(August 1813)

         WITH THOUGHTS OF SERGEANT M— (PENSIONER), WHO DIED 185–.

   “WHY, Sergeant, stray on the Ivel Way,
   As though at home there were spectres rife?
   From first to last ’twas a proud career!
   And your sunny years with a gracious wife
      Have brought you a daughter dear.

   “I watched her to-day; a more comely maid,
   As she danced in her muslin bowed with blue,
   Round a Hintock maypole never gayed.”
   —“Aye, aye; I watched her this day, too,
      As it happens,” the Sergeant said.

   “My daughter is now,” he again began,
   “Of just such an age as one I knew
   When we of the Line and Forlorn-hope van,
   On an August morning—a chosen few—
      Stormed San Sebastian.

   “She’s a score less three; so about was she—
   The maiden I wronged in Peninsular days . . .
   You may prate of your prowess in lusty times,
   But as years gnaw inward you blink your bays,
      And see too well your crimes!

   “We’d stormed it at night, by the vlanker-light
   Of burning towers, and the mortar’s boom:
   We’d topped the breach; but had failed to stay,
   For our files were misled by the baffling gloom;
      And we said we’d storm by day.

                      [Picture: Sketch of mountain]

   “So, out of the trenches, with features set,
   On that hot, still morning, in measured pace,
   Our column climbed; climbed higher yet,
   Past the fauss’bray, scarp, up the curtain-face,
      And along the parapet.

   “From the battened hornwork the cannoneers
   Hove crashing balls of iron fire;
   On the shaking gap mount the volunteers
   In files, and as they mount expire
      Amid curses, groans, and cheers.

   “Five hours did we storm, five hours re-form,
   As Death cooled those hot blood pricked on;
   Till our cause was helped by a woe within:
   They swayed from the summit we’d leapt upon,
      And madly we entered in.

   “On end for plunder, ’mid rain and thunder
   That burst with the lull of our cannonade,
   We vamped the streets in the stifling air—
   Our hunger unsoothed, our thirst unstayed—
      And ransacked the buildings there.

   “Down the stony steps of the house-fronts white
   We rolled rich puncheons of Spanish grape,
   Till at length, with the fire of the wine alight,
   I saw at a doorway a fair fresh shape—
      A woman, a sylph, or sprite.

   “Afeard she fled, and with heated head
   I pursued to the chamber she called her own;
   —When might is right no qualms deter,
   And having her helpless and alone
      I wreaked my will on her.

   “She raised her beseeching eyes to me,
   And I heard the words of prayer she sent
   In her own soft language . . . Seemingly
   I copied those eyes for my punishment
      In begetting the girl you see!

   “So, to-day I stand with a God-set brand
   Like Cain’s, when he wandered from kindred’s ken . . .
   I served through the war that made Europe free;
   I wived me in peace-year.  But, hid from men,
      I bear that mark on me.

   “And I nightly stray on the Ivel Way
   As though at home there were spectres rife;
   I delight me not in my proud career;
   And ’tis coals of fire that a gracious wife
      Should have brought me a daughter dear!”

How long shall I tarnish the mirror of life,
A spatter of rust on its polished steel!
 The seasons reel
 Like a goaded wheel.
Half-numb, half-maddened, my days are strife.

The night is sliding towards the dawn,
And upturned hills crouch at autumn's knees.
 A torn moon flees
 Through the hemlock trees,
The hours have gnawed it to feed their spawn.

Pursuing and jeering the misshapen thing
A rabble of clouds flares out of the east.
 Like dogs unleashed
 After a beast,
They stream on the sky, an outflung string.

A desolate wind, through the unpeopled dark,
Shakes the bushes and whistles through empty nests,
 And the fierce unrests
 I keep as guests
Crowd my brain with corpses, pallid and stark.

Leave me in peace, O Spectres, who haunt
My labouring mind, I have fought and failed.
 I have not quailed,
 I was all unmailed
And naked I strove, 'tis my only vaunt.

The moon drops into the silver day
As waking out of her swoon she comes.
 I hear the drums
 Of millenniums
Beating the mornings I still must stay.

The years I must watch go in and out,
While I build with water, and dig in air,
 And the trumpets blare
 Hollow despair,
The shuddering trumpets of utter rout.

An atom tossed in a chaos made
Of yeasting worlds, which bubble and foam.
 Whence have I come?
 What would be home?
I hear no answer.  I am afraid!

I crave to be lost like a wind-blown flame.
Pushed into nothingness by a breath,
 And quench in a wreath
 Of engulfing death
This fight for a God, or this devil's game.