I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each
    And one as all a ghastly gap did make
    In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
    Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
    The Archangel’s trump, not glory’s, must awake
    Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame
    May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake
    The fever of vain longing, and the name
  So honored but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim.

    They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, mourn: 
    The tree will wither long before it fall;
    The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;
    The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall
    In massy hoariness; the ruined wall
    Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone;
    The bars survive the captive they enthrall;
    The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;
  And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on;

    Even as a broken mirror, which the glass
    In every fragment multiplies, and makes
    A thousand images of one that was
    The same, and still the more, the more it breaks;
    And thus the heart will do which not forsakes,
    Living in shattered guise, and still, and cold,
    And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches,
    Yet withers on till all without is old,
  Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.

LORD BYRON.

* * * * *

BY THE ALMA RIVER.

[September 20, 1854,]

  Willie, fold your little hands;
    Let it drop,—­that “soldier” toy;
  Look where father’s picture stands,—­
    Father, that here kissed his boy
  Not a mouth since,—­father kind,
  Who this night may (never mind
  Mother’s sob, my Willie dear)
  Cry out loud that He may hear
  Who is God of battles,—­cry,
  “God keep father safe this day
      By the Alma River!”

  Ask no more, child.  Never heed
    Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk;
  Right of nations, trampled creed,
    Chance-poised victory’s bloody work;
  Any flag i’ the wind may roll
  On thy heights, Sevastopol! 
  Willie, all to you and me
  Is that spot, whate’er it be,
  Where he stands—­no other word—­
  Stands—­God sure the child’s prayers heard—­
      Near the Alma River.

  Willie, listen to the bells
    Ringing in the town to-day;
  That’s for victory.  No knell swells
    For the many swept away,—­
  Hundreds, thousands.  Let us weep,
  We, who need not,—­just to keep
  Reason clear in thought and brain
  Till the morning comes again;
  Till the third dread morning tell
  Who they were that fought and—­fell
      By the Alma River.