O wily are the Russians, and they came up through the mirk—­ Their feet all shod for silence in the best blood of the Turk!  While in its banks our fiery tide of War serenely slept, Their subtle serpentry unrolled, and up the hill-side crept.  In the Ruins of the Valley do the birds of carnage stir?  A creaking in the gloom like wheels! feet trample—­bullets whir—­ By God! the Foe is on us!  Now the bugles with a start Thrill—­like the cry of a wronged queen—­to the red roots of the
     heart;
And long and loud the wild war-drums with throbbing triumph roll—­ A sound to set the blood on fire, and warm the shivering soul.

The war-worn and the weary leaped up ready, fresh, and true!  No weak blood curdled white i’ the face, no valour turned to
     dew. 
Majestic as a God defied, arose our little host—­ All for the peak of peril pushed—­each for the fieriest post!  Thorough mist, and thorough mire, and o’er the hill brow scowling
     grim,
As is the frown of Slaughter when he dreams his dreadful dream.  No sun! but none is needed,—­men can feel their way to fight, The lust of battle in their face—­eyes filled with fiery light; And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the dark earth lay The prophesying morning-red of a great and glorious day.

As bridegroom leaves his wedded bride in gentle slumbers sealed,
Our England slumbered in the West, when her warriors went afield. 
We thought of her, and swore that day to strike immortal blows,
As all along our leagured line the roar of battle rose. 
Her banners waved like blessing hands, and we felt it was the hour
For a glorious grip till fingers met in the throat of Russian power,
And at a bound, and with a sound that madly cried to kill,
The lion of Old England leapt in lightnings from the hill. 
And there he stood superb, through all that Sabbath of the Sword,
And there he slew, with a terrible scorn, his hunters, horde on
     horde.

All Hell seemed bursting on us, as the yelling legions came—­ The cannon’s tongues of quick red fire licked all the hills aflame!  Mad whistling shell, wild sneering shot, with devilish glee went
     past,
Like fiendish feet and laughter hurrying down the battle-blast; And through the air, and round the hills, there ran a wrack sublime As though Eternity were crashing on the shores of Time.  On bayonets and swords the smile of conscious victory shone, As down to death we dashed the Rebels plucking at our Throne.  On, on they came with face of flame, and storm of shot and shell—­ Up! up! like heaven-sealers, and we hurled them back to Hell.

Like the old sea, white-lipped with rage, they dash and foam despair
On ranks of rock, ah! what a prize for the wrecker death was there! 
But as ’twere River Pleasaunce, did our fellows take that flood,
A royal throbbing in the pulse that beat voluptuous blood: 
The Guards went down to the fight in gray that’s