Classic Poem

THROUGH all this year, the rising clouds of war
Have dark and darker lowered from afar.
On either side of Danube's rolling flood,
In wide-spread ranks, have bristling armies stood,
From Widdin's western towers, to where thou see'st
Ibraila's ramparts guard the marshy east:
And in his central stronghold, half between,
Nestled among the Balkans, might be seen
Schumla's embattled camp, where Omar lay,
Like an old spider watching for his prey.
The crossing of the Danube who shall tell?
When Tultscha, Matschin and Isakcha fell;
Until before Silistria's walls they halt.
But all in vain they urge the fierce assault;
A Prussian there, and two of Albion's sons,
Teach Turks to stand the fire of Russian guns;
And these three—in themselves a host—drive back
The Czar's foiled thousands on their homeward track.
Thence spread the strong recoil, till Russia's force
Rolled back once more within its rightful course;
And o'er the Argisch, o'er the Sereth too,
And o'er the Pruth, their backward troops withdrew:
While, unopposed, at Bucharest appear
Austrians and Turks, close following on their rear.

But deeper thrills the heart of Christendom,
When on the scene the Allied armies come;
When at Gallipoli long lines are drawn;
When to Scutari England's Guards float on;
When within Varna's walls, on Devno's plain,
Ten thousand by the pestilence are slain,
Through the long summer dying fast, although
They never yet had even seen the foe.
But with what joy the morning light was hailed,
When, with their white wings spread, the vast fleets sailed,
And ploughed with wind and steam their eastward way,
Until they rode in Kalamita Bay.
Thence to the dark-browed Alma, on whose heights
Was seen the rarest of all earthly sights,—
Two nations, that for thousand years had met
But face to face in deadly battle set:
Now, rushing up the death-steep side by side,
Together fought, together bled and died.
What though the hill were high, the ramparts strong
What though their cannonade were loud and long?
Well might the Cossack flee in dire alarms;
Such union may defy the world in arms!
Who thence shall track the rapid march that led,
Still onward from this harvest of the dead?
The siege-works slow, the thunders of the fleets;
The fires, explosions, sorties and retreats;
The bloody charge on Balaklava's plain,
When England's noblest rode to death, in vain;
The gloomier, deadlier day of Inkermann,
When streams of gore, deeper than ever, ran,
And, as before, a handful met a host,
And crushed in carnage their presumptuous boast.
And what shall be the end? As yet, who knows?
None can tell now, while their fresh blood still flows,
Their cannon still boom heavily, and their
Unended roar still trembles on the frozen air.

What bow of hope shines brightly from afar,
Spanning, to Christian eyes, this storm of war?
Why doth the heart of Christendom thus turn,
Gaze toward the East, and as it gazes burn?
Why doth the rage of mighty Russia rise,
With stern resolve relentless as her skies?
Why doth the English pulse throb strong and fast?
Why France and Italy forget the past,
In eager clutching for the future prize,
Which all see gleaming now before their eyes?
'Tis thou, O Holy Eastern Church, 'tis thou,
To whom all eyes, all hearts are turning now!
Long as a captive Bride, in tears and chains,
Long in vile weeds, sullied with scorns and stains,
Long hast thou sat upon the ground, in grief,
Waiting till day-spring dawn for thy relief.
Now is thy day at hand! The Crescent moon
Is waning, and shall die in darkness soon,
Quenched by the friendship of the Allies more
Than all that Russian arms could do before:
While thy bright Cross, breaking through clouds and wars,
Shall shine once more among its kindred stars.
Shake off the ashes from thy bending head!
Rise from among the dying and the dead!
Pluck from thy shoulders, once for all, the yoke
That bowed thee down, and thy free spirit broke!
Purge all thy dross away! The crusted rind
Remove, which slavish times have left behind!
Fresh life-blood leap along thy leaden limbs!
Thy long-hushed voice shout forth triumphal hymns!
Let thy mute towers ring with loud-pealing bells,
Aye, even where Saint Sophia's dome yet swells,
Awaiting thy return to wake once more
The strains her vaults resounded with of yore.
Put all thy beauteous garments on, as when
Of old thy splendor charmed the eyes of men:—
And thou shalt be the bond of peace between
The nations now in deadly struggle seen;—
A struggle, where each stroke is struck for thee,
Helping, on either hand, to set thee free;—
A struggle, which, when thou art free, shall cease,
And thou to all restore the imperial palm of Peace.