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| BRIGHTLY, briskly runs the Alma, cold and green from mountain snow; | |
| Pleasant shade along its borders oak and plane and walnut throw, | |
| Where the Tartar shepherd shelters with his flock from noontide heat, | |
| In a silence only broken by the browsing goat’s faint bleat. | |
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| From the huts beneath the hillsides Tartar women to the brink | 5 |
| Shyly come to fill their pitchers, or drive down the cows to drink. | |
| All is calm and peace and plenty: over all—a form of awe!— | |
| Sleeps in light the snow-spread table of the mighty Tschatyr-Dagh. | |
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| On the northern bank the copses flush with autumn red and gold; | |
| On the southern bank the margin shows a cliff-line bare and bold. | 10 |
| You may cross the stream in spring-time, nor be wet above the knee, | |
| But when summer melts the snow-wreaths, who would ford it stout must be. | |
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| On the twentieth of September—they had marched from early morn— | |
| As our armies neared the Alma they were weary men and worn; | |
| But the heaviest tread grew springy, strength was in the weakest hand, | 15 |
| As the word “Halt! Form!” was given, for they knew the Russ at hand. | |
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| There along the southern heights in intrenchments lay the foe, | |
| With his batteries in position,—sevenscore great guns, levelled low. | |
| There was little time to count them ere their roar the silence woke, | |
| And the dell has grown a hell,—all fire and sulphurous smoke. | 20 |
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| Now Zouaves and Tirailleurs!—now Rifles and Chasseurs! | |
| Scatter wide, finding shelter where you can; | |
| Fire steadily and slow, till the distant foemen know | |
| That every Minié bullet has its man! | |
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| See! they crouch, with well-filled pouch, firm hand, and murderous aim: | 25 |
| Every bush, a puff of smoke; every stone, a jet of flame; | |
| And behind their covering shot, at a steady, swinging trot, | |
| Downward pours, to the shores, the Allies’ van! | |
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| Again—again—again those batteries’ iron rain, | |
| And thick, alas! our gallant fellows fall: | 30 |
| For the river it is deep, and the banks they are steep, | |
| And the heights there beyond are like a wall. | |
| But a lusty British cheer, and a thundering British charge, | |
| And the foremost are already in the flood, | |
| Though the great guns ever roar, down upon them from the shore, | 35 |
| And the water that was green turns to blood! | |
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| Through the shallows, in the deeps, o’er the bowlders, up the steeps, | |
| British, French, and Turk, eager for the work, | |
| Are floundering and clambering and rushing with mad leaps— | |
| On again—on amain,—some are left, though many die,— | 40 |
| Your powder may be damp, but your bayonets are dry: | |
| Let it come but to the steel, and the Muscovite shall feel | |
| With what men he his prowess hath to try! | |
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| Hark to those ringing cheers! ’T is the bold Welsh Fusileers! | |
| Ever foremost where there ’s work to be done: | 45 |
| They ’ve won footing on the bank,—they are closing rank on rank, | |
| Scores of dying, but of flying never one! | |
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| Now, fiery Celtic blood, to our French allies make good | |
| The credit of the lineage that you share! | |
| They have gained the heights’ bald crown! Now they stagger,—now they ’re down! | 50 |
| But, hark! another cheer, and the gallant Guards are near! | |
| And with glorious tartans streaming, and Highland bagpipes screaming, | |
| The Black-Watch to the rescue appear! | |
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| At length the crest is won! Stab the gunner at his gun! | |
| Ere to take up new ground the batteries wheel; | 55 |
| On, Britons, Turks, and French, o’er redoubt and over trench, | |
| Surge on like a wave of flashing steel!— | |
| Lo, they waver! lo, they shake! lo, their line begins to break! | |
| With the tramp of flying men, flying horses, earth doth quake. | |
| You have fought a desperate fight, you have crushed a giant might, | 60 |
| And four hours ere the setting of the sun, | |
| The triple flags wave high, bullet-rent, against the sky, | |
| And the Battle of the Alma hath been won! | |
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