The blockade of Bayonne being now decidedly converted into a siege,
Sir John Hope very justly determined that every brigade of British and
Portuguese troops--in other words, every brigade upon which he could
at all depend--should take by turns a share in the fatigue and danger
attendant upon the progress of operations. The tour of duty allotted
to each was accordingly fixed at three days. In consequence of this
arrangement, we, who had assumed the care of the works and outposts on
the 4th, were relieved on the evening of the 7th; and, at an early hour
on the morning of the 8th, once more turned our faces in the direction
of the pine-wood. The tents which we had pitched in the vicinity of
Boucaut were not, however, struck. These we left standing for the
benefit of a brigade of Portuguese, which crossed the river to succeed
us; and hence, instead of halting where we originally sojourned beside
the pond, and under the shadow of the fir-trees, we pushed on as far
as the outskirts of Anglete. The morning of the 8th chanced to be
uncommonly dark and foggy. It so happened, moreover, that a man who had
got drunk upon duty the night before was doomed to suffer punishment as
early as circumstances would allow; and the battalion, having reached
what was supposed to be its ground, formed square in a green field for
the purpose. Partly in consequence of the density of the fog, which
rendered all objects at the distance of fifty yards invisible, and
partly because the country was altogether new to us, we lost our way.
Our astonishment may therefore be conceived, when, on the clearing away
of the mist, we found ourselves drawn up within less than point-blank
range of the enemy's guns, and close to the most advanced of our own
sentinels in this part of the line.
For a moment or two we were permitted to continue thus unmolested,
but not longer. The breastworks in front of us were speedily lined
with infantry; mounted officers arrived and departed at speed; a few
field-pieces, being hurried through a sally-port, were posted upon
the exterior of the glacis, and then a sharp cannonade began. It was
quite evident that the enemy expected an assault; and the accidental
appearance of two other British brigades, which chanced at the moment
to pass each other in our rear, added strength, without doubt, to that
expectation. The scene was highly animating; but the enemy's guns were
too well served to permit our continuing long spectators of it. A ball
or two striking in the centre of the square warned us to withdraw; and
as we were clearly in a situation where we were never meant to be,
as well as because no act of hostility was on our part intended, we
scrupled not to take the hint, and to march somewhat more to the rear.
There a certain number of houses was allotted to us, and we again found
ourselves, for the space of four days, under cover of a roof.
We were thus situated when a messenger extraordinary arrived at the
quarters of the commanding officer about midnight on the 11th of April,
with intelligence that the Allies were in possession of Paris, and that
Buonaparte had abdicated. It would be difficult to say what was the
effect produced upon us by the news. Amazement--utter amazement--was
the first and most powerful sensation excited. We could hardly credit
the story; some of us even went so far for a while as to assert that
the thing was impossible. Then came the thought of peace, of an
immediate cessation of hostilities, and a speedy return to our friends
and relatives in England; and last, though not with the least permanent
influence, sprang up the dread of reduction to half-pay. For the
present, however, we rather rejoiced than otherwise at the prospect
of being delivered from the irksome and incessant labour of a siege;
and we anticipated with satisfaction a friendly intercourse with the
brave men against whom we had so long fought, without entertaining one
rancorous feeling towards them. I fear, too, that the knowledge of what
had passed in Paris caused some diminution in the watchfulness which
we had hitherto preserved; at least I cannot account upon any other
principle for the complete surprisal of our outposts in the village of
St Esprit a few nights subsequently.
The messenger who conveyed this intelligence to us went on to say that
Sir John Hope had despatched a flag of truce to inform the Governor of
Bayonne that there was no longer war between the French and British
nations. General Thouvenot, however, refused to credit the statement.
He had received, he said, no official communication from Marshal
Soult; and as he considered himself under the immediate command of
that officer, even a despatch from the capital could have no weight
with him unless it came backed by the authority of his superior. Under
these circumstances no proposals were made on either side to cease
hostilities, though on ours the troops were henceforth exempted from
the labour of erecting batteries, in which it was very little probable
that guns would ever be mounted. In other respects, however, things
went on as they had previously done. The pickets took their stations
as usual; all communications between the garrison and the open country
was still cut off; and several families who sought to pass through our
lines were compelled to return into the town. This last measure was
adopted, as it invariably is when a city is besieged, in order not to
diminish the number of persons who must be fed from the stores laid up
in the public arsenals.
Though there was peace in Paris, there was no peace before Bayonne.
