The Sun.
London, England, 1857-10-01 00:00:00

ENGLAND'S SUMMER, 1857

The echoes of the rage of war
Fade in the Eastern distance ;
" Two years ago" looms very far
In our well-filled existence :
On that broad East, yet more remote,
We waste not thought or feeling,
But muse on British flags afloat,
And swarthy millions kneeling.
Week after week the summer sun,
Undimmed by cloud or shower,
With an Italian speed brings on
The happy harvest hour ;
The arts of peace, by plenty nurat,
Proclaim the world's alliance,
Even in the merry trumpet burst,
And shouts of gay defiance.
Then flash along the sentient-wire
Some words so brief and fearful,
That they who hear them scarce desire
To see their children cheerful :
Tidings that through wide Hindostan,
Where Britain's rule stood surest,
No life is safe of Christian man,
The loftiest or the poorest.
Is it a nation roused to meet
In arms a strange dominion ?
A people maddened by the heat
Of just or false opinion ?
No ; soldiers cared for as our sons,
And clothed with England's honour,
Have turned their parricidal guns
With basest craft upon her !
Soon things that make young blood run cold
We whisper, while we tremble ;
Or cry that truths shall not be told
We to ourselves dissemble ;
And hideous images affright
Our soul's deep hiding-places,
And in our sleep we start at sight
Of unknown forms and faces.
Our fair expanse of green and gold
Can hardly find us grateful,
The very sun that could behold
Such scenes is almost hateful ;
Warm rays flare up to cruel heat,—
We sicken and we languish,
With those on whose sad heads they beat
Intolerable anguish!
We mark, as comes the breeze of morn
To freshen and to sweeten
The ripples of the oaten corn,
The billows of the wheaten ;
And feel that not one such sweet breath
Can reach where parch'd and tangled
The earth gives up to wasting death
Our brethren foully mangled.
And oh ! the pangs of those who know
What never must be spoken—
Hearts that will bear about the woe
Of memory until broken :
God give them thoughts of those who died
In Christendom's first ages,—
The child, the veteran, and the bride,—
The saints of history's pages !
For these are Christian martyrs too—
And England's all the dearer :
The mighty work she has to do
These agonies brings nearer ;
Conjuring her by that pure blood
No moment to abandon
TO task of world-embracing good
She once has laid her band on.
She cannot match the devilish deed,
Nor mate the hideous treason,—
Her blow is not the traitor's mead,
But self-defending reason :
That will be lavish of its life,
And hold all cost uncounted
TM through the length and breadth of strife
This peril be surmounted.
Then may she Firdon—ooly then—
When shamed and conscience-stricken,
The crolulous or slothful men
Who let the horror thicken—
Who little knew and nothing planned
The evil bond to sever,
Nor dared to burst it with the hand
Of resolute endeavour.
Yet while the rulers we condemn,
Who failed in due prevision,
We trust for Britain, as for them,
In history's great decision,—
That subject lands more justly ruled,
And strength wore mildly wielded,
Had never been, that when befooled
To noble hopes we yielded ;
Hopes of a world the force of law,
The worth of knowledge prizing ;
From Heathendom's debasing awe
To Christian reverence rising ;
Hopes of a people struggling forth
From custom's deep entrancement,
Led by the conquerors of the north
To Freedom's safe advancement.
Be this an Oriental tale
By Saxon pride engendered,—
Hopes for a hundred years may fail,
Yet not be all surrendered :
And now front each distracting scene
Of passion fiercely nourished,
We know what India might have been
Had Moslem tyrants flourished ;
S.) would have been, and yet would be,
If England shrank from duty.
„ . Then watch your harvest wealth with glee ;
Rejoice in Nature's beauty,
Making her bounties ministers
Of toil and self-denial,
Aud Victory's surest harbingers,
After the fiery trial. R. M. M.