WEBB

From domes and palaces I bent my way Where, like some Titan by Jove’s thunder marred, From the old battered portal-towers that guard The storied ruins of a glorious fray. In patient stillness house and bastion lay, As they had fallen; for the fight was hard That saw their walls by myriad bullets scarred, When those few steadfast warriors stood at bay. There, by the English tombs of those that fell In that fierce struggle ’twixt the East and West, A few green mounds are seen, where peaceful rest India’s brave sons who perished fighting well For England too. What heart its feud can keep Beside these graves where our dark comrades sleep? William Trego Webb.

Speak gently, gently tread, And breathe one sigh profound; In memory of the dead Each spot is holy ground. Theirs was no common doom, And some were young to die; Within this narrow tomb Women and infants lie. They drank the bitter cup Of fear and anguish deep, Ere they were rendered up To death’s unruffled sleep. Meek be our sorrow here, For them we could not save; And soft be Pity’s tear Above the children’s grave. Quenched here be passion’s heat, Let strife and vengeance cease; Within their garden sweet Leave them to rest in peace. For Nature hath made clean This place of human guilt; And now the turf is green Where English blood was spilt. Earth’s healing hand hath spread Her flowers about their tomb; Around the quiet dead Trees wave and roses bloom. Then lift not wrathful hands, But pass in silence by; Their carven Angel stands And watches where they lie. William Trego Webb.

The cool and pleasant days are past, The sun above the horizon towers; And Eastern Spring, arriving fast, Leads on too soon the sultry hours. From greener height the palm looks down; A livelier hue the peepuls share; And sunlit poinsianas crown With golden wreaths their branches bare. The ships that, by the river’s brim, At anchor, lift their shining sides Against the red sun’s westering rim, Swing to the wash of stronger tides. No insects hum in sylvan bower; In spectral Stillness stand the trees;— Come, blessing of our evening hour, Come forth and blow, sweet southern breeze! To us the ocean freshness lend Which from the wave thy breath receives; Ripple these glassy tanks and send A murmur through the silent leaves! See, blurred with amber haze, the sun ’Neath yon dim flats doth sink to rest; And tender thoughts, that homeward run, Move fondly with him to the west. They leave these hot and weary hours, The iron fate that girds us round, And wander ’mid the meadow flowers And breezy heights of English ground. The sun is set; we’ll dream no more; Vainly for us the vision smiles;— Why did we quit thy pleasant shore, Our happiest of the Happy Isles! William Trego Webb.