Our brigade having enjoyed its allotted period of rest, prepared to
return to its camp beside Boucaut, for which purpose a line of march
was formed on the morning of the 12th; and we again moved towards
the floating bridge. As yet, however, our services at the outposts
were not required; and as working parties were no longer in fashion,
we spent that and the succeeding day peaceably in our camp. Not that
these days were wholly devoid of interesting occurrences. During the
latter a French officer arrived from the north, bearing the official
account of those mighty transactions which once more placed his country
under the rule of the Bourbons; and him we sent forward to the city,
as the best pledge that could be offered for the truth of our previous
statements, and of our present amicable intentions. Still General
Thouvenot disbelieved, or affected to disbelieve, the whole affair;
but he returned an answer by the flag of truce which accompanied the
aide-de-camp, "that we should hear from him on the subject before long."
It will be readily believed that the idea of future hostilities was
not, under all these circumstances, entertained by any individual of
any rank throughout the army. For form's sake, it was asserted that
the blockade must still continue, and the sentinels must still keep
their ground; but that any attack would be made upon them, or any
blood uselessly spilled, no man for a moment imagined. The reader may
therefore guess at our astonishment, when, about three o'clock in the
morning of the 14th, we were suddenly awoke by a heavy firing in front;
and found, on starting up, that a desperate sortie had taken place, and
that our pickets were warmly engaged along the whole line. Instantly
the bugles sounded. We hurried on our clothes and accoutrements. The
horses came galloping in from their various stables; the servants and
batmen busied themselves in packing the baggage; and then hastily
taking our places, we marched towards the point of danger, and were
hotly and desperately in action in less than a quarter of an hour.
The enemy had come on in two columns of attack--one of which bore down
upon the church and street of St Esprit; while the other, having forced
the barricade upon the highroad, pressed forward towards the chateau
where our mortar-battery was in progress of erection. So skilfully
had the sortie been managed, that the sentries in front of both these
posts were almost all surprised ere they had time, by discharging their
pieces, to communicate an alarm to those behind them. And hence it came
to pass that, amid the obscurity of a dark night, the first intimation
of danger which the pickets received was given by the enemy themselves,
who, stealing on to the very edge of the trench within which our men
were stationed, fired down upon them. In like manner the sergeant's
guard which stood beside the gun in the village was annihilated, and
the gun itself captured; whilst the party in the church were preserved
from a similar fate only in consequence of the care which had been
taken to block up the various doorways and entrances, so that only one
man at a time might make his way into the interior. It was, however,
surrounded and placed in a state of siege, and gallantly defended by
Captain Forster of the 38th Regiment and his men.
Just before the enemy sallied out, a French officer, it appeared, had
deserted. Unfortunately, however, he came in through one of the more
remote pickets, and hence those which were destined to receive the
shock reaped no benefit from the event. His arrival at headquarters
had, however, the effect of putting Sir John Hope on his guard; so that
greater preparations to meet the threatened danger were going forward
than we, on whom it came unexpectedly and at once, imagined. Five
hundred men, for example, who formed a sort of reserve about a mile in
rear of the outposts, were in full march towards the front when the
firing began; and the enemy were in consequence checked before they
had made any considerable progress, or had reached any of our more
important magazines. The blue house, as we were in the habit of naming
the chateau, was indeed carried; and all the piles of fascines and
gabions, which had cost so much labour to construct, were burned; but
besides this, little real benefit would have accrued to the assailants
had the state of affairs been such as to render a battle at this
particular juncture at all necessary or even justifiable.
Immediately on the alarm being given, Sir John Hope, attended by a
single staff-officer, rode to the front. Thither also flew Generals
Hay, Stopford, and Bradford; whilst the various brigades hurried after
them at as quick a pace as the pitchy darkness of the night and the
rugged and broken nature of the ground would permit. Behind them,
and on either hand, as they moved, the deepest and most impervious
gloom prevailed; but the horizon before them was one blaze of light.
I have listened to a good deal of heavy firing in my day, but a more
uninterrupted roar of artillery and musketry than was now going on I
hardly recollect to have encountered.
