DOI issue:
August 29, 1863
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16872#0099
88
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
August 29, 18C3.
SALMON FISHING,
Piseator. “Follow him up! It’s all vert well to say Follow him up!”
COLIN CAMPBELL, LORD CLYDE.
DIED, FRIDAY, AUGUST 14,
BURIED, SATURDAY, AUGUST 22, 1S63.
Another great-, grey-headed, chieftain gone
To join his brethren on the silent- shore !
Another link with a proud past, undone !
Another stress of life-long warfare o’er !
Few months have passed since that grey head we saw
Bending above the vault where Outraai slept;
Lingering as if reluctant to withdraw
From that grave-side, where sun-bronzed soldiers wept.
The thought filled many minds, is lie the next
To take his place within the Abbey walls ?
A gnarled trunk, by many tempests vext.
That bears its honours high, even as it falls.
He is the next! the name that was a fear
To England’s swarthy foes, all India through,
Is now a memory ! No more fields will hear
His voice of stern command, that rang so true.
The tart-aned ranks he led and loved no more
Will spring, like hounds unleashed, at his behest;
No more that eye will watch his soldiers o’er,
As mothers o’er their babes, awake, at rest.
A life of roughest duty, from the day
When with the boy’s down soft upon his chin,
He marched to fight, as others run to play.
Like a young squire his knightly spurs to win.
And well he won them ; in the fever-swamp,
In fought en field, by trench and leaguered wall,
In the blank rounds of dull routine, that damp
Spirits of common temper more than all,
He trod slow steps but sure ; poor, without friends,
Winning no way, save by his sweat and blood;
Heart-sick too often, when from earned amends
He saw himself swept back by the cold flood,
Against which all must strive, who strive like him
By merit’s patient strength to win the goal,
Till many a swimmer’s eye grows glazed and dim.
And closes, ere the tide doth shoreward roll.
Stout heart, strong arm, and constant soul to aid,
He sickened not nor slackened, but swam on ;
Though o’er his head thick spread the chilling shade,
And oft, twixt seas, both shore and stars seemed gone.
Till the tide turned, and on the top of flood
The liigh-spent swimmer bore triumphant in;
And honours rained upon him, bought with blood,
And long deferred, but sweeter so to win.
And fame and name and wealth and rank were heaped
On the grey head that onoe had held them high ;
But w'eak t he arm which that late harvest reaped,
And all a knight’s work left him was to die.
Dead ! with his honours still in newest gloss,
Their gold in sorry contrast with his grey:
But by his life, not them,, we rate his loss.
And for sweet peace to his brave spirit pray.
No nobler soldier’s heart was ever laid
Into the silence of a trophied tomb;
There let him sleep—true gold and thrice assayed
By sword and fire and suffering— till the doom !
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
August 29, 18C3.
SALMON FISHING,
Piseator. “Follow him up! It’s all vert well to say Follow him up!”
COLIN CAMPBELL, LORD CLYDE.
DIED, FRIDAY, AUGUST 14,
BURIED, SATURDAY, AUGUST 22, 1S63.
Another great-, grey-headed, chieftain gone
To join his brethren on the silent- shore !
Another link with a proud past, undone !
Another stress of life-long warfare o’er !
Few months have passed since that grey head we saw
Bending above the vault where Outraai slept;
Lingering as if reluctant to withdraw
From that grave-side, where sun-bronzed soldiers wept.
The thought filled many minds, is lie the next
To take his place within the Abbey walls ?
A gnarled trunk, by many tempests vext.
That bears its honours high, even as it falls.
He is the next! the name that was a fear
To England’s swarthy foes, all India through,
Is now a memory ! No more fields will hear
His voice of stern command, that rang so true.
The tart-aned ranks he led and loved no more
Will spring, like hounds unleashed, at his behest;
No more that eye will watch his soldiers o’er,
As mothers o’er their babes, awake, at rest.
A life of roughest duty, from the day
When with the boy’s down soft upon his chin,
He marched to fight, as others run to play.
Like a young squire his knightly spurs to win.
And well he won them ; in the fever-swamp,
In fought en field, by trench and leaguered wall,
In the blank rounds of dull routine, that damp
Spirits of common temper more than all,
He trod slow steps but sure ; poor, without friends,
Winning no way, save by his sweat and blood;
Heart-sick too often, when from earned amends
He saw himself swept back by the cold flood,
Against which all must strive, who strive like him
By merit’s patient strength to win the goal,
Till many a swimmer’s eye grows glazed and dim.
And closes, ere the tide doth shoreward roll.
Stout heart, strong arm, and constant soul to aid,
He sickened not nor slackened, but swam on ;
Though o’er his head thick spread the chilling shade,
And oft, twixt seas, both shore and stars seemed gone.
Till the tide turned, and on the top of flood
The liigh-spent swimmer bore triumphant in;
And honours rained upon him, bought with blood,
And long deferred, but sweeter so to win.
And fame and name and wealth and rank were heaped
On the grey head that onoe had held them high ;
But w'eak t he arm which that late harvest reaped,
And all a knight’s work left him was to die.
Dead ! with his honours still in newest gloss,
Their gold in sorry contrast with his grey:
But by his life, not them,, we rate his loss.
And for sweet peace to his brave spirit pray.
No nobler soldier’s heart was ever laid
Into the silence of a trophied tomb;
There let him sleep—true gold and thrice assayed
By sword and fire and suffering— till the doom !