growing gory red—­
See! save them, they’re surrounded! leap your ramparts of the dead,
And back the desperate battle, for there is but one short stride
Between the Russ and victory!  One more tug, you true and tried—­
The Red-Caps crest the hill! with bloody spur, ride, Bosquet, ride! 
Down like a flood from Etna foams their valour’s burning tide.

Now, God for Merrie England cry!  Hurrah for France the Grand! 
We charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand to hand! 
He caught a shadowy glimpse across the smoke of Alma’s fray
Of the Destroying Angel that shall blast his strength to-day. 
We shout and charge together, and again, again, again
Our plunging battle tears its path, and paves it with the slain. 
Hurrah! the mighty host doth melt before our fervent heat;
Against our side its breaking heart doth faint and fainter beat. 
And O, but ’tis a gallant show, and a merry march, as thus
We sound into the glorious goal with shouts victorious!

From morn till night we fought our fight, and at the set of sun
Stood conquerors on Inkerman—­our Soldiers’ Battle won. 
That morn their legions stood like corn in its pomp of golden grain! 
That night the ruddy sheaves were reaped upon the misty plain! 
We cut them down by thunder-strokes, and piled the shocks of slain: 
The hill-side like a vintage ran, and reeled Death’s harvest-wain. 
We had hungry hundreds gone to sup in Paradise that night,
And robes of Immortality our ragged braves bedight! 
They fell in boyhood’s comely bloom, and bravery’s lusty pride;
But they made their bed o’ the foemen dead, ere they lay down and
     died.

We gathered round the tent-fire in the evening cold and gray,
And thought of those who ranked with us in battle’s rough array,
Our comrades of the morn who came no more from that fell fray! 
The salt tears wrung out in the gloom of green dells far away—­
The eyes of lurking Death that in Life’s crimson bubbles play—­
The stern white faces of the dead that on the dark ground lay
Like statues of old heroes, cut in precious human clay—­
Some with a smile as life had stopped to music proudly gay—­
The household gods of many a heart all dark and dumb to-day! 
And hard hot eyes grew ripe for tears, and hearts sank down to pray.

From alien lands, and dungeon-grates, how eyes will strain to mark
This waving Sword of Freedom burn and beckon through the dark! 
The martyrs stir in their red graves, the rusted armour rings
Adown the long aisles of the dead, where lie the warrior kings. 
To the proud Mother England came the radiant victory
With laurels red, and a bitter cup like some last agony. 
She took the cup, she drank it up, she raised her laurelled brow: 
Her sorrow seemed like solemn joy, she looked so noble now. 
The dim divine of distance died—­the purpled past grew wan,
As came that crowning glory o’er the heights of Inkerman.