when all seemed lost but glory
With the lustre which it gave,
And Relief an idle story
Murmured by a sealed grave;
While with pallid lips they reckoned
Darkly the enduring days
Famished, lo! Deliverance beckoned
Surely after long delays.
on wave of martial beauty,
Dashed upon those deadly rocks
At the simple call of duty,
And were broken by the shocks.
Yet that chivalry of splendour,
Though baptized in blood and fire,
Had no thought of mean surrender
Never breathed the word retire.
they weighed the dreadful chances,
Still they gathered up their strength,
By invincible advances
Steeled to win the prize at length.
Fate-like their resolve to sever
Those gaunt bonds of grim despair,
And within the breach for ever
England’s honour to repair.
relief at last, endeavour,
Stern, magnificent, and true,
Hoping on and fighting ever,
Forced its gory passage through.
All the rage of pent-up forces,
All the passion seeking vent
Out of vast and solemn sources,
Here renewed their sacrament;
the rapture of a greeting
For which thousands fought and bled,
With the saved and saviours meeting
Over our Imperial dead.
Witnesses unseen but tested
Lived again as grander men,
And their awful shadow rested
With a benediction then;
who with his wondrous talent
Conquered more than even the sword,
And among the gay and gallant
By his pen was crowned lord.
There they lie in silence lowly
Which no battle now can wake,
And the ground is ever holy
For our English heroes’ sake.
THE SIX-INCH GUN.
(From the Christmas number of the Bombshell, published in Ladysmith during the siege.)
is a famous hill looks down,
Five miles away, on Ladysmith town,
With a long flat ridge that meets the sky
Almost a thousand feet on high.
And on the ridge there is mounted one
Long-range, terrible six-inch gun.