The Press.
London, England, 1857-10-17 00:00:00

THE PRESS, OCTOBER 17,1857.

It was sixteen hundred rank and file with native levies made,
Two thousand men of horse and foot, true each as his good blade;
And at their head role Havelock, his fearless forehead bare—
Hia warrior locks, worn thin and white, awave with every air.
Well knew that noble General what gallant souls he led,
Right well his stalwart Highlanders knew too that snowy head ;
And through the night, by that pale light, forward the columns strode
Over the yawning nullah, and along the deep sand road,
Fording the rain•swelled river-wave, breasting the weary hill,
One thought alone in every heart, one purpose working still :
To reach betimes the battle, and their 'leaguered brothers save,
Or bring the villain slayers to their victims bloody grave.
And right and left the scouts go out, as tale on tale comes in
Of horsemen gathering on the flank and cannons' distant din;
And left and right the scouts come in, and tell of squadrons near,
But check no forward footsteps, and raise no thought of fear,
Till the shrill jungle-chicken's cry hailed the day's rosy sign,
And the grey light of morning showed the grim rebel line.
Out spake our gallant leader, " Look ! yonder goes the way,
To where our o'erpressed brothers stand, and where the butchers

slay,—
And in our road the knaves stand thick, wherefore, as you may see,
Our path lies o'er their carcuses, and carved shall quickly be."
Thereat they rested from the march a thirty minutes space,
Then rose and met the foe a field in the sun's brighcning face,
And long before the dew was dry, or sounds of morning still,
The rattle of the strife was done—the slaves flew o'er the hill.

Onward again—the good grey head, foremost in fight and march,
While the sun's blazing gold burned up through Heaven's cloudless
arch.

No hoarse command, no need of hand, nor voice in all their way,
To bid them close those dust-clad files, to keep their just array ;
The hope that bears their Captain on, the rage that scorneth rest,
Throbs in the soldier's honest heart, burns in the drummer's breast—
Lightens the road of lance and gun, the weight of ringing steel,
Whose biting ball and sharp swift fall the assassin soon shall feel.
Now sinketh in the tall cane-brake the thin long line of spears ;
Now on the crest the vengeful gleam of bayonets appears;
Now from his lair in rock and cave the opposing foe they thrust
And pass, but leave along the rear the battle's blood and dust;
By night, by day, without a stay, right onward rolled their band,
Till under Cawnpore's wall they met the fierce Lord of that land.
Scant time of breath—life and black death hangs on the passing hour ;
The thunder breaks less suddenly, when heavy storm-clouds lour,
Than breaks on those dark traitorous files the fury of the few
Whose eager eyes behold at last the sought-for caitiff crew;
Once only, as the dastard crowd their heavy cannon plied,
And swept with hissing hail of grape the green hill's level side,
But once, they paused, and crouching down under that deadly rain,
Waited with noble patience that mocked at grief and pain—
Waited, till, waving the true steel, brave Havelock cried aloud,
" Enough, boys ; up ! take cut those gulls and clear away this crowd."
Then up they sprang, and high out rang the long, loud British cheer,
The saddest sound on all the earth for the oppressor's ear,
And with set leet at equal beat, and steel at equal slant,
Like blood-hounds on the view-halloo, all fanged and grim and gaunt,
Out flew they then, on grew they then—a crash !--and once again
The Highlanders of Havelock held the red battle plain.

Oh, sisters, gentle sisters, it is not fit to pen
A deed so sinful, devilish, such bitter scathe of men.
If I did write with tears and blood, meseems that I should shame
To set this savage villainy in bight of English dame.
Ah ! lady, lady ! turn aside the knowledge from your heart,
Or knowing not its hideous tale, keep all its pain apart.
Sisters of thine, sisters of mine, were tortured trampled, killed,
Their tender babies butchered, their husband's heart-blood spilled.
Let it alone with piteous moan—the cowed and beaten foe
Left reeking in his beastly lair—that hopeless, awful woe.

God's will be done ! but under sun was never deed so dark.
Leave it to God, as they whose eyes the bloody scene did mark;
As that brave chief, w•h ose Victory shout had sounded the death knell
For all the gentle, gallant souls that in those shambles fell.
Alas ! the angry heart is hot, the lightnings of the Lord
Seem so to sleep, seem so to keep, its scabbard his bright sword.
But patience ! patience ! even now the veugeance-debt is due ;
Life pays for life—strife follows strife—the Highlanders pursue—
The Highlanders of Havelock !—till in his very den
They flout and chase the murderer, and smite his flying men.
Oh, good grey head ! that ever led first in the chase and charge,
With hand so true and valiant, and heart so loyal and large!
Oh, faithful fighters for the right ! what need to swell the page
With tale of blast by noonday's sun, and blight by plague's wild rage
I tell you, easy dwellers here, who own unused hands,
That nine times iu the open field met they the rebel bands—
That nine times from the open fields they drove them howling far,
Each time, alas ! grown weaker with the wear of constant war ;
I tell you, twice they stemmed the flow of Ganges at his swell,
Thrice on the farther bank gave fight, captured the cannon ! Well !
God's ways are dark ! The bravest men that ever worked His will,
Thinned by the battle and the pest, but all unbroken still,
Rest on their arms—soul-weary all,—but rest to rise anew,
And freo their pi isoned countrymen ; us they shall surely do,
If God see good to grace therewith on this side of the grave
The Highlanders of Havelock—the bravest of the brave. •

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