Thus he steadied his men, and none wavered.
As the steeds settled down to their stride,
And we heard the first rush of the squadrons,
Like the gathering roar of the tide.
Their order was perfect and splendid,
And his voice, that at first held them in,
Had rung down their ranks for the onset,
As though it were fate they should win.
I felt I half liked him as onward
The lines of his cuirassiers came,
Like breakers wind-driven from seaward,
Dark tossed in a whirlwind of flame.
I hated the shot that must enter
That steel-girt and confident breast,
And quench that brave spirit for ever,
That light on the cataract's crest
But I gave forth the word, and our volley
Rang clear o'er the thunder of feet
That rolled not to us, for Destruction
Rejoiced their proud splendour to greet.
And the leader who laughed at our columns,
At the ranks that bid gaiety die,
On his red bed of honour at even
Lay smiling his scorn at the sky.
THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
1880.
Look not for me at eventide,
I cannot come when work is done;
I go to wander far and wide,
For 'tis not here that gold is won.
Perchance where'er I go, these hands
May find me what I need to live;
Whate'er they win, if house, or lands,
I'd yield for what they cannot give.
For who can turn away his face
From home and kin and be at rest?
What country e'er can take the place
That Ireland fills within my breast?
More kindly smile the distant skies,
They say, beyond yon angry sea;
I know not what they mean, mine eyes
Have never seen these frown on me.