steeds snuff the evening air,

Our pulses with their purpose tingle;
The foeman's fires are twinkling there ;
He leaps to hear our sabres jingle !

Each carbine send its whizzing ball :
Now, cling! clang! forward all,

Into the fight !
Dash on beneath the smoking dome :

Through level lightnings gallop nearer ! One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home : The guidons that we bear are dearer.

Cling ! clang ! forward all!
Heaven help those whose horses fall :

Cut left and right !
They flee before our fierce attack !

They fall! they spread in broken surges. Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges.

The bugles sound the swift recall :
Cling! clang ! backward all !

Home, and good night!

And for myself, quoth he,
This my full rest shall be ;
England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lic slain ;
Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell ;

No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat

Lopped the French lilies.



The Duke of York so dread

vaward led ; With the main Henry sped,

Amongst his henchmen. Excester had the rear, A braver man not there ; O Lord ! how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

Fair stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry ;
But putting to the inain,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

They now to fight are gone ;
Armor on armor shone ;
Drum now to drum did groan, -

To hear was wonder;

That with the cries they make The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake,

Thunder to thunder.

Upon St. Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay

To England to carry ;
0, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry ?


Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham !
Which did the signal aim

To our hid forces ;
When, from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Struck the French horses,



With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather ; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilboes drew,
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy ;
Arms were from shoulders sent ;
Scalps to the teeth were rent ;
Down the French peasants went;

Our men were hardy.

But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain loru, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new icaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner ;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took 't away again ;
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff:-and still he smiled and talked ;
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me ; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners in your majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answered neglectingly, I know not what,
He should, or he should not ; for he made me mad
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds, -God save the

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on carth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise ;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,

As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruiséd his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother, Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.



Warwick in blood did wade ;
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up.
Suffolk his axe did ply ;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,

Ferrers and Fanhope.

Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array

To Surrey's camp to ride ;
He had safe-conduct for his band,

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