The Sun.
London, England, 1854-10-25 00:00:00

IN MEMORY OF CAPTAIN' ARTHUR WILLIAM
WYNN, OF THE 23d WELSH FUSILIERS,
WHO FELL GLORIOUSLY AT ALMA.

" There lay Colonel Chester and four of his gallant offi-
cers, with their faoes to the sky."—iforning Newspaper.
" He had gone right up to the gun."—Privats Account.

When from grim Alma's blood-stained height
There came the sound of woe,
And in thy first and latest fight
That noble head was. low :
Fond hearts, that writhed beneath the blow,
Were tortured with keen thirst to knew
How, ere their loved and lost one bled,
By Fate's cold hand the gloomy thread
Of that last hour was spun ;
And yearnings from thine English home
Bounded across the ocean foam, •
" Where did ye find my son?"
The answer, from that fatal ground,
Came pealing with a trumpet-sound,
" Close to the Russian gun."
With many a gallant friend around him,
In one proud death—'twas there we found hint.
His look, though soft, was calm and high,
His face was gazing on the sky,
As if he said, "Man cannot die
Though all below be clone."
" Thus was it that we saw him lie
Beneath the Russian gun."
Right up the bill our soldiers sped,
No hurrying in their earnest tread ;
The iron thunder broke in storms
Again, and yet again—
On their firm ranks and stately forms
It did but break in vain :
Though yet untrained by war to bear
The battle's deadly brunt,
The ancient heart of Wales was there,
Still rushing to the front.
Their blood flowed fast along those steeps,
Bat the proud goal was won,
And the moon shone on silent heaps
Beyond the Russian gin--
For there, with friends he loved around him,
Among the foremost dead, they found him.
Oh ! there are bitter tears for thee,
Young sleeper by the Eastern sea—
Grief that thy glory cannot tame ;
It will not cease to athe ;
And anguish beyond any name
In hearts that fain would break.
Still thy brave bearing on that day
Lends these who mourn its strength to say,
" Thy will, 0 God, be done !
We bow before Thy living throne,
And thank Thee for the mercy shown,
Even when Thy summons dread was thrown
Forth from the Russian gun."
No agony that gasps for breath
Lengthened his hopeless heurs of death,
No quenchless longing woke in vain
For those he ne'er could see again ;
By noble thoughts and hopes befriended,
By Honour to the last attended,
His haughty step the hill ascended ;
At once—his hand and brain reposed,
At once—his eager life was closed :
One mystic wbirl of mighty change,
Oae sea-like rush of blackness strange,
And all the roaring tumult dim
Was cold, and dark, and still for him.
Pain cannot rack or fever parch
The brave whose course is run.
So ended his majestic march
Up to the Russian gun ;
For there, with friends he loved around him,'
Serene as sleep, they bought and found him.
And still, for ever fresh and young,
His honoured memory shall shine,
A. light that never sets, among
The trophies of his ancient line.
Yea, though the sword may seem to kill,
Hie noble spirit liveth still,
A ray of Glory's sin ;
And many a child, remembering well
How by sad Alma's stream he fell,
His tale with boyish pride shall tell—
" I bear the name of one
Who, in that first great fight of ours
Against the tyrant's servile powers,
Upon the red Crimean sod,
Went down for Liberty and God,
Close to the Russian gun ;
For there, with friends he loved around him,
Among the free-bora dead they found him."
11th October. F. H. DOYLE.