| p. 637mercy from the maddened & infuriated
watcher hands they
had fallen in England
[clippings from Punch pasted over pencil text]
PUNCH,
[August 29, 1863.
Colin Campell, Lord Clyde.
Died, Friday, August 14,
Buried, Saturday, August 22, 1863.
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 OUTRAM slept;
Lingering as if reluctant to withdraw
From that grave-side, where sun-bronzed soldiers wept.
The thought filled many minds, is he 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 rand so true.
The tartaned 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 mother o'ers 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 won them ; in the fever-swamp,
In foughten field, by trench and leaguered wall,
[pencil text]
a Swan spreading her plumage as
she goes. at last She leaves the river the
passengers Crowd the decks & take a last
look of their beloved. land gradually the
outline of the white cliffs of old England
| p. 637mercy from the maddened & infuriated
watcher hands they
had fallen in England
[clippings from Punch pasted over pencil text]
PUNCH,
[August 29, 1863.
Colin Campell, Lord Clyde.
Died, Friday, August 14,
Buried, Saturday, August 22, 1863.
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 OUTRAM slept;
Lingering as if reluctant to withdraw
From that grave-side, where sun-bronzed soldiers wept.
The thought filled many minds, is he 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 rand so true.
The tartaned 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 mother o'ers 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 won them ; in the fever-swamp,
In foughten field, by trench and leaguered wall,
[pencil text]
a Swan spreading her plumage as
she goes. at last She leaves the river the
passengers Crowd the decks & take a last
look of their beloved. land gradually the
outline of the white cliffs of old England
|
EN