Selected Poetry.

Otago Witness, Issue 1440, 28 June 1879, Page 21

Selected Poetry.

By Alfbed Tennyson.

THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW.

The poem on the defence of Lucinow Bets out with an apostrophe to the banner of England, which floated " never with mightier glory than when we had reared thee on high " over the topmost roofs of beleaguered Lucknow. There then follows a description of the perilous situation : Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives — Women and children among us, God help them, our children and wives ! Hold it we might— and for fifteen days or for twenty at most. " Never surrender , I charge you } but every man die at his post !" Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of the brave ; Cold were his brows when we kiss'd him— we laid him that night in bis grave. ' " Every man die at his post !" and there hail'd on our houßes and halls Death from their rifle bullets, and death from their cannon balls, i Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade, Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade, Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro' it, their shot and their shell. The dangers of the garrison from treason, from the mine of the " murderous mole "—so Mr Tennyson describes the Sepoy sapper— and from ehot and shell and from direct assault— • Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drowned by the tideare all sketched in vivid colours. Then the poet works himself up into a keen tension of tragic feeling as his imagination bodies forth the terrible position of the British— awestruck, but not oowed by the dark fate that lowered over them ! Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart an din limb, Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure/ Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung; but on him ; Still— could we watch at all points ? we were every day fewer and fe*er. There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that past : " Children and wives— if the tigers leap, into the fold unawares— I " Every man die at his post— and the foe may outlive us at last — " Better to fall by the hands that they love than to fall into theirs 1" And yet the subjeot race was not altogether tigerish, for, like Abdiel, the Sikh "faithful amid the faithless stood," and to him the merited meed of praise is generously accorded : Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due! Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few, Fought with the bravest among us, and drove ' them and smote them, and slew, That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew. Sad expression is given to the bitter truth that even in the case of brave men like these it is what they do and not what they suffer that the world will remember. Their fighting is the smallest of their trials. What wears them is being soldiers by day and sentinels by night— the incessant vigilance necessitated by a continuous series of alarms, assaults, bugle warnings, and "ever the labour of fifty that had to be done by five." Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes around, Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the ground, Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a dehige of cataract skies, Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of flies, Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English field, Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be healed, Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful pitiless knifeTorture aud trouble in vain— for it never could save us a life, Valour of delicate women who tended the hospital bed, Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead, Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for grief, Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief. But the hour of deliverance is nigh. Hark, cannonade, fusilade ! is it true what was told by the scout ? Outram and Havelock breaking their way thro' the fell mutineers ! Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing sgain in our ears ! All on a sudden the garrison titter a jubilant shout, Haveloek's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers, Forth from their holes and thoir hidings our women and children come out, Blessing the -wholesome -white faces of Havelock's good Fusileprs, Kissing the war-hardened hind of the Highlander wet •with, tears ! Dance to the pibroch !— saved ! we are saved !— is it you? is it you? Saved by the valour of Eavelock, saved by the blessing of heaven ! , " Hold it for fifteen days 1" we have held it for eighty-seven, And aver aloft on the palaoe roof the old banner of England plew,