Roar upon roar—­in a moment two mines, by the
          enemy sprung,
Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. 
Riflemen, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand
           be as true. 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank
          fusilades;
Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to
          which they had clung,
Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them
          with hand grenades—­,
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England
          blew.

XII.

Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake
          out-tore
Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good
          paces or more. 
Riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there from the light
          of the sun—­
One has leapt up on the breach, crying out, “Follow
          me, follow me!”
Mark him—­he falls! then another, and him, too, and
          down goes he.

XIII.

Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but that
          the traitors had won? 
Boardings, and raftings, and doors—­an embrasure;
          make way for the gun! 
Now, double charge it with grape!  It is charged, and
          we fire, and they run. 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face
          have his due. 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us,
           faithful and few,
Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them,
           and smote them, and slew—­
That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India
           blew.

XIV.

Hark! cannonade! fusilade! is it true that 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.

XV.

Forth from their holes and their hidings our women
           and children come out,
Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock’s good
           fusileers,
Kissing the war-hardened 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 valor 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.

Alfred Tennyson.

Sonnets.

To one who has been long in city pent,
’Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,—­to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.