<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419094" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Uncle Ned’s Tales: How The Flag Was Saved</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">‘TWAS a dismal winter's evening, fast without came down the snow,<br>But within, the cheerful fire cast a ruddy, genial glow <br>O'er our pleasant little parlor, that was then my mother's pride. <br>There she sat beside the glowing grate, my sister by her side;<br>And beyond, within the shadow, in a cosy little nook <br>Uncle Ned and I were sitting, and in whispering tones we spoke.<br>I was asking for a story he had promised me to tell,— <br>Of his comrade, old Dick Hilton, how he fought and how he fell; <br>And with eager voice I pressed him, till a mighty final cloud <br>Blew he slowly, then upon his breast his grisly head he bowed, <br>And, musing, stroked his gray mustache ere he began to speak,<br>Then brushed a tear that stole along his bronzed and furrowed cheek. <br>'Ah, no! I will not speak to-night of that sad tale,' he cried, <br>'Some other time I'll tell you, boy, about that splendid ride.<br>Your words have set me thinking of the many careless years <br>That comrade rode beside me, and have caused these bitter tears; <br>For I loved him, boy,—for twenty years we galloped rein to rein,— <br>In peace and war, through all that time, stanch comrades had we been. <br>As boys we rode together when our soldiering first began. <br>And in all those years I knew him for a true and trusty man. <br>One who never swerved from danger,—for he knew not how to fear,— <br>If grim Death arrayed his legions, Dick would charge him with a cheer. <br>He was happiest in a struggle or a wild and dangerous ride: <br>Every inch a trooper was he, and he cared for naught beside.<br>He was known for many a gallant deed: to-night I'll tell you one,<br>And no braver feat of arms was by a soldier ever done. <br>'Twas when we were young and fearless, for 'twas in our first campaign, <br>When we galloped through the orange groves and fields of sunny Spain.<br>Our wary old commander was retiring from the foe, <br>Who came pressing close upon us, with a proud, exulting show. <br>We could hear their taunting laughter, and within our very sight <br>Did they ride defiant round us,—ay, and dared us to the fight. <br>But brave old Picton heeded not, but held his backward track,<br>And smiling said the day would come to pay the Frenchmen back. <br>And come it did: one morning, long before the break of day, <br>We were standing to our arms, all ready for the coming fray. <br>Soon the sun poured down his glory on the hostile lines arrayed, <br>And his beams went flashing brightly back from many a burnished blade, <br>Soon to change its spotless luster for a reeking crimson stain, <br>In some heart, then throbbing proudly, that will never throb again.<br>When that sun has reached his zenith, life and pride will then have fled, <br>And his beams will mock in splendor o'er the ghastly heaps of dead. <br>Oh, 'tis sad to think how many—but I wander, lad, I fear; <br>And, though the moral's good, I guess the tale you'd rather hear.<br>Well, I said that we were ready, and the foe was ready, too; <br>Soon the fight was raging fiercely,—thick and fast the bullets flew,<br>With a bitter hiss of malice, as if hungry for the life <br>To be torn from manly bosoms in the maddening heat of strife. <br>Distant batteries were thundering, pouring grape and shell like rain, <br>And the cruel missiles hurtled with their load of death and pain, <br>Which they carried, like fell demons, to the heart of some brigade, <br>Where the sudden, awful stillness told the havoc they had made. <br>Thus the struggle raged till noon, and neither side could vantage show; <br>Then the tide of battle turned, and swept in favor of the foe! <br>Fiercer still the cannon thundered,—wilder screamed the grape and shell,— <br>Onward pressed the French battalions,—back the British masses fell! <br>Then, as on its prey devoted, fierce the hungered vulture swoops, <br>Swung the foeman's charging squadrons down upon our broken troops. <br>Victory hovered o'er their standard,—on they swept with maddened shout, <br>Spreading death and havoc round them, till retreat was changed to rout! <br>'Twas a saddening sight to witness; and, when Picton saw them fly,<br>Grief and shame were mixed and burning in the old commander's eye.<br>We were riding in his escort, close behind him, on a height <br>Which the fatal field commanded; thence we viewed the growing flight.