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.