CCVII

THE MEMORIAL WELL

SPEAK gently, gently tread,

And breathe one sigh profound; In memory of the dead

Each spot is holy ground.

Theirs was no common doom,
And some were young to die;
Within this narrow tomb
Women and infants lie.

They drank the bitter cup
Of fear and anguish deep,
Ere they were rendered up
To death's unruffled sleep.

Meek be our sorrow here,

For them we could not save; And soft be Pity's tear

Above the children's grave.

Quenched here be passion's heat,

Let strife and vengeance cease; Within their garden sweet

Leave them to rest in peace.

For Nature hath made clean
This place of human guilt;
And now the turf is green
Where English blood was spilt.

Earth's healing hand hath spread
Her flowers about their tomb;

Around the quiet dead

Trees wave and roses bloom.

Then lift not wrathful hands,
But pass in silence by ;
Their carven Angel stands
And watches where they lie.

William Trego Webb.

S

CCVIII

SPRING IN CALCUTTA

THE Cool and pleasant days are past,
The sun above the horizon towers;
And Eastern Spring, arriving fast,

Leads on too soon the sultry hours.

From greener height the palm looks down;
A livelier hue the peepuls share;
And sunlit poinsianas crown

With golden wreaths their branches bare.

The ships that, by the river's brim,

At anchor, lift their shining sides Against the red sun's westering rim, Swing to the wash of stronger tides. No insects hum in sylvan bower;

In spectral stillness stand the trees;Come, blessing of our evening hour,

Come forth and blow, sweet southern breeze!

To us the ocean freshness lend

Which from the wave thy breath receives; Ripple these glassy tanks and send

A murmur through the silent leaves!

See, blurred with amber haze, the sun
'Neath yon dim flats doth sink to rest;
And tender thoughts, that homeward run,
Move fondly with him to the west.

They leave these hot and weary hours,
The iron fate that girds us round,
And wander 'mid the meadow flowers
And breezy heights of English ground.
The sun is set; we'll dream no more;
Vainly for us the vision smiles;-
Why did we quit thy pleasant shore,
Our happiest of the Happy Isles !

William Trego Webb.

CCIX

THE LUCKNOW GARRISON

STILL stand thy ruins 'neath the Indian sky,
Memorials eloquent of blood and tears!
O! for the spirit of those days gone by
To wake a strain amid these later years
Worthy of thee and thine! I seem to see,
When thinking on thy consecrated dead,
From thy scarred chambers start

The heroes whom thy fiery travail bred
And made thee-for us English-what thou art!

Green grows the grass around thy crumbling walls
Where glorious Lawrence groaned his life away!
And childhood's footsteps echo through those halls
Wherein thy wounded and thy dying lay!
While blent with infant laughter seems to rise
The far-off murmur of thy battle roll,

The prayer-the shout-the groan-
Outram's unselfish chivalry of soul,

And white-haired Havelock's strong, commanding tone!

Yet, what are names? The genius of the spot,
Born of our womanhood and manhood brave,
Shall fire our children's children! Ne'er forgot
Shall be the dust of thy historic grave

While Reverence fills the sense with musing calm,
While Glory stirs the pulse of prince or clown,
While blooms on British sod

The glorious flower of our fair renown,

Our English valour and our trust in God!

The memory of the Living! Lo, they stand
Engirt with honour while the day draws in,

An ever lessening and fraternal band

Linked in chivalric glory and akin

To earth's immortals! Time may bow the frame
And plough deep wrinkles 'mid their honoured

scars,

But Death-like Night which brings

To earth the blaze majestic of the stars,

Shall but enhance their glory with his wings!

The memory of the Dead! A pilgrim, I

Have bowed my face before thy honoured shrine,
With pride deep-welling while the moments by
Sped to a human ecstasy divine

Tingling my very blood, to think that they,
Martyrs and victors in our English need,
Were children of the earth-

Yet better-heroes of our island breed
And men and women of our British birth!

John Renton Denning.

CCX

SOLDIERS OF IND

Men of the Hills and men of the Plains, men of the
Isles and Sea,

Brothers in bond of battle and blood wherever the battle
may be ;

A song and a thought for your fighting line, a song for the march and camp,

A song to the beat of the rolling drums, a song to the measured tramp,

When the feet lift up on the dusty road 'neath sun and moon and star,

And the prayer is prayed by mother and maid for their best beloved afar!

What say the Plains-the Plains that stretch along From hamlet and from field, from fold and byre? 'Here once toiled one who sang his peasant song

And now reaps harvest 'mid the tribesmen's fire!

The Spirit of a mightier world than springs
From his poor village led him on
To glory! Yea--to glory!'-Ever sings

The Spirit of the Plains when he is gone!

What say the Hills whence come the Gurkha breed— The bull-dogs of the East? From crest and vale Reverberate the echoes, swift they speed

On falling waters or the mountain gale! 'Our Hillmen brave as lions have gone forth; They were our sons; we bred them-even weTo face thy foemen, Islands of the North,

We know their worth and sing it thus to thee!'

What say the Passes? There the requiem
Of battle lingers o'er the undying dead—
'Our Soldiers of the Sun, whose diadem
Of honour glitters in the nullah bed,
Or by the hillside drear, or dark ravine,
Or on the sangared steep-a solemn ray
That touches thus the thing that once hath been,
With glory-glory!'-So the Passes say!

And so the great world hears and men's eyes blaze
As each one to his neighbour cries 'Well done!'
A little thing this speech-this flower of praise,
Yet let it crown our Soldiers of the Sun!
Not here alone-for here we know them well;
But tell our English, waiting on the shore
To welcome back their heroes: Lo! these fell

Even as ours-as brave-for evermore!'

I hear the roar amid the London street :-
The earth hath not its equal, whether it be
For ignorance or knowledge, and the feet

That press therein and eyes that turn to see
Know nothing of our sepoys-let them know
That here be men beneath whose dark skin runs

A battle-virtue kindred with the glow

That fires the leaping pulses of their sons!