The Sun.
London, England, 1856-04-10 00:00:00

THE MINSTRELSY OF PEACE.

(From, the Morning Advertiser.)
The "minstrelsy of war" is at an end for the present.
Of late, indeed, there has been but little temptation in it
for British bards. Who could pretend to the divine
afflatus concerning the exploits of an army, checked by
the telegraph, and commanded by Simpson? That there
wera glorious deeds performed by individual, as v‘ell as
regimental bravery, none can dispute ; but a poet must
feel for his country, and routine dis;usts the Muse, while
betrayal shocks her. Possibly, it is for this cause that
such strains of poetry as were at first heard have utterly
died away. As we I ave presented several of Mr.
Richards' poems on the war to our readers, so now we
give insertion tJ a composition on "the peace." Let it
not be imagined that the satire of the writer stamps him
as a blood-thirsty man, one who would urge on the dogs
of war, while remaining himself in safety—a reproach
with which the press is not unfrequently favoured by
those whom it censures. The writer of these bitter lines
may have felt more deeply than the easy acceptors of
peace-at-any-price the melancholy sacrifice of our soldiers.
For such a c)nstimaiation as this peace, we nsay exclaim
with the peace-mongers—Ought we ever to have gone
to war at all ?

We may observe that these lines are written in the
supposition that we shall have an illumination for the
peace ;—a notion which seems to have died away in
consequence of a certain want of enthusiasm in its
favour :---

AN ILLUMINATION ODE FOR THE PEACE.
Illuminate for Asia !
- Kars' garrison betray'd ;
A Bude-light for each window
By Routine idly made.
Flare up for naval triumphs •
By Englishmen not won,
Ten million Russian candles,
And gutter every one.
Let Simpson's name pale flicker
In gas-light, thus to tell
How wavor'd in disorder
His raw recruits, who fell.
Oil lamps for night-cap'd Camara,
That go out with a smell!
Rushlights in rotten turnips
Might do the thing as well.
Let's have the Star of Airey,
With Penmure's swoll'n device,
Tarda podagra, o'er yon
" Alarming sacrifice—"
The Coburg decoration,
Front " Garter" unto "Fleece,"
Let cringing tradesmen picture,
To advertise the " Peace."
A bonfire for Odessa,
That stands in siatu quo ;
What, if it cost our army
Achilles' direful woo ?
Transparencies for traitors,
To mock their crafty lies ;
With trophies for the hero,
Who stern Macniell defies.
The engineer and doctor
Of staunch Crimean fame,
Disaster could not waken—
Mortality not shame—
Shall welcom'd be by emblems
In characters of flame ;
Let dinner lists at Windsor
Tell each ill-omen'd name.
And o'er the Horse-guards' portals,
'Neath Lombards' triple sign,
0 word of mystic wonder !
Resplendent " Dowb" shell shine.
Let undertakers honour
The Marshal old and brave,
Who bow'd away an army
Into a needless grave.
Peace to his troubled manes ;
The crime is theirs who sent
His white hairs to the ruin
Of services long spent.
Illuminate for Hango !
The Tiger's cruel doom,
In characters of fire
Be blazon'd through the gloom.
The red glare of Sinope
Glow fierce in Dawning-street,
When secret orders palsied
Each thunder-freighted fleet.
Let crimson cloth deep trailing
O'er balcony suggest
The fields of blood, where perish'd
Our bravest and our best—
Perish'd, all unavailing,
That drivelling lips might shame,
Amid the jeers of Europa,
Our honour, faith, and name ;
That fumbling hands might quiver
To speed the tyrant's work,
And seal, with self-destruction,
Betrayal of the Turk.
Peace ? With our German Legion !
Peace? With the spy at home !
Peace ? With the Gaul at Stamboul !
His myrmidons at Rome !
The Pole, revil'd and trampled—
The sad Hungarian, doore'd
To fetter, cord, and dungeon—
Italia's cause entomb'd ?
Circassia, still deserted,
To struggle, and to bleed,
And hapless Denmark fated
To glut the Cossack's greed ?
By double-headed Vulture,
Like carrion dragged in gore,
The Wallach and Moldavian,
That, living, bled before--
While there await-the Tartar,
That traffick'd with our host,
The gory knout suspended,
Siberia's icy coast--
Illuminate, ye Britons
And, drunk with gold, defy,
Blind helots of your masters,
Fair Western Liberty.
A skeleton in fetters,
Slow rises from the grave
Of peoples to whom, dying,
Ye stretclid no hand to save.
Burn gibbet-grease for tyrants—
Gaol cressets trim for slaves—
Shout, myrmidons, your triumphs—
Smile, diplomats and knaves !
Illuminate, proud nation !
In dream of better trade :
The sad pale brow of Freedom
In dust again is laid.
Illuminate,—to Mammon !
Rise not our " funds" this hour ?
Heed not the steady sinking
Of honour, glory, piwer,
But, as the false glare conquers
The city's lurid gloom,
The lamp dies into darkness
In sainted Valour's tomb.
'Neath yonder dim Cathedral,
Where England's heroes lie,
There steal 'mid shivering hearse-plumes
A whisper and a sigh.