As the attacking party amounted to five or six thousand men, and
the force opposed to them fell somewhat short of one thousand, the
latter were, of course, losing ground rapidly. The blue house was
carried--the highroad, and several lanes that ran parallel with it,
were in possession of the enemy--the village of St Esprit swarmed with
them,--when Sir John Hope arrived at the entrance of a hollow road, for
the defence of which a strong party had been allotted. The defenders
were in full retreat. "Why do you move in that direction?" cried he, as
he rode up. "The enemy are yonder, sir," was the reply. "Well, then,
we must drive them back--come on." So saying, the General spurred his
horse. A dense mass of French soldiers was before him; they fired, and
his horse fell dead. The British picket, alarmed at the fall of the
General, fled; and Sir John being a heavy man--being, besides, severely
wounded in two places, and having one of his legs crushed beneath his
horse--lay powerless, and at the mercy of the assailants. Captain
Herries, his personal attendant on this occasion, did his best to
extricate Sir John from his dilemma. He sprang from his horse, strove
to drag the dead animal aside, and would not listen to the entreaties
of his chief, who besought him to look to his own safety; and he paid
the penalty of his devotion. The French continued to advance. They
fired another volley at the retreating Guardsmen, a shot from which
broke the bone of Captain Herries' leg close to the knee-joint. The
young man fell, and was removed, together with his wounded General, a
prisoner into the city.
Of this sad catastrophe none of the troops were at all aware, except
those in whose immediate presence it occurred. The rest found ample
employment, both for head and hand, in driving back the enemy from
their conquests and bringing succour to their comrades, whose unceasing
fire gave evidence that they still held out in the church of St Esprit.
Towards that point a determined rush was made. The French thronged the
street and churchyard, and plied our people with grape and canister
from their own captured gun. But the struggle soon became more close
and more ferocious. Bayonets, sabres, the butts of muskets, were in
full play; and the street was again cleared, the barricade recovered,
and the gun retaken. But they were not long retained. A fresh charge
was made by increased numbers from the citadel, and our men were
again driven back. Numbers threw themselves into the church as they
passed, among whom was General Hay; whilst the rest gradually retired
till reinforcements should come up, when they resumed the offensive,
and with the most perfect success. Thus was the street of St Esprit,
and the field-piece at its extremity, alternately in possession of the
French and the English--the gun being taken and retaken not fewer than
nine times between the hours of three and seven in the morning.
Nor was the action less sanguinary in other parts of the field. Along
the sides of the various glens, in the hollow ways, through the
trenches, and over the barricades, a deadly strife went on. At one
moment the enemy appeared to carry everything before them; at another,
they were checked, broken, and dispersed; but the darkness was so great
that confusion everywhere prevailed: nor could it be ascertained, with
any degree of accuracy, how matters would terminate.
At last day began to dawn, and a scene was presented of great disorder
and horrible carnage. Not only were the various regiments of each
brigade separated, but the regiments themselves were split up into
little parties, each of which was warmly and closely engaged with a
similar party of the enemy. In almost every direction, too, our men
were gaining ground. The French had gradually retrograded; till now
they maintained a broken and irregular line through the churchyard,
and along the ridge of a hill which formed a sort of natural crest to
the glacis. One battalion of Guards, which had retained its order,
perceiving this, made ready to complete the defeat. They pushed forward
in fine array with the bayonet; and dreadful was the slaughter which
took place ere the confused mass of fugitives were sheltered within
their own gates. In like manner a dash was made against those who still
maintained themselves behind the churchyard wall; and they, too, with
difficulty escaped into the redoubt.
A battle such as that which I have just described is always attended
by a greater proportionate slaughter on both sides than one more
regularly entered into and more scientifically fought. On our part,
nine hundred men had fallen; on the part of the enemy, upwards of a
thousand: and the arena within which they fell was so narrow that even
a veteran would have guessed the number of dead at something greatly
beyond this. The street of St Esprit, in particular, was covered with
killed and wounded; and round the six-pounder they lay in heaps. A
French artilleryman had fallen across it, with a fuze in his hand;
there he lay, his head cloven asunder, and the remains of the handle
of the fuze in his grasp. The muzzle and breech of the gun were
smeared with blood and brains; and beside them were several soldiers of
both nations, whose heads had evidently been dashed to pieces by the
butts of muskets. Arms of all sorts, broken and entire, were strewed
about. Among the number of killed on our side was General Hay; he was
shot through one of the loopholes in the interior of the church. The
wounded, too, were far more than ordinarily numerous: in a word, it
was one of the most hard fought and unsatisfactory affairs that had
occurred since the commencement of the war. Brave men fell when their
fall was no longer of use to their country; and much blood was wantonly
shed during a period of national peace.