<br>'But, my lad, I now must tell you something more about that hill,<br>And I'll try to make you see the spot as I can see it still. <br>Bight before us, o'er the battle-field, the fall was sheer and steep; <br>On our left the ground fell sloping, in a pleasant, grassy sweep, <br>Where the aides went dashing swiftly, bearing orders to and fro, <br>For by that sloping side alone they reached the plain below. <br>On our right—now pay attention, boy—a yawning fissure lay, <br>As if an earthquake's shock had split the mountain's side away.<br>And in the dismal gulf, far down, we heard the angry roar <br>Of a foaming mountain torrent, that, mayhap, the cleft had wore, <br>As it rushed for countless ages through its black and secret lair; <br>But no matter how 'twas formed, my lad, the yawning gulf was there. <br>And from the farther side a stone projected o'er the gorge,— <br>'Twas strange to see the massive rock just balanced on the verge; <br>It seemed as if an eagle's weight the ponderous mass of stone <br>Would topple from its giddy height, and send it crashing down. <br>It stretched far o'er the dark abyss; but, though 'twere footing good, <br>'Twas twenty feet or more from off the side on which we stood. <br>Beyond the cleft a gentle slope went down and joined the plain,— <br>Now, lad, back to where we halted, and again resume the rein.<br>I said our troops were routed. Far and near they broke and fled, <br>The grape-shot tearing through them, leaving lanes of mangled dead. <br>All order lost, they left the fight,—they threw their arms away, <br>And joined in one wild panic rout,—ah! 'twas a bitter day!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But did I say that all was lost? Nay, one brave corps stood fast,<br>Determined they would never fly, but fight it to the last.<br>They barred the Frenchman from his prey, and his whole fury braved,—<br>One brief hour could they hold their ground, the army might be saved.<br>Fresh troops were hurrying to our aid,—we saw their glittering head,—<br>Ah, God! how those brave hearts were raked by the death-shower of lead!<br>But stand they did: they never flinched nor took one backward stride,<br>They sent their bayonets home, and then with stubborn courage died.<br>But few were left of that brave band when the dread hour had passed,<br>Still, faint and few, they held their flag above them to the last.<br>But now a cloud of horsemen, like a shadowy avalanche,<br>Sweeps down: as Picton sees them, e'en his cheek is seen to blanch.<br>They were not awed, that little band, but rallied once again,<br>And sent us back a farewell cheer. Then burst from reckless men<br>The anguished cry, ' God help them!' as we saw the feeble flash<br>Of their last defiant volley, when upon them with a crash<br>Burst the gleaming lines of riders,—one by one they disappear, <br>And the chargers' hoofs are trampling on the last of that brave square! <br>On swept the squadrons! Then we looked where last the band was seen: <br>A scarlet heap was all that marked the place where they had been! <br>Still forward spurred the horsemen, eager to complete the rout; <br>But our lines had been reformed now, and five thousand guns belched out <br>A reception to the squadrons,—rank on rank was piled that day <br>Every bullet hissed out ' Vengeance!' as it whistled on its way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And now it was, with maddened hearts, we saw a galling sight:<br>A French hussar was riding close beneath us on the right,— <br>He held a British standard! With insulting shout he stood, <br>And waved the flag,—its heavy folds drooped down with shame and blood,— <br>The blood of hearts unconquered: 'twas the flag of the stanch corps <br>That had fought to death beneath it,—it was heavy with their gore.<br>The foreign dog! I see him as he holds the standard down, <br>And makes his charger trample on its colors and its crown! <br>But his life soon paid the forfeit: with a cry of rage and pain,<br>Hilton dashes from the escort, like a tiger from his chain. <br>Nought he sees but that insulter; and he strikes his frightened horse<br>With his clenched hand, and spurs him, with a bitter-spoken curse,<br>Straight as bullet from a rifle—but, great Lord! he has not seen, <br>In his angry thirst for vengeance, the black gulf that lies between! <br>All our warning shouts unheeded, starkly on he headlong rides, <br>And lifts his horse, with bloody spurs deep buried in his sides.