Heaven send, that when many a heart's dismayed,
In dark days yet in store,—
Should foemen gather; or, faith betrayed,
The country call for a strong man's aid
As she never called before,—
A voice like his may make answer clear,
Banishing panic, and calming fear,
"Adsum,—I'm here!"
THE FIGHT AT RORKE'S DRIFT
(January 23, 1879.)
BY EMILY PFEIFFER.
It was over at Isandula, the bloody work was done,
And the yet unburied dead looked up unblinking at the sun;
Eight hundred men of Britain's best had signed with blood the story
Which England leaves to time, and lay there scanted e'en of glory.
Stewart Smith lay smiling by the gun he spiked before he died;
But gallant Gardner lived to write a warning and to ride
A race for England's honour and to cross the Buffalo,
To bid them at Rorke's Drift expect the coming of the foe.
That band of lusty British lads camped in the hostile land
Rose up upon the word with Chard and Bromhead to command;
An hour upon the foe that hardy race had barely won,
But in it all that men could do those British lads had done.
And when the Zulus on the hill appeared, a dusky host,
They found our gallant English boys' 'pale faces' at their post;
But paler faces were behind, within the barricade—
The faces of the sick who rose to give their watchers aid.
Five men to one the first dark wave of battle brought, it bore
Down swiftly, while our youngsters waited steadfast as the shore;
Behind the slender barricade, half-hidden, on their knees,
They marked the stealthy current glide beneath the orchard trees.
Then forth the volley blazed, then rose the deadly reek of war;
The dusky ranks were thinned; the chieftain slain by young Dunbar,
Rolled headlong and their phalanx broke, but formed as soon as broke,
And with a yell the furies that avenge man's blood awoke.