COLIN CAMPBELL, LORD CLYDE. (FROM PUNCH.)

Daily Southern Cross, Volume XIX, Issue 1962, 30 October 1863, Page 5

COLIN CAMPBELL, LORD CLYDE. (FROM PUNCH.)

Another great, grey-headed, chieftain gone To join hid brethern on the silent shore ! Another link with a proud past undone ! Another stress of life-long warfare o'er ! Few months have passed since that grey head wo saw Bending above the \ ault w here Outrara slept ; Lingering as if relucUnt to uithdtaw From that grave-side, where sun-bronzed soldien wept. The thought filled many minds is lie the next To take his place within the Abbey walls ? A gnat led trunk, by many tempests vext, That beais itb honours high, even as it falls. He is the next ' the name that was a fear To England's swat thy foes, all India through, Is now a memory ■ No mote fields will hear His voice of stern command, that rang so true. The tai taned rank* he led and loved no more Will spring, like hounds mill ashed, at his behest ; No more that eye will w.itch his soldier* o'er, As mothers o'et their babes, awake, at rest. A life of toughest duty, from the day When, with the boy's down soft upon his chin, He matched to fight, m others tun to play, Like a young stjuite his knightly spura to win. And well he won them ; In the fuver-swamp, In rough ten fiuld, by trench and lengueied wall, In the blank rounds of dull routine, that damp bpnits of common temper more than all. He trod slow steps bub sure ; poor, without ft tends, Winning no w.xy, save by Ins sweat and blood j Heat t sick too often, when fiom earned amends He saw himself sw ept back by the cold flood Against which all must sttive, who strive like him By merit's patient strength to win the goal, Till many a swimmer's eye giows glaze-l and dim, And closes, ere the tide doth shoreward roll. Stout heart, strong arm, and constant soul to aid, He sickened not nor slackened, but swam on ; Though o'er his head thick sptead the chilling shade, And oft, twixt seas, both shore ;vud stars seemed gone, Till the tide turned, and on tjie. top of flood The nigh spent swimmer bote triumphant in ; And honours mined upon him, bought w«tli blood, And long defcited, but sweeter so to win. And fame and name and wealth and rank were heaped On the grey head that once had held them high ; But weak the arm which that late harvest reaped, And all a knight's work left him was to die. Dead ! with his honours still in newest gloss Their gold in sorry contrast with hk grey ; But by bia life not ilicm, we rate his lobs, And for sweot peace to his bravo spiub pray. No nobler soldier's heart was ever laid Into the silence of a trophied tomb ; There let him sleep— true gold and thrice assayod By sword and hr« and suffeiiug— till the doom I