Canadian Battlefields, and Other Poems

by J. R. Wilkinson

And in that boding hour, there waiting for the fray,
Did sad thoughts steal backward along the toilsome way?
And a glimpse of home did memory bring once more,
And the welcome smile of mother at the open door;
The loved ones waiting for those that come no more?
And do they play again beside the streams and rills,
And as boys again climb the vine-clad purple hills?
How thought of early days the yearning bosom thrills!

But the signal’s given, and for the fight they brace
Their steely sinews, and sternly, defiantly face
Their adversaries with the Roman sword and shield,
And the deadly cestus, to die, but never yield.
Then leaps from the ponderous scabbard fiercely bright
Those deadly weapons that glitter in the light.
Then with a mighty clash of steel they come to guard,
And foot to foot and eye to eye they thrust and strike and ward,
And like lightning they deliver blow on blow,
And fair women’s faces turn as white as snow.
Like crashing of the hail on shielding window pane
Fall the mighty strokes on shield and helmet, but in vain.
Streams of flaming fire from their weapons fiercely fly,
Falling fast like fiery meteors from the sky;
And they leap and spring lightly aside to and fro
To avoid the deadly thrust or savage blow.

Ha! one is reached, and he totters, sinks and dies.
See! the light is fading fast from his glazing eyes,
And his proud conqueror leans panting on his sword.
But not long hath he to wait; another soon is gored
By the deadly cestus, and piercèd through and through;
Then the winners seek each other, and the fight renew.
They advance and recede like waves upon the shore;
Another, and two others are stricken to the floor!
The sixth’s sword is shivered, his shield cleft in twain;
In vain had been the struggle ’gainst the deadly rain.
And the two survivors stand panting there for breath
Before closing in the dreadful finale of death;
And a look of pity stole o’er each speaking face,
And in their eyes, late stern in battle, you might trace
A gathering tear; and the bowed, weary head,
Spoke of their sorrow for their gallant comrades dead.
But they were aroused from their reverie of pain,
And looked upon each other and the dead again.

Ah! who are they, these that survive the bloody strife?
What fate awaits them in the struggle life for life?
’Tis Julian, the Roman, that slew the forest king,
And the brave Athenian, of whom all Rome doth ring.
They turn and face each other, these men of perfect mould,
And all eyes are tearful with sympathy untold.
But ’tis over now, and sweeps a lurid flame
Over each stern and lofty brow; and again
Their Roman swords are lifted up, and they engage—
The champions rouse to dreadful battle’s ruthless rage.
How the thrusts and strokes fast crash on shield and helm!
How they leap and rush and glide to overwhelm!
And the sparks of fire stream again from screaming steel,
And they deliver and recover, and they reel
’Neath the ponderous blows that on their strong shields fall.
O Cæsar! why not thy stern mandate now recall?
Save those noble gladiators from such direful fate;
Speak, most noble Cæsar! ere it be too late.

Still those dreadful swords in fierce fiery circles scream!
How the eyes of those grand combatants glow and gleam!
For the tempting laurels they contend, and fair fame,
And the cruel pride of conquest, and a fadeless name.
Too late! too late! O Rome! see, see the crimson tide
Is streaming from the intrepid Athenian’s side!
For Julian had delivered an upward, lightning stroke,
And his adversary’s scarce ready guard was broke.
And sorely wounded he can thrust and ward no more,
But staggers backward on the ensanguined floor;
And the pallor of death steals o’er his noble brow,
And a weary smile—he is weakly sinking now.
Julian, the conqueror, had retired a pace,
And a look of regret stole o’er his noble face.
Now he springs to the support of his wounded foe,
And o’er his paling cheeks the streaming tears do flow,
And he tenderly clasps and holds that sinking form
That had weathered many a dread battle’s storm.

“Forgive! O Phalereus! forgive this bitter hour!
We are but puppets in Rome’s imperial power.”
And those two clasp hands, and in mournful accents low
Phalereus speaks, and his face is whiter than snow:
“Tell my loving mother at Athens, far away,
That I have e’er missed her so, and every day
I have thought of her, and the dear remembered home,
And the peace of happy childhood forever flown.
And, Julian, there is another, a fair Greek girl,
Patiently awaiting me—precious, priceless pearl,
I have ever loved her so. Say, Julian, will you
Tell her the wayward wanderer was ever true?
Farewell, comrade Julian! hold my fast failing hand
Whilst I glide outward into the strange shadow land.”

Round the dread arena but sigh and sob is heard,
And eyes are dimmed with tears and every heart is stirred.
Ah! ’twas a battle royal, those famed men four and four—
A trial unto death, to death and nothing more.

Now the throng glide away; chilled is every breast,
And stillness wraps the scene; all Rome hath sunk to rest,
And naught disturbs the silence but the watchful sound
Of the sentry of the legion on his lonely round.
Art satiated, remorseless and relentless Time,
By mankind’s sorrow and life’s tragedy sublime?

CHAPTER VII.—THE FALL OF IMPERIAL ROME.

Thou beheldst the Cæsars in their sceptred power
Dominate the known world; but their kingly dower
Was vast Imperial Rome—the Romans’ love and pride;
Her chivalric people were honored far and wide.