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Ranolf and Amohia

V

V.

—But who can dwell with much delight
On details bare of barbarous fight?
War stripped of that superb disguise
Of splendour which to youthful eyes
Gives Terror more than Beauty's charms,
And o'er Death's revel scatters rife
Stern raptures of sublimest Life?
The marshalled ranks—far-glittering lines;
And square on square compact and dense—
Each layer-like slab of life intense
That firm as bristling rampart shines
In such high-drilled magnificence!
The single tramp and serried arms
Of myriads moved like one together!
The bayonet-blades—each row of steel
Soft waving like a brilliant feather,
As in broad lines the regiments wheel—
How in the sun they flash and quiver!
The ponderous flying guns that cling,
Like savage birds of heavy wing,
And clutch at every vantage ground,
And with volcano smoke and sound
Exulting boom and blaze away;
Or flit when they no more may stay,
As vultures lagging leave their prey!
page 365 Then Music's thrilling witchery,
From Matter's gross enthralment ever
Potent the spirit to deliver,
Fans all the Soul to fever-heat;
The big drum's distant windy beat,
Tumultuous-heaving stormy sea,
Over whose plunging waves alway
The fife's light notes dance up like spray!
And trumpet's soar and bugles call;
Or, loud in fits far rattling, comes
The glorious long-resounding shiver
Of those impatient kettle-drums!—
—But more than Music—more than all
Imperial pomps and prides that shine
To make Destruction's Art divine,
Is that display, the grandest still
To any human lot can fall,
When Genius with consummate skill
Wields the ennobling sword it draws
Resistless in a righteous cause:
Such as our wondrous Warrior drew,
To Duty God had set him to,
Ever like an Archangel true!
Whose Soul to that unsetting Sun—
The denselier rolled the storm-clouds dun
Of Fate—still soared on steadier wings;
A soul, a mien—godlike—serene—
'Mid tumbling thrones and trembling kings!
—Or that high-passioned One—our loved
Sea-King—whose frail war-shattered frame
Seems, like the Sun's disc in its flame,
Lost in his Spirit's blaze of Fame;
That fiery soft great heart sublime,
page 366 Who with his stately white-winged crowd
Of lightning-bearing Sea-Swans, moved
Majestical from clime to clime,
And, wrapped in one sky-reaching shroud
Of dense white level-jetted cloud,
With grand sea-thunders swept away
His country's foes where'er they rose;—
Who, with such cool and crushing ease
Like chessmen used to place and play
His crowded floating fortresses;—
Who like a rushing Comet, prest
Across the World from East to West
And back, in that gigantic race
Of Warfleets o'er the Atlantic Main;
When wondering Europe saw him chase
Like doubling hares that scud in vain,
The navies of proud France and Spain!—
—Or He, whose dazzling deeds make pale
(As well says one who paints the fray)
Old marvellous times of casque and mail—
Dense arrow-flights through thronging knights
At Agincourt's and Cressy's fights;
Whose might on great Meánee's day
Wiped out again the Cábul stain
That red retreat-one slaughter! he
Who that audacious victory
With his heroic handful tore
From twice as many thousand foes
As he had hundreds; so, dispersed
The hovering hundred thousand more
Of ruffian-hordes with razor-swords
Keen-panting on their prey to close;
Flung to the winds the sway accurst,
page 367 And rooted up no more to rise
The regal stews and robber sties
Of those Emeers whose quaking fears
Erelong through Asia's wide heart ran;
Till every turbaned Tyrant there
And bloodstained bandit in his lair
Shook at his very name—unscreened
Though wastes and mountains intervened,
Though round him raged a ruthless clan,
Against this terrible true Man,
This justice-wreaking holy fiend,
This demon 'brother of Shay-tan '
Fighting God's battles!—Ay, indeed!
These men were the right genuine stuff
To rule a World—a hero-breed—
High minds, such as by instinct feed
On mighty tasks—Souls large enough
For Empire! not the creeping crew
Whose rule our England yet may rue;
Whose huckstering God is only Gold—
That 'cheaply bought' be 'dearly sold,'
Their sordid creed and single heed;
Whose grovelling zeal—-their Altar still
The counter, and their Ark the till—
At that base shrine would sacrifice
Power, honour, Empire!—all the ties
That keep us one; whatever wakes
The patriot glow, the pride of race;—
All that, with love of Order, makes
A people of a populace,