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">God's mercy! does he see the gulf? Ha! now his purpose dawns<br>Upon our minds, as nearer still the rocky fissure yawns:<br>Where from the farther side the stone leans o'er the stream beneath,<br>He means to take the awful leap! Cold horror checks our breath,<br>And still and mute we watch him now: he nears the fearful place;<br>We hear him shout to cheer the horse, and keep the headlong pace.<br>Then comes a rush,—short strides,—a blow!—the horse bounds wildly on,<br>Springs high in air o'er the abyss, and lands upon the stone!<br>It trembles, topples 'neath their weight! it sinks! ha! bravely done!<br>Another spring,—they gain the side,—the ponderous rock is gone<br>With crashing roar, a thousand feet, down to the flood below,<br>And Hilton, heedless of its noise, is riding at the foe!<br>'The Frenchman stared in wonder: he was brave, and would not run, <br>'Twould merit but a coward's brand to turn and fly from one. <br>But still he shuddered at the glance from 'neath that knitted brow:<br>He knew 'twould be a death fight, but there was no shrinking now.<br>He pressed his horse to meet the shock: straight at him Hilton made, <br>And as they closed the Frenchman's cut fell harmless on his blade; <br>But scarce a moment's time had passed ere, spurring from the field, <br>A troop of cuirassiers closed round and called on him to yield. <br>One glance of scorn he threw them,—all his answer in a frown,— <br>And riding at their leader with one sweep he cut him down;<br>Then aimed at him who held the flag a cut of crushing might, <br>And split him to the very chin!—a horrid, ghastly sight! <br>He seized the standard from his hand; but now the Frenchmen close,<br>And that stout soldier, all alone, fights with a hundred foes! <br>They cut and cursed,—a dozen swords were whistling round his head; <br>He could not guard on every side,—from fifty wounds he bled. <br>His saber crashed through helm and blade, as though it were a mace; <br>He cut their steel cuirasses and he slashed them o'er the face. <br>One tall dragoon closed on him, but he wheeled his horse around, <br>And cloven through the helmet went the trooper to the ground.<br>But his saber blade was broken by the fury of the blow, <br>And he hurled the useless, bloody hilt against the nearest foe; <br>Then furled the colors round the pole, and, like a leveled lance, <br>He charged with that red standard through the bravest troops of France!<br>His horse, as lion-hearted, scarcely needed to be urged, <br>And steed and rider bit the dust before him as he charged. <br>Straight on he rode, and down they went, till he had cleared the ranks, <br>Then once again he loosed the rein and struck his horse's flanks.<br>A cheer broke from the French dragoons,—a loud, admiring shout!—<br>As off he rode, and o'er him shook the tattered colors out. <br>Still might they ride him down: they scorned to fire or to pursue,— <br>Brave hearts! they cheered him to our lines,—their army cheering, too! <br>And we—what did we do? you ask. Well, boy, we did not cheer, <br>Nor not one sound of welcome reached our hero comrade's ear; <br>But, as he rode along the ranks, each soldier's head was bare,— <br>Our hearts were far too full for cheers,—we welcomed him with prayer. <br>Ah, boy, we loved that dear old flag!—ay, loved it so, we cried<br>Like children, as we saw it wave in all its tattered pride! <br>No, boy, no cheers to greet him, though he played a noble part,— <br>We only prayed 'God bless him!' but that prayer came from the heart.<br>He knew we loved him for it,—he could see it in our tears,— <br>And such silent earnest love as that is better, boy, than cheers. <br>Next day we fought the Frenchman, and we drove him back, of course, <br>Though we lost some goodly soldiers, and old Picton lost a horse. <br>But there I've said enough: your mother's warning finger shook,— <br>Mind, never be a soldier, boy!—now let me have a smoke.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Boyle+O%27Reilly">John Boyle O'Reilly</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419094" data-title="Uncle Ned’s Tales: How The Flag Was Saved de John Boyle O'Reilly" data-description="‘TWAS a dismal winter's evening, fast without came down the snow, But within, the cheerful fire cast a ruddy, genial glow O'er our pleasant little parlor, that was then my mother's pride. There she sat beside the glowing grate, my sister by he..."></div> </div> </div>

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