GORDON OF KHARTOUM.

Observer, Volume 7, Issue 229, 31 January 1885, Page 8

GORDON OF KHARTOUM.

(Writtjsx for the Observer.)

By W. R. Wills.

Over the desert waves of burning sands, We sent our Gordon to relieve a town, Amid the glitter of the crescent flag, And waving bannerettes of Oslam rule, And pageants of an eastern ting, rode he. And brave warriors of a dusky race Did worship him, and press around to kiss His hand ; for well they knew the master mind : The daring courage and the brave strong arm Would mle with justice, and would strike for right ; And streamers gay, and floral wreaths , they wove To do him honour. Then came disease and death, And foes advancing, like the locust swarm, Did ravage fields of corn, and famine dreai — Did, like the blackest night, encompass them ; And pestilence from far and near — and death. Like to a mighty whirlwind swept the town. Base hearts — and cruel were the foes — and friends Baser in soul, and rebel-hearted fiends, Who serve when skies are fair, and cringe and crawl Before the ruling majesty ot law. They, when finding easy chance of treason, Left the fell-stricken town and went, to join The rising fortune of a rebel kins. Red anarchy was rampart round about — Within the town an over-watchful eye : An iron mind did bear its sovereign sway ; The helpless widow and the famished babe Received from loving heart their share of corn, And water from sweet wells was measured out, In justice to the rich and poor alike ; And wild, savage, and resentful beings Bowed their touched hearts in love and gratitude Fo him, the reigning sjririt of my song.. High o'er the ramparts of Khartoum there wares The ensign of his rule, and day by day He beateth back the rebels from its walls, And brave hearts of the Nubian race are true, Yet day by day King Famine layeth low Some lion spirit, and the brave are few ; But fitiil our heart is hopeful over all, And oft he listens for the martial tread Of Britannia's sons hastening to his aid. And oft in fevered sleep his mