We gathered round the tent-fire in the evening cold and gray,
And thought of those who ranked with us in battle's rough array,
Our comrades of the morn who came no more from that fell fray!
The salt tears wrung out in the gloom of green dells far away--
The eyes of lurking Death that in Life's crimson bubbles play--
The stern white faces of the dead that on the dark ground lay
Like statues of old heroes, cut in precious human clay--
Some with a smile as life had stopped to music proudly gay--
The household gods of many a heart all dark and dumb to-day!
And hard hot eyes grew ripe for tears, and hearts sank down to pray.
From alien lands, and dungeon-grates, how eyes will strain to mark
This waving Sword of Freedom burn and beckon through the dark!
The martyrs stir in their red graves, the rusted armour rings
Adown the long aisles of the dead, where lie the warrior kings.
To the proud Mother England came the radiant victory
With laurels red, and a bitter cup like some last agony.
She took the cup, she drank it up, she raised her laurelled brow:
Her sorrow seemed like solemn joy, she looked so noble now.
The dim divine of distance died--the purpled past grew wan,
As came that crowning glory o'er the heights of Inkerman.
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