Yes--clash, ye pealing steeples!
Ye grim-mouthed cannon, roar!
Tell what each heart is feeling,
From shore to throbbing shore!
What every shouting city,
What every home would say,
The triumph and the rapture
That swell our hearts to-day.
And did they say, O England,
That now thy blood was cold,
That from thee had departed
The might thou hadst of old!
Tell them no deed more stirring
Than this thy sons have done,
Than this, no nobler triumph,
Their conquering arms have won.
The mighty fleet bore seaward;
We hushed our hearts in fear,
In awe of what each moment
Might utter to our ear;
For the air grew thick with murmurs
That stilled the hearer's breath,
With sounds that told of battle,
Of victory and of death.
We knew they could but conquer;
O fearless hearts, we knew
The name and fame of England
Could but be safe with you.
We knew no ranks more dauntless
The rush of bayonets bore,
Through all Spain's fields of carnage,
Or thine, Ferozepore.
O red day of the Alma!
O when thy tale was heard,
How was the heart of England
With pride and gladness stirred!
How did our peopled cities
All else forget, to tell
Ye living, how ye conquered,
And how, O dead, ye fell.
Glory to those who led you!
Glory to those they led!
Fame to the dauntless living!
Fame to the peaceful dead!
Honour, for ever, honour
To those whose bloody swords
Struck back the baffled despot,
And smote to flight his hordes!
On, with your fierce burst onward!
On, sweep the foe before,
Till the great sea-hold's volleys
Roll through the ghastly roar!
Till your resistless onset
The mighty fortress know,
And storm-won fort and rampart
Your conquering standards show.
Yes--clash, ye bells, in triumph!
Yes--roar, ye cannon, roar!
Not for the living only,
But for those who come no more.
For the brave hearts coldly lying
In their far-off gory graves,
By the Alma's reddened waters,
And the Euxine's dashing waves.
For thee, thou weeping mother,
We grieve; our pity hears
Thy wail, O wife; the fallen,
For them we have no tears;
No--but with pride we name them,
For grief their memory wrongs;
Our proudest thoughts shall claim them,
And our exalting songs.
Heights of the rocky Alma,
The flags that scaled you bore
"Plassey," "Quebec," and "Blenheim,"
And many a triumph more;
And they shall show your glory
Till men shall silent be,
Of Waterloo and Maida
Moultan and Meanee.
I look; another glory
Methinks they give to fame;
By Badajoz and Bhurtpoor
Streams out another name;
From captured fleet and city,
And fort, the thick clouds roll,
And on the flags above them
Is writ "Sebastopol."