A truce being concluded between General Colville, who succeeded to the
command of the besieging army, and the Governor of Bayonne, the whole
of the 15th was spent in burying the dead. Holes were dug for them
in various places; and they were thrown in not without sorrow, but
with very little ceremony. In collecting them together various living
men were found, sadly mangled, and hardly distinguishable from their
slaughtered comrades. These were of course removed to the hospitals,
where every care was taken of them; but not a few perished from loss
of blood ere assistance arrived. It was remarked, likewise, by the
medical attendants, that a greater proportion of incurable wounds
were inflicted this night than they remembered to have seen. Many
had received bayonet-thrusts in vital parts: one man, I recollect,
whose eyes were both torn from the sockets and hung over his cheeks;
whilst several were cut in two by round-shot, which had passed through,
yet left them breathing. The hospitals, accordingly, presented sad
spectacles; and the shrieks and groans of the inmates acted with no
more cheering effect upon the sense of hearing than their disfigured
countenances and mangled forms acted upon the sense of sight.
It is unnecessary to remind the reader that, whilst our column of the
army was thus engaged before Bayonne, Lord Wellington, following up
his success at Orthes, had gained the splendid victory of Toulouse.
As an immediate consequence upon that event, the important city of
Bourdeaux was taken possession of by Lord Dalhousie, and declared for
Louis XVIII.; and farther conquests were prevented only by the arrival
of Colonels Cook and St Simon--the one at the headquarters of Lord
Wellington, the other at those of Marshal Soult. By them, official
information was conveyed of the great change which had occurred in
the French capital. An armistice between the two generals immediately
followed; and such an order being conveyed to General Thouvenot, as
he considered himself bound to obey, a similar treaty was entered
into on our side of the theatre of war. By the terms of that treaty
all hostilities were to cease. The two armies were still, indeed,
kept apart; nor was any one from our camp allowed to enter Bayonne
without a written pass from the adjutant-general. Foraging parties
only were permitted to come forth from the place at stated periods,
to which limits were assigned, beyond which they were prevented from
penetrating. Yet the truce was regarded by both parties as an armed
one. After so recent an instance of treachery, we felt no disposition
to trust to the word or honour of the French governor; and the enemy
guessing, perhaps, what our feelings were, did not pretend to trust us.
On each side, therefore, a system of perfect watchfulness continued. We
established our pickets and planted our sentinels with the same caution
and strictness as before; nor was any other difference distinguishable
between the nature of those duties now and what it had been a week ago,
except that the enemy suffered us to show ourselves without firing upon
us. So passed several days, till, on the 20th, the war was formally
declared to be at an end.
CONCLUSION.
Little now remains for me to add. My tale of war and its attendant
dangers and enjoyments in this part of the world is told; and I have
nothing left to notice except a few of the most prominent of the
adventures which befell between the period of my quitting one scene of
hostile operations and my arrival at another. These are soon narrated.
Early on the morning of the 28th of April 1814, the whole of the
Allied troops encamped about Bayonne drew up, in various lines, to
witness the hoisting of the white flag upon the ramparts of that
city. The standards of Britain, Spain, Portugal, and of the Bourbons,
already waved together from the summit of every eminence in our camp.
Up to this date, however, the tricolor still kept its place upon the
flagstaff of the citadel; to-day it was to be torn down, and the
"drapeau-blanc" substituted in its room. To us, no doubt, the spectacle
promised to be one of triumph and rejoicing; for we thought of the
gigantic efforts of our country, which alone, of all the nations in
Europe, had uniformly refused to acknowledge the sovereignty of the
usurper; but by the French it was very differently regarded. Even among
the country people not a spark of enthusiasm could be traced; whilst by
the garrison no secret was made of their abhorrence of the new state
of things, and their undiminished attachment to their former master.
But there was no help for it. "La fortune de la guerre," said a French
officer to me one day, as we talked of these matters; but he shrugged
his shoulders as he spoke, and gave no proof that he was satisfied with
its results.
We had stood in our ranks about an hour, dressed in our best attire,
and having our muskets loaded with powder only, when a signal-gun
was fired from one of the batteries of the town, and a magnificent
tricolored flag, which had hitherto waved proudly in the breeze, was
gradually lowered. For perhaps half a minute the flagstaff stood bare;
and then a small white standard, dirty, and, if my eyes deceived me
not, a little torn, was run up. Immediately the guns from every quarter
of the city fired a salute. By such of our people as kept guard at the
outposts that day, it was asserted that each gun was crammed with sand
and mud, as if this turbulent garrison had been resolved to insult, as
far as they could, an authority to which they submitted only because
they were compelled to do so. On our parts the salute was answered
with a _feu-de-joie_ from all the infantry, artillery, and gunboats;
and then a hearty shout being raised, we filed back to our respective
stations and dismissed the parade.
