« AnteriorContinua »
TO ISABEL M. L. DICKINSON, AS HYACINTH, IN
Performed at the Lyceum Theatre in 1847.
WELL art thou named, 'mongst Flora's lovely tribes,
—the very one her heart has shrin'd Since its first throb awoke to love and hope !
WORDS OF COMPASSION AND SYMPATHY,
TO CARONICLB THE WRETCHED BND OF
PRIVATE FREDERICK WHITE.
Suggested on reading Douglas Jerrold's Article, entitled “Death by the Cat,”
August 8, 1846.
He has gone to the grave unadorn'd by the wreaths
That proud Victory heedlessly scatters around, In her moments of conquest, when earth’s bosom seethes
With the blood of the victims that burthen the ground!
By its vapour made drunken, the Spirits of War,
In high festival humour, make scrambles for fame; When they, careless and aimless, throw garlands afar,
'Midst the soldier in heart and the soldier in name!
WORDS OF COMPASSION AND SYMPATHY.
Oh! not always they fall on the head of the brave;
On the spot where, unflinching, he fell as he fought !
And, alas ! there are many like him whom we weep,
With a spirit misused, broken-hearted, enraged—: With a soul full of noble emotions, too deep
To be lightly reveal'd, or at pleasure assuaged I
There are many, like him, whom we know but in death
All too late for our succour—too late, save to mourn That a spirit of promise should pant to find breath,
And should die for its struggles ere yet it is born !
Oh! for one who can feel and can think, to endure
The dominion “fantastic,” too often, assumed By some arrogant upstart who hopes to secure The name of “smart serjeant,” three-striped and be
To be oft by a stroke of the rattan surprised,
pause in some movement with eclat to fillAll his higher pretensions, as soldier, despised Only moved at “March on!” or at “Halt!” standing
Oh! he writhed, till his spirit no longer could brook
All the needless indignities cast on his lot: With a quick thrill of frenzy his whole nature shook,
When he struck the rash blow, and his duty (?) forgot.
Can we wonder, the passion that smoulder'd within
Should thus burst forth in fury and fetters defy; Though the minions of power around it might grin,
Secure that their victim resents but to die ?
Sun! O sun! hide thy beams! 'tis a brother they
seize A loved son, the best hope of a mother's fond heart .Earth ! O earth ! lend no spot such fell tyrants to please,
Lest thy breast and green verdure for ever should part !
Vain !—'tis done ! and all gory, and writhing, and torn
Is the form ye have loved, mother, sister, and wife !And heart-broken, degraded, the ruin is borne,
To be rear'd once again to a lash-branded life?
No!-far better to die, while his Spartan-like heart
Oh! far better to die, than live on but to smart 'Neath the lash that brought all his bright hopes to
the grave !
He is gone to his rest—as a conqueror gone!
For he bled to show tyranny nakedly vile; Though he knows not his stripes such a victory won,
We'll destroy the red “ Cat” at his funeral pile !