When Banners Are Waving

Here are poems of Valor, Fortitude, Fearlessness, Courage. Give yourself up to the martial swing of the verse, with its clang of armor, its champing of war-steed, its sound of pibroch, its blare of trumpet, fife, and drum, its dancing of plumes and glitter of helmets. Pray Heaven that the fighting be all in a good cause and that the tramp, tramp of soldierly feet be that of the armies of Right, for there is no resisting this spirit of daring and bearing when it is voiced so nobly.

"When cannon are roaring,
And hot bullets flying,

He that would honor win
Must not fear dying.”

Here are hymns in praise of famous battles that have changed the fate of nations; here, records of gallant deeds that make the blood leap in the veins. Into the Valley of Death rode the immortal Six Hundred, and into that same Valley plunged “furious Frank and fiery Hun," Scot, Turk, Greek, and the brave Huguenot charging at Ivry for the Golden Lilies of France.

Here are the songs of triumph, the loud hurrahs when the red field is won; here tales of glorious defeats and no less splendid failures; here, too, the dirge for the storied Brave, who lie at rest by all their Country's wishes blest.

The banners that once beckoned on the armed hosts are hanging to-day in dim cathedrals, tattered, faded, and torn; high-hung banners that with every" opened door seem the old wave of battle to remember." And as for the heroes who carried them, can we not say, as of Marco Bozzaris,

"For ye are Freedom's now, and Fame's,
Among the few, th' immortal names
That were not born to die."

XIV

WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING

When Banners Are Waving

WHEN banners are waving,
And lances a-pushing;
When captains are shouting,

And war-horses rushing;

When cannon are roaring,
And hot bullets flying,
He that would honour win,
Must not fear dying.

Though shafts fly so thick

That it seems to be snowing;
Though streamlets with blood

More than water are flowing;
Though with sabre and bullet
Our bravest are dying,
We speak of revenge, but
We ne'er speak of flying.

Come, stand to it, heroes!
The heathen are coming;

As flax touched by fire,

As hail in the river,

They were smote, they were fallen,

And had melted for ever.

When Banners

are

Waving

UNKNOWN.

Battle of the Baltic

Of Nelson and the north

Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold, determined hand,

And the prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line

It was ten of April morn by the chime.
As they drifted on their path

There was silence deep as death;

And the boldest held his breath

For a time.