And any people great! whate'er
Of quick and kindling sympathy
With England's children everywhere—
page 368 Our common claim to one great name,
One heritage of storied Fame,
It was our boast, our strength to share;—
That conscious thrill of kindred blood
Which false refinement feigns to raise,
Evaporating all its good,
Into a fine and feeble phase
Of vague and vain philanthropy;
But kept within true range of kin,
The more it can inspire, expand,
So much more glorious, powerful, grand,
Becomes each human brotherhood;
And ever, just as each has grown
To greatness or remained unknown,
Did each this genial warmth possess
Defective or in bright excess—
The savage, for his tribe alone,
The Roman for a World—-his own!
But these cold-hearted theorists cower
At Empire thrust upon them—slink
From their compatriots in the hour
Of danger; nay, that moment seize
With peevish pettiness to rail
At all the points (and numerous these)
Where those who seek their succour fail—
Not aid them first, in such a case
As men had done in their high place
Who nobly ruled a noble; race!
Aye, noble still! not: apt to shrink
From that 'self-help' these selfish lords,
Unhelping, save with worthless words,
Consign them to with shameless taunt;
Let that plain fact, no idle vaunt,
page 369 Their deaths, those gallant ones! attest.
So oft struck down in wretched war
By savage pride upon us prest:—
Attest it his, among the rest—
(Be thus much said for kinship's sake)
Who sleeps the sleep no more to wake
On earth, 'mid loveliest scenes afar
Where Tonga-riro's snows disgorge
Their flames by blue Te Aira's lake-
Young, kindly, chivalrous St George!
Whose honour-fired aspiring brain
Before that instant-blighting ball
Flashed into darkness without pain,
As in his wonted "dashing style "
(His comrades said) his men he led
Against the palisadoed wall
Of that last prophet-cannibal
Whose torturing tastes—impostures vile—
Our rulers' sympathies beguile!
So swiftly his bold course was run—
That ardent spirit's duties done,
To whom the night and day were one,
As through dense forest-glooms he crashed,
Through flooded rivers dauntless dashed,
Or galloped past thick fern, close by
Where murderous scouts would lurking lie—
To keep our friends in heart, disclose
The machinations of our foes;
With cool, clear-sighted, fiery zeal
Unceasing!—ah, too soon the seal
Was set upon that life unknown,
That bud of promise nipt unblown!
The making of a hero marred,
page 370 If ever, then, when evil-starred
That young career by death was barred!
—But not in vain! no, though our bane,
These rulers, should renounce the power
For good such deaths are dared to dower
Their weakness with; though they, the same,
New conquests should alike disclaim,
And old assured dominion—nay,
Should fling away the world-wide Lands,
For ends that own God's clear commands
Entrusted to their trembling hands—
Birthright of England's swarming sons,
Won by her mighty deathless dead,
Her heroes' blood like water shed!—
But let such soulless puppet-play
Of rabble-rid mock-rule endure,
Such crawling creeds thy councils sway
Unchecked—unchanged—O then be sure,
England, my Country! nought avails
Thy wealth, thy commerce; he who runs
May read upon thy whited wall,
The 'Mene, Tekel' of thy fall!
Thin hide thy head for shame—then say
And sigh—thy soaring Sun has past
Its zenith; own thyself at last-
Weighed in the fitting trader-scales,
Found wanting; then confess thy day
Of greatness done—thy glory gone—
Thy peddling kingdom passing fast away!—

These thoughts in loyal hearts are rife—
But let not here their shadows dark
Intrude—where need was but to mark
page 371 How poor a thing is human strife
Deprived of aids that seem designed
To make even War a Worship—make
Its mad turmoil the aspect take
Of some ennobling rite where Mind
Lords it o'er Matter—Soul o'er clay—
With absolute predominance
And solemn deep significance;
Until the very Battlefield
Becomes a Temple for display
Of spirit-proving deeds death-sealed
Of high Self-sacrifice, sublime
Devotion; and the bloody sod
Grows eloquent of something more
Than Duty—something beyond Time—
In recompense of Life and Soul
Flung freely down, unstinted, whole,
To magnify, uphold, restore
The cause of Good—and therefore God!

But War in this stark savage way
Looked too much like mere lust to slay;
Of its majestic mask laid bare
The face of naked Murder seemed to wear;
Its hateful visage tempered by no glance
Of lofty purpose or superb Romance.