(An Exhortation to the Volunteers)
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding,
Don your pouches and rifles—the bugle is sounding;
As our fathers of old quickly ’rose for the fray—
Up, up, and reply to its chivalrous lay:
And although its shrill blast bears no tidings of war,
Nor the boom of the gun on the ocean afar
Tells of death and destruction, yet of you we have need
For the weal of our Country, our Throne, and our Creed.
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding,
Don your pouches and rifles—the bugle is sounding;
As our fathers of old quickly ’rose for the fray—
Up, up, and reply to its chivalrous lay.
Go forth, my brave comrades! the bugle hath sounded;
As of old let the foemen, who dare, be confounded;
But, thank God, there’s no foe—there’s no enemy near
To encounter the arm of our brave Volunteer:
Yet of you we have need, for our Throne and our hearth
Will be safe whilst protected by men of such worth:—
Therefore comrades go forth with a smile and a cheer,
For our country hath hope in the brave Volunteer.
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.
March on, my brave comrades! the bugle’s still sounding;
On your path the hurrahs of a nation’s resounding;
And on yon foremost plain where the host shall deploy,
There shall echo the anthem of love and of joy:
There the contest of peace shall envelop the wold,
While the blue waves are dancing in spangles of gold;
While the clouds from your rifles obscure the blithe sky,
We’ll reflect and thank God there’s no foe to defy!—
Up, up, my brave comrades! with courage abounding, &c.
[99] Composed on the occasion of the first Volunteer Review at Dover, on
Easter Monday, 22nd April, 1867.
[Illustration]
A Letter to His Lordship.
_76, Upper Ebury Street, Pimlico, S.W., 6th May, 1865._
My Lord,
I’ve scann’d your answer to my meek request,
Which prompts the feeling in my studious breast—
A silent hoping—that, some future day,
My pen may gain thy Lordship’s solacy.
* * * * *
Being train’d to disappointment, trust me, lord,
I lie not down; but steadfast to my word,
Shall persevere with all my heart and soul;
Shall still dip pens into the inken-bowl;
Shall strive to write my F (two) o o (and) t,
And trust they’ll grace a book of poetry,—
If not of merit such as Wits admire,
I must expect their silence, or satire:
Ah! should it be the latter, I obtain,
’Twill be encouragement to try again.
O, had I but a tithe of Alfred’s[100] spark,
I’d launch again my little hopeful bark,
Into the ocean of my soul’s delight!
Would prose all day, and sometimes half the night;
Would scribble out blank verse, or couplets, free;
Would ’queath its pages to futurity.
And when my sand-glass had run out its last,—
My eyes for ever had been closed and fast,—
Perchance some kindred creature would have fix’d
On some plain stone, the lines herewith annex’d:—
“Oh! grant, here—reader, but one moment’s pause—
Behold—this man did ransack o’er his brain;
And found a word or two to help the cause,
So strove to rhythm them in humble strain.”
* * * * *
But ere, my lord, I stop my feeble muse,
I ask of thee, and feel thou’lt not refuse,
To send me back those manuscripts of mine—
That I may write them in corrected line:
And when my scroll[101] is publish’d, I shall crave
Your Lordship’s care of one. (Now, to be grave)—
Pray give allowance for my ignorance—
If I am pert; if I, through lack of sense,
Have trespass’d on your Lordship’s valued time—
Some specimens of my attempted rhyme.
’Tis not my wish to cornet forth my name,
Nor can I e’er expect to gather fame,
But only hope, my lord, you kindly will
Assist me up the literary hill.