Part 14 (1/2)

Already green hillocks are swelling, And combing white locks on the bar, Where a dull, droning murmur is telling Of winds that have gather'd afar; Thus we know not the day, nor the morrow, Nor yet what the night may bring forth, Nor the storm, nor the sleep, nor the sorrow, Nor the strife, nor the rest, nor the wrath.

Yet the skies are still tranquil and starlit, The sun 'twixt the wave and the west Dies in purple, and crimson, and scarlet, And gold; let us hope for the best, Since again from the earth his effulgence The darkness and damp-dews shall wipe.

Kind reader, extend your indulgence To this the last lay of ”The Pipe”.

The Roll of the Kettledrum; or, The Lay of the Last Charger

”You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?

Of two such lessons, why forget The n.o.bler and the manlier one?”--Byron.

One line of swart profiles and bearded lips dressing, One ridge of bright helmets, one crest of fair plumes, One streak of blue sword-blades all bared for the fles.h.i.+ng, One row of red nostrils that scent battle-fumes.

Forward! the trumpets were sounding the charge, The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran, That music, like wild-fire spreading at large, Madden'd the war-horse as well as the man.

Forward! still forward! we thunder'd along, Steadily yet, for our strength we were nursing; Tall Ewart, our sergeant, was humming a song, Lance-corporal Black Will was blaspheming and cursing.

Open'd their volley of guns on our right, Puffs of grey smoke, veiling gleams of red flame, Curling to leeward, were seen on the height, Where the batteries were posted, as onward we came.

Spreading before us their cavalry lay, Squadron on squadron, troop upon troop; We were so few, and so many were they-- Eagles wait calmly the sparrow-hawk's stoop.

Forward! still forward! steed answering steed Cheerily neigh'd, while the foam flakes were toss'd From bridle to bridle--the top of our speed Was gain'd, but the pride of our order was lost.

One was there leading by nearly a rood, Though we were racing he kept to the fore, Still as a rock in his stirrups he stood, High in the sunlight his sabre he bore.

Suddenly tottering, backwards he crash'd, Loudly his helm right in front of us rung; Iron hoofs thunder'd, and naked steel flash'd Over him--youngest, where many were young.

Now we were close to them, every horse striding Madly;--St. Luce pa.s.s'd with never a groan;-- Sadly my master look'd round--he was riding On the boy's right, with a line of his own.

Thrusting his hand in his breast or breast-pocket, While from his wrist the sword swung by a chain, Swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket, Kiss'd it (I think) and replaced it again.

Burst, while his fingers reclosed on the haft, Jarring concussion and earth shaking din, Horse 'counter'd horse, and I reel'd, but he laugh'd, Down went his man, cloven clean to the chin!

Wedged in the midst of that struggling ma.s.s, After the first shock, where each his foe singled, Little was seen, save a dazzle, like gla.s.s In the sun, with grey smoke and black dust intermingled.

Here and there redden'd a pistol shot, flas.h.i.+ng Through the red sparkle of steel upon steel!

Redder the spark seem'd, and louder the clas.h.i.+ng, Struck from the helm by the iron-shod heel!

Over fallen riders, like wither'd leaves strewing Uplands in autumn, we sunder'd their ranks; Steeds rearing and plunging, men hacking and hewing, Fierce grinding of sword-blades, sharp goading of flanks.

Short was the crisis of conflict soon over, Being too good (I suppose) to last long; Through them we cut, as the scythe cuts the clover, Batter'd and stain'd we emerg'd from their throng.

Some of our saddles were emptied, of course; To heaven (or elsewhere) Black Will had been carried!

Ned Sullivan mounted Will's riderless horse, His mare being hurt, while ten seconds we tarried.

And then we re-formed, and went at them once more, And ere they had rightly closed up the old track, We broke through the lane we had open'd before, And as we went forward e'en so we came back.

Our numbers were few, and our loss far from small, They could fight, and, besides, they were twenty to one; We were clear of them all when we heard the recall, And thus we returned, but my tale is not done.