“Yet spite of this, was India made As for a kingly throne; There gold is plentiful as dust, As sand the diamond stone; “And like a temple is each house, Silk-curtained from the sun; And every man has twenty slaves, Who at his bidding run. “He rides on the lordly elephant, In solemn pomp;--and there They hunt the gold-striped tiger, As here they hunt the hare. “Yet it is a dreadful clime! and we Up in the country far Were sent,--we were two thousand men, In a disastrous war. “The soldiers died in the companies As if the plague had been; And soon in every twenty men, The dead were seventeen. “We went to storm a fort of mud-- And yet the place was strong-- Three thousand men were guarding it, And they had kept it long. “We were in all three hundred souls, Feeble and worn and wan; Like walking spectres of the tomb, Was every living man. “Yet Arthur Bruce, now standing there, With the ensign of his band, Reminds me of a gallant youth, Who fought at my right hand. “Scarce five and twenty years of age, And feeble as the rest, Yet with the bearing of a king, That noble soul expressed. “But a silent grief was in his eye, And oft his noble frame Shook like a quivering aspen leaf, And his colour went and came. “He marched by my side for seven days, Most patient of our band; And night and day he ever kept Our standard in his hand. “They fought with us like tigers, Before that fort of mud; And all around the burning sands Were as a marsh with blood. “We watched that young man,--he to us Was as a kindling hope; We saw him pressing on and on, Bearing the standard up. “At length it for a moment veered-- A ball had struck his hand, But he seized the banner with his left, Without a moment’s stand. “He mounted upward to the wall; He waved the standard high,-- But then another smote him!-- And the captain standing by “Said, ‘Of this gallant youth take care, He hath won for us the day!’ I and my comrades took him up, And bore him thence away. “There was no tree about the place, So ’neath the fortress shade We carried him, and carefully Upon the red sand laid. “I took the feather from my cap, To fan his burning cheek; I gave him water, drop by drop, And prayed that he would speak. “At length he said, ‘mine hour is come! My soldier-name is bright; But a pang there is within my soul, That hath wrung me day and night: “‘I left my mother’s home without Her blessing;--she doth mourn, Doth weep for me with bitter tears,-- I never can return!