Early the trumpet wakes the slumbering clouds

That rest on Balaklava's mountain steep;

And, pealing through the hills and tented fields,

Rouses the warriors from their weary sleep.

'Tis late; and yet the misty curtain shrouds

The gathering foe within its dusky folds,

And from the searching eye their movements shields.

But hark! the cannon's roar re-echoes round,

And Russian horsemen in deep masses form,

Like threatening clouds; the Osman vanguards flee,

Nor dare to meet the dark impending storm.

But there! the bands of Scotia's sons are found,

With bayonets fix'd, and firmly-planted knee -

And wait, with calm resolve, the impetuous foe.

As the stern rocks, deep-rooted in their bed,

Withstand the mountain- stream by wintry torrents fed;

So these now stand: Onward the Muscoves dash -

But hark that volley! See: that steady flush -

Enough! they fly, with fearful overthrow.

But soon fresh legions of the CZAR appear

In denser masses, on the neighbouring height;

Instant, the British horsemen charge; nor fear

To mingle in the dread, unequal flat,

Down, down the slopes, they rush upon the foe,

And, swift as lightning, reach the plain below:

Fearful their flashing swords, their rattling arms,

Their horses' hoofs, like thunder on the ground.

They meet! they clash! and wild the uproar rose!

As when some mighty stream impetuous flows,

And rushes to the foaming deep profound.

So these: Now lost, amidst the maddening wave

Of warring men, their utmost fury brave.

Not lost! their lofty plumes once more appear:

Their crimson'd blades with crushing power hew down

Their unresisting foes, now smit with fear,

Nor yet unscathed the gallant band return:

SHORE and CLIFFORD, CAMPBELL, ELLIOTT and LATIMER, *

Heroes in whom the sacred fire did burn,

That freedom gives t'immortalise the brave;

And o'er their honour'd graves, without a tomb,

A lustre hangs, their names from death to save.

Meanwhile, along those dark and shadowy heights,

What moving forms are those attract my view?

On fiery steeds, with lofty mien, erect and stern

They ride, like heroes of a thousand fights,

Sped on some noble deed, intense they burn.

Each horseman like a giant seems;

Each helm assumes a golden hue:

Bright from their arms immortal radiance gleams;

Onward they rush, and like the bounding main,

Which 'gainst the rock-bound shore exults in vain -

*These were private soldiers killed in the charge.

____

So these, amidst the cannon's roar and murderous crash,

Booming afar, from mountain, hill, and dale -

As in Corpuba's [?] heights, the lightning's flash

Awakes the thunder's voice, which bellows round

Through all its hollow sides, and rocks the ground,

Re-echoing through the mountain's lofty range,

Filling the hearts of men with sudden fear,

As breaks the storm on the sequestered vale.

But these, no fear invades their breasts, no change

Of purpose: but, straight on they ride, and gain

The iron-bound barriers of the plain:

Now o'er the impending death their steeds they urge

And amidst crowds of helmed warriors alight;

Still onward dash [?], like an invading surge,

Till stayed by mounds of dead; they leave the fight;

In victory clad, their lofty forms emerge -

As when the hunters on the lion's track,

The dangerous covert of the forest shade

In safety clear: so these, now hastening back

To join their comrades, on the conquering field,

Waylaid, they meet fresh hordes of swarming foes,

Intent to check their bold retreating band:

The fight renew'd, with greater fury raged,

And still more dread the unearthly tumult rose;

Whilst struggling hand to hand, for life engaged,

They deal on every side, their death-charged blows,

But see the flame! Hark! - that hell-born sound;

On friends and foes the iron tempest pours

Its wrath; they fall before the infernal storm!

The mountains shake around, the rocks uptorn,

The sun grows dark, the face of Nature lowers,

And blackening corpses strew the weltering ground!

What boots to me thy stately halls

Sebastopol, with all thy boasted wealth;

Thy brazen towering forts - thy granite walls!

Thou art to me no better than a loathsome grave,

Abode of darkness, and of death!

O give me back the bravest f the brave,

The chief of England's proud army!

Ah! where is NOLAN? - where his brave occupiers [?]

All scathed and scatter'd, on the field they lay.

HALKET and HOUGHTON, FITZGIBBON, GOAD, and OLDHAM [?],

MONTGOMERY and THOMPSON, WHITE and CHARTERIS [?] -

England bewails her slain with bitterest tears.

Ah, LUCAN! sterner than high duty's call,

Why send the heroes forth against wall

Of brass, of flaming mouths, and balls of fire,

Ad armed men, in dread position placed?

And CARDIGAN, prince of the matchless hand,

Why lead them on, with reckless, proud desire,

To carry out the chieftain's high command?

Ah! stately victim's to earth's bitterest curse -

To War! offspring of Sin's malignant birth!

Dread judgment of sin-avenging GOD,

When He comes forth in wrath to shake the earth,

And strike the guilty nations with His rod!

Mourn for the mighty dead - the princely dead -

Who sleep on Balaklava's gory plain:

Which laid their lofty heads amongst the slain.

Ye matchless forms, brave hearts, and skilful hands,

[Several of the lines in the last page of the poem are unclear in my copy]

That yielded not the sword, the furbish'd sword in vain,

Ye princely few - ye the spirit-stirring bands,

Whose deeds have rival'd all the mighty past

Ah! did your hearts with Christian fervour burn?

In your esteem, was Christ the first and last?

Did you before his footstool bend, and learn

The lessons which His word alone can teach?

Did you repent - believe - your thoughts employ

On themes divine, and stretch your hands to reach

The victor's crown reserved in realms above?

Then, should our mournful strains be turned to joy,

And songs of triumph our rapt tongues employ.

MOCKLER! one tribute to thy sainted head!

GOD'S lowly priest amongst the warlike train;

'Twas thine to kneel beside the sick man's bed,

And soothe his conscience 'mid the throes of pain,

Point the repentant soldier to the LAMB of GOD,

And tell of peace through his atoning blood.

'Twas thine, midst military pomp, to trace

The humble story of MESSIAH's grace.

And to th' expiring warrior give

The blest assurance - he should ever live

By deeds not his, but wrought by Hands Divine,

And pledg'd in symbols of the Bread and Wine.

'Twas thine, where laid the brave their honour'd head,

Boldly to stand, and there inter the dead.

The work is done: on Balaklava's steep,

Thy labour's o'er, thou laid'st thee down to sleep

Till the last trumpet calls the martial dead,

And wakes thee, also, from thy peaceful bed.

Note in original:

Reverend George Mockler, MA, formerly Curate of Christ Church, Walney [?], who accompanied the Army as Chaplain. A Monument has been erected in his memory by the Parishioners in the above Church.