But knew that never, never with their peers, They should salute some grand day’s glorious close, The shout of triumph ringing in their ears, The light of battle shining on their brows. Sad doom;--yet say not Heaven to them assigned A lot from all of glory quite estranged: Albeit the laurel which they hoped to bind About their brows for cypress wreath was changed. Heaven gave to them a glory stern, austere, A glory of all earthly glory shorn; With firm heart to accept fate’s gift severe, Bravely to bear the thing that must be borne; To see such visions fade and turn to nought, And in this saddest issue to consent; If only the great work were duly wrought, That others should accomplish it, content. Then as thou wouldst thyself continue great, Keep a true eye for what is great indeed; Nor know it only in its lofty state And victor’s robes, but in its lowliest weed. And now, and when this dreadful work is done, England, be these too thy delight and pride; Wear them as near thy heart as any one Of all who conquering lived, or conquering died. _Richard Chenevix Trench._ BROWNING LIX THE FORCED RECRUIT (_Solferino, 1859_) In the ranks of the Austrian you found him, He died with his face to you all; Yet bury him here where around him You honour your bravest that fall. Venetian, fair-featured and slender, He lies shot to death in his youth, With a smile on his lips over-tender For any mere soldier’s dead mouth. No stranger, and yet not a traitor, Though alien the cloth on his breast, Underneath it how seldom a greater Young heart has a shot sent to rest! By your enemy tortured and goaded To march with them, stand in their file, His musket (see) never was loaded, He facing your guns with that smile! As orphans yearn on to their mothers, He yearned to your patriot bands;-- Let me die for our Italy, brothers, If not in your ranks, by your hands! ‘Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me A ball in the body which may Deliver my heart here, and tear me This badge of the Austrian away!’ So thought he, so died he this morning. What then? Many others have died. Ay, but easy for men to die scorning The death-stroke, who fought side by side-- One tricolor floating above them; Struck down ’mid triumphant acclaims Of an Italy rescued to love them And blazen the brass with their names. But he,--without witness or honour, Mixed, shamed in his country’s regard, With the tyrants who march in upon her, Died faithful and passive: ’twas hard. ’Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction Cut off from the guerdon of sons, With most filial obedience, conviction, His soul kissed the lips of her guns.