Wrench'd at their feet in mutilation dire;
Where frenzied mothers with despairing eye
Beheld their babes in torture's agony;
Where foul barbarian's rage unsated preyed
On noble matron and on spotless maid,
Shower'd on their outraged form his dastard blows,
Till death or madness came the fearful scene to close.
Now from the Cashmere gate in headlong rout
Pale bands of fugitives were hurrying out;
What 'vailed the chariot, what the steed to save
From mounted trooper's freshly-reeking glaive?
'Twas hot pursuit through all the livelong night,
And few that reach'd KURNAUL with morning's light.
Ah! wretched they that fled the wild turmoil
To dare on foot the journey's weary toil;
To force their way through jungle close and deep,
To swim the stream, or climb the craggy steep;
Now cowering hidden in some lonely spot,
Now trusting desperate to the Brahmin's cot,
Fever'd with thirst, and dulled by sleepless hours,
Parch'd by the sun, or drench'd in pelting showers,
Some the fierce vengeance of the traitor crew
On safety's very threshold seized and slew:
Some yet survived their haven late to find,
Yet told the shatter'd frame, the wandering mind,
Tale of a speechless woe they scarce had left behind.
But not unscath'd the fiends their ruin wrought,
And eager vengeance gladdens at the thought;
While grateful Britain with a tear-dimm'd eye,
Points to the name of glorious WILLOUGHBY!
Yes! when with hundreds pouring on the front
Those gallant few no more could bear the brunt,
When o'er the bastion hosts unnumber'd pour'd
To grasp the ammunition's priceless hoard;
Maim'd by the deadly fire, no succour nigh,
The young lieutenant rushed to do or die.
Quick on the train the fatal spark he flung-
A moment's awful pause-the mine was sprung.
Dash'd into air a mass of quivering frames,
Burst from upriven walls the roaring flames,
On blacken'd earth five hundred corpses lay,
And those that struck the blow, oh! where were they?
Forth from the sally-port on JUMNAH'S wave
Their bloody path the brave defenders clave:
But ah! young hero, what a fate was thine,
Escaped the foeman's steel, the bursting mine,
By village boors to fall ignobly slain
Where churlish staves thy generous life-blood drain!
Peace to thine ashes! save the tear of woe
Nought can a mourning country now bestow;
Deep is thy slumber in the desert's gloom,
No laurel chaplet on thy nameless tomb.
Drop we the curtain for a little space
To veil from sight the crime-polluted place,
Nor let it rise till burning hearts descry
The last dark scene of hideous tragedy.
What need to tell how rebels basely bold
Robb'd the grey monarch of his hoarded gold,
His feeble nature to rebellion wrought,
His sceptre scoffed, his honour held at nought,
Tore the weak princes from their couch of down,
To man the batteries of their leaguer'd town,
Plac'd them dismay'd in danger's foremost post,
The trembling leaders of a coward host;
How wild exulting in their licence new
Plunder and riot raged the city through:
Aye, when the widening breach, the shatter'd wall,
Bore dreary token of th' approaching fall;
And stern avengers on the plain array'd,
Athirst for conflict, grasp'd the sheathless blade.
Lo! Retribution's hour at length is near,
Mark yon assaulting columns' swift career!
The flag of Britain rushing in the van,
The flaunting turban of the bold Affghan,
The desperate Sikh, sworn foe to base Hindoo,
The sturdy Ghoorka, truest of the true.
On, on they charge-a triple-edged attack-
What rebel fire can drive th' invaders back?
What though your tenfold numbers guard the breach?
Ye stand as dogs within the lion's reach.
"Our wives, our infants," rings the battle-cry,
And fierce the answer in each flashing eye;
The Cashmere bastion yields: oh! bravely done!
One struggle more-the Water fort is won:
Another blow will seal the work of fate:
A HOME! a SALKELD! for the Cashmere gate.
Twice a bold hand advanced to fire the train,
Twice the foe's bullet laid a hero slain,
A third has dash'd the moment's lull to snatch,
He holds the gate, he turns the blazing match-
'Mid smoke, and dust, and cinders' burning showers
Explosion's roar proclaims the day is ours.
Up through the breach th' exulting victors bound,
The rebels break, yet fight each foot of ground;
Twice rose the sun and twice he veil'd his rays
Ere golden victory perfect wreath'd her bays;
The wretched monarch for his snowy hairs
And weight of years the pitying conqu'ror spares;
Not so his worthless offspring dragg'd to light
Meet there the death they aye had shunn'd in fight,
Their headless corpses toss'd to foul disgrace,
So fall the last of TIMOUR'S haughty race.
Dewan-i-Khas' display thy glories now!
Boast of the proud Mogul, ah! where art thou?
Are these the scenes that rang with feast and mirth?
Is this the one true Paradise of earth?
Fate's finger writes upon thy marble wall;
Dishonour taints thy erst resplendent Hall;
There the Feringhi, glowing from the fight,
Raised to his lip the goblet ruby bright,
Drank to his Queen and bless'd her sovereign name,
While thousand voices shouted loud acclaim.
Soon, soon for thee will traveller toiling by,
With gentle Sadi, heave a thoughtful sigh,
"The spider weaves within the Cæsars' bowers,
The owl is sentry on Afrasiab's towers!"
Peace to our heroes sunk in honoured rest!
They live for ever in their Country's breast.
Our tears for woman in her early grave;
The lash, the halter for a rebel slave!
And ye whose care might yet have saved the blow,
Whose reckless folly wrought our overthrow,
Who scorned the warning of the brave and wise,
And mock'd their truths with empty sophistries,
Left to a ruffian mercenary band,
These dearest treasures of our English land—
Enough! it is not ours to strike or spare:
God in his mercy judge ye as ye are!
Enough methinks for ye to see and feel
The thousand pangs ye gave-ye gave, and cannot heal.
1 The Palace of Timour was so called, and had for its motto:
"If Paradise be on the face of earth,
Here it is, here it is, here it is."
In the hall of this palace was held the banquet after the storming of the city.
GUL. J. HOPE-EDWARDES,
COLL. SS. TRIN. SCHOL.
|