The rulers of the nation,
The poor ones at their gate,
With the same eager wonder
The same great news await. 
The poor man’s stay and comfort,
The rich man’s joy and pride,
Upon the bleak Crimean shore
Are fighting side by side.

The bullet comes—­and either
A desolate hearth may see;
And God alone to-night knows where
The vacant place may be! 
The dread that stirs the peasant
Thrills nobles’ hearts with fear—­
Yet above selfish sorrow
Both hold their country dear.

The rich man who reposes
In his ancestral shade,
The peasant at his ploughshare,
The worker at his trade,
Each one his all his perilled,
Each has the same great stake,
Each soul can but have patience,
Each heart can only break!

Hushed is all party clamour;
One thought in every heart,
One dread in every household,
Has bid such strife depart. 
England has called her children;
Long silent—­the word came
That lit the smouldering ashes
Through all the land to flame.

Oh you who toil and suffer,
You gladly heard the call;
But those you sometimes envy
Have they not given their all? 
Oh you who rule the nation,
Take now the toil-worn hand—­
Brothers you are in sorrow,
In duty to your land. 
Learn but this noble lesson
Ere Peace returns again,
And the life-blood of Old England
Will not be shed in vain.

VERSE:  THE TWO SPIRITS (1855)

Last night, when weary silence fell on all,
And starless skies arose so dim and vast,
I heard the Spirit of the Present call
Upon the sleeping Spirit of the Past. 
Far off and near, I saw their radiance shine,
And listened while they spoke of deeds divine.

The Spirit of the Past.

My deeds are writ in iron;
My glory stands alone;
A veil of shadowy honour
Upon my tombs is thrown;
The great names of my heroes
Like gems in history lie;
To live they deemed ignoble,
Had they the chance to die!

The Spirit of the Present.

My children, too, are honoured;
Dear shall their memory be
To the proud lands that own them;
Dearer than thine to thee;
For, though they hold that sacred
Is God’s great gift of life,
At the first call of duty
They rush into the strife!

The Spirit of the Past.

Then, with all valiant precepts
Woman’s soft heart was fraught;
“Death, not dishonour,” echoed
The war-cry she had taught. 
Fearless and glad, those mothers,
At bloody deaths elate,
Cried out they bore their children
Only for such a fate!

The Spirit of the Present.

Though such stern laws of honour
Are faded now away,
Yet many a mourning mother,
With nobler grief than they,
Bows down in sad submission: 
The heroes of the fight
Learnt at her knee the lesson,
“For God and for the Right!”