“WITH THE HONOURS OF WAR.”

After long fight and strenuous defence,
Tenacity tremendous, toil immense,
The garrison surrenders! 
’Tis the doom
Of desperate war; and though a sombre gloom
Sits on each brow, each brow is lifted high,
No petulant pusillanimity
Makes poor this last parade of stout defenders,
Or shames this most unwilling of surrenders. 
Six lingering years, and more, of hot attack,
By confident cool valour beaten back! 
Six baffling years of sortie, and of sally,
Sudden alarum, stubborn stand, stout rally! 
How the besiegers in their bannered host
Banded at first around this bastion’d post,
In sanguine, fierce assault, and shook their spears,
Strong hopes derided, mocked at fancied fears. 
The Citadel’s defence was all in vain,
They vowed; a year should end the brief campaign;
Yet year to year succeeded slow, and still
The garrison held out.  Strategic skill
And not impetuous onset nought availed;
The battering-ram and scaling-ladder failed. 
Brief breaches scarcely made were swift repaired,
United still all deadly arms they dared,
Those linked defenders who, aforetime foes,
Their lately-banded ranks could firmly close
Against old friends, now common enemies. 
Black CECIL was Commander, BALFOUR brave
The Union Standard in his wake would wave,
The Reiter JOACHIM, of German breed,
And the Scot swordster RITCHIE, good at need,
With him, the fox-eyed Freelance, JOE DE BRUM,
Brave with the trumpet, valiant with the drum,
Proud to be capped and curled with Cavaliers,
The Gentlemen of England, now his peers,—­
These, and a many more good men and true,
The ramparts manned, the warning clarion blew;
Stood in the breach, and to the bastion swarmed,
Whene’er loud blares that citadel alarmed.

  But now slow sap and steady siege have wrought
  The conquest long delayed.  The Chiefs that fought
  So long together, feel the touch of fate,
  Bow to its bidding.  Calm though not elate,
  Swart CECIL yields him at discretion.  So
  The garrison marches forth!  But e’en the foe
  Gives chivalrous salute to beaten men
  Unshamed by forced surrender.  Hail them, then,
  With sympathetic cheers!  The white-haired Chief,
  Lifts hat in greeting.  He, all brawn and beef,
  WILLIAM of Malwood, bears the banner high,
  But scarce looks fired, with conquest’s ecstasy. 
  JOHN of Newcastle, reins a restive horse;
  He’s none too eager for another course. 
  The one-armed Irish Chief looks pale and grim;
  E’en cheery LARRY, of the cynic whim,
  Hath a less careless chuckle than his wont. 
  “Beshrew me! but they bear a gallant front!”
  Mutter the pikemen ranged in order round. 
  Sore-battered RITCHIE,—­may he soon be sound!—­
  Bates not a jot of courage; that stark fighter
  And shifty swordsman, JOACHIM:  the