From this date till the general breaking up of the camp, nothing
like friendly or familiar intercourse took place between us and our
former enemies. We were suffered, indeed, by two at a time, to enter
the city with passports; and some half-dozen French officers would
occasionally wander down to Boucaut and mingle in the crowd which
filled its market-place. But they came with no kindly intention. On the
contrary, all our advances were met with haughtiness; and it seemed as
if they were anxious to bring on numerous private quarrels, now that
the quarrel between the countries was at an end. Nor were these always
refused them. More duels were fought than the world in general knows
anything about; and vast numbers were prevented only by a positive
prohibition on the part of the two generals, and a declaration that
whoever violated the order should be placed in arrest and tried by
court-martial.
We were still in our camp by the Adour, when various bodies of Spanish
troops passed through on their return from Toulouse to their own
country. Than some of those battalions I have never beheld a finer
body of men; indeed, many of them were as well clothed, armed, and
appointed as any battalions in the world. But they were, one and all,
miserably officered. Their inferior officers, in particular, seemed
to be mean and ungentlemanly in their appearance; and they possessed
little or no authority over their men. Yet they were full of boasting,
and gave themselves on all occasions as many absurd airs as if their
valour had delivered Spain and dethroned Napoleon.
Like my companions, I embraced every opportunity that was afforded of
visiting Bayonne, and examining the nature of its works. Of the town
itself I need say no more than that it was as clean and regularly
built as a fortified place can well be, where the utmost is to be made
of a straitened boundary; and houses obtain in altitude what may be
wanting in the extent of their fronts. Neither is it necessary that
I should enter into a minute description of the defences, sufficient
notice having been taken of them elsewhere. But of the inhabitants I
cannot avoid remarking that I found them uncivil and unfriendly in the
extreme, as if they took their tone from the troops in garrison, and
were nowise thankful that events had preserved them from the horrors of
an assault.
Our visits to the town, which were not very frequent, inasmuch as they
generally subjected us to insult from a brutal garrison, we varied
with other and more agreeable occupations. The trout began to stir in
the Adour, and the fishing-rods of such as came provided with tackle
of the sort were brought into play. A race-course was marked out on
the sands, near the river's mouth, and the speed of our horses, we
ourselves riding, was tried with excellent effect. We established balls
in the village, whereat the bands of the different regiments performed;
and ladies of all ranks--from the towns and villages near--favoured us
with their company. But never could we thaw the ice that seemed to have
gathered round the hearts of the French officers. They embraced every
opportunity of bringing on personal quarrels, and, as I have already
hinted, though reluctant to accede to the matter at the outset, we came
by degrees to see the necessity of indulging them; and I am inclined to
think that they sometimes got enough of it.
Such was the general tenor of my life from the 20th of April till
the 8th of May. On the latter day the regiment struck its tents, and
marched one day's journey to the rear, where it remained in quiet till
the arrival of the order which sent it first to the neighbourhood of
Bourdeaux, and afterwards to North America.
* * * * *
Thus ends the narrative of the adventures of a single year in the life
of a subaltern officer. Whatever may be thought of it by the public,
it has not been compiled without considerable satisfaction by the
narrator; for the year referred to is one on which he now looks back,
and probably shall ever look back, with the melancholy satisfaction
which accompanies a retrospect of happiness gone by. If ever there
existed an enthusiastic lover of the profession of arms, I believe
that I was one. But the times were unfavourable; and he must live for
very little purpose who knows not that enthusiasm of any kind rarely
survives our youth. I loved my profession as long as it gave full
occupation to my bodily and mental powers; but the peace came, and I
loved it no longer. Perhaps, indeed, the kind of feeling which I had
taught myself to encourage was not such as, in the present state of
society, any prudent person is justified in encouraging; for I care
not to conceal that the brightest hopes of my boyhood have all faded,
and that manhood has produced none capable of taking their place. The
friend who shared with me so many dangers and hardships fell at my side
by the hand of an unworthy enemy. The walk of life which I pursued for
a while so merrily has been abandoned; my sabre hangs rusty upon the
wall; and my poor old faithful dog is gathered to her fathers. She lies
under the green sod in a little lawn, on the surface of which she used
to stretch her limbs many a day in the noon-tide sun, after age had
begun to stiffen them. Well, well, all this is as it ought to be. It is
quite right that we should learn the folly of fixing our affections too
strongly upon anything in a scene so shifting and uncertain as human
life; and I suspect that there are few persons who are not taught that
lesson, at least occasionally, long before their prime be past.
Let it not, however, be supposed, that he who thus expresses himself
must therefore be discontented with his lot, or that he murmurs against
the Providence which has cast it for him. By no means. If in my new
mode of existence there be less of excitement and of wild enjoyment
than in my old, at least there is more of calm and quiet gratification.
Other ties, likewise, are around me, different in kind, indeed, but not
less tender than those which time has severed; and if there be nothing
in the future calculated to stir up ambitious longing, there is still
sufficient to defend against discontent. At all events, I am certain
that my present occupations are such as will prove more permanently and
vitally beneficial to others than those which preceded them; and let me
add, that a man need not be accused of fanaticism who is convinced that
to look back upon a life not uselessly spent is the only thing which
will bring him peace at the last.
But enough of moralising, when, in the Minstrel's words, I wish to such
as have honoured my tale with a perusal--
"To all, to each, a fair good-night,
And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light."
POSTSCRIPT.
Soon after the first appearance of "The Subaltern" in 'Blackwood's
Magazine,' there were published, in the same able work, lines to the
memory of my faithful dog, which sorrow for the loss of a creature so
dear to me had called forth.
They do not appear to myself to be worthy of republication; but as
others have thought differently, I cannot refuse to give a place to
them in a volume which, indirectly at least, has told how long and how
faithfully Juno served me. I therefore subjoin
MY DOG'S EPITAPH.
Sleep on, sleep on, thou gentle one!
Light lie the turf upon thy breast;
Thy toil is o'er, thy race is run--
Sleep on, and take thy rest!
In vain for thee were the 'larum note
Poured from the bugle's brazen throat--
The rolling drum thou heedest not,
Nor noise of signal-gun.
Let charger tramp or warrior tread
Over the place of thy narrow bed,
They will not wake thee from the dead--
Thy mortal strife is done!
Sleep on, sleep on, thou faithful slave!
Unmindful though thy master keep
His vigils by thy nameless grave,
And think of thee and weep;
Not even his voice, beloved of yore,
That stirred thee when the cannon's roar
Hath failed to rouse, shall rouse thee more
Out of thy slumbers deep!
No more for thee his whistle shrill
Shall sound through wood, o'er moor and hill--
Thy cry is mute, thy limbs are still
In everlasting sleep!
Sleep on, sleep on! no morrow's sun
Shall light thee to the battle back;
Thy fight hath closed, thy laurels won,
And this thy bivouac.
On tented field or bloody plain,
For thee the watch-fire flares in vain--
Thou wilt not share its warmth again
With him who loved thee well;
Nor when with toil and danger spent,
He rests beneath the firmament,
Thine eye upon his form be bent,
Thou trusty sentinel!
Sleep on, thou friend and comrade tried,
In battle, broil, and peaceful bower!
Thou hast left for once thy master's side,
But never in danger's hour.
Not thus inactive wert thou laid,
On that night of perilous ambuscade,
When levelled tube and brandished blade
Were at thy master's throat;
Then fierce and forward was thy bound,
And proud thy footstep pressed the ground,
While the tangled greenwood echoed round
With thy loud warning-note.
Sleep on, sleep on! it is not now
The soldier's cloak, a covering meet
For that kind head--no more art thou
Couched at a soldier's feet.
What boots it thee if storms be high,
Or summer breezes fan the sky?
Unheeded both will pass thee by,
They cannot reach thee there;
Hunger and thirst assail thee not--
Peril and pain alike forgot--
Be foul or fair thy master's lot,
That lot thou canst not share.
Then sleep; though gladly would I give
Half of the life preserved by thee,
Couldst thou, once more, my comrade, live
Thy short space o'er with me.
Vain wish, and impotent as vain;
'Tis but a mockery of pain,
To dream that aught may bring again
The spirit that hath flown.
But years steal by, and they who mourn
Another's fate, each in his turn
Shall tread one path, and reach one bourne,--
Then, faithful friend, sleep on!
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.