74
PRIZE POEMS.
Sees not the varied horrors of his lot;
Springs on his foe, and strikes, and shudders not.
But turn, and pity that brave, suffering band,
Beneath the battery's fury doomed to stand
With useless arms: with leisure to survey
The wreck around them. Hearts of proof were they
That shrunk not. Burning like a meteor star,
With whirlwind's fury rushing from afar,
The bolt of death amidst their close array
With deafening crash falls; bursts; and marks its way
With torn and scattered victims. There are they
Who, but one moment since, with haughty brow,
Stood firm in conscious manliness. And now—
Mark those pale, altered features; those wild groans;
Those quiv'ring lips; those blood-stained, shattered bones!
With burning hearts, and half averted eyes,
Their fellows view that hideous sacrifice.
Oh! they did hail the summons with delight,
That called them forth to mingle in the fight.
Forward they press: too busy now to heed
The piteous cry; the wail of those who plead
With frantic earnestness to friend and chief
For help to bear them off; for that relief,
Which might not be. How sunk the sufferer's heart,
Who saw his hopes expire—his friends depart,
And leave him to his woes—a helpless prey.
Death! death alone may be his friend to-day.
'Tis he shall calm each agonizing fear
Of trampling hoofs, or lancer's[1] coward spear;
Shall cool that thirst, and bid those torments cease,
And o'er him shed the sweets of sleep and peace.
When storms are loud, go, view some rugged shore,
Tow'rds whose stern barrier hoarsely racing pour
Springs on his foe, and strikes, and shudders not.
But turn, and pity that brave, suffering band,
Beneath the battery's fury doomed to stand
With useless arms: with leisure to survey
The wreck around them. Hearts of proof were they
That shrunk not. Burning like a meteor star,
With whirlwind's fury rushing from afar,
The bolt of death amidst their close array
With deafening crash falls; bursts; and marks its way
With torn and scattered victims. There are they
Who, but one moment since, with haughty brow,
Stood firm in conscious manliness. And now—
Mark those pale, altered features; those wild groans;
Those quiv'ring lips; those blood-stained, shattered bones!
With burning hearts, and half averted eyes,
Their fellows view that hideous sacrifice.
Oh! they did hail the summons with delight,
That called them forth to mingle in the fight.
Forward they press: too busy now to heed
The piteous cry; the wail of those who plead
With frantic earnestness to friend and chief
For help to bear them off; for that relief,
Which might not be. How sunk the sufferer's heart,
Who saw his hopes expire—his friends depart,
And leave him to his woes—a helpless prey.
Death! death alone may be his friend to-day.
'Tis he shall calm each agonizing fear
Of trampling hoofs, or lancer's[1] coward spear;
Shall cool that thirst, and bid those torments cease,
And o'er him shed the sweets of sleep and peace.
When storms are loud, go, view some rugged shore,
Tow'rds whose stern barrier hoarsely racing pour
- ↑ This epithet can, of course, only refer to the use made of the weapon by the French against the wounded and helpless.
