THE SONG OF THE CAMP. BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
Reading edition
Bayard Taylor was born in Pennsylvania in 1825. He was connected with the New York Tribune 1849–’50. Most of his life was spent in travel. In 1853 he joined Perry’s expedition to Japan. He corresponded with the American papers, and on his return to this country he lectured. From 1862–’63 he lived at St. Petersburg as Secretary of the Legation there. He died in Berlin, where he was United States Minister, in 1878. He has written of his travels, has translated Goethe’s “Faust,” and was besides a poet and novelist.
“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay grim and threatening under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belch’d its thunder.
There was a pause. A guardsman said: “We storm the forts tomorrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.”
They lay along the battery’s side, Below the smoking cannon; Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love and not of fame; Forgot was Britain’s glory; Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang “Annie Laurie.”
Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong— Their battle-eve confession.
Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier’s cheek Washed off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset’s embers, While the Crimean valleys learn’d How English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hell Rain’d on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!
An Irish Nora’s eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory; An English Mary mourns for him Who sang of “Annie Laurie.”
Sleep, soldiers! still in honor’d rest Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest— The loving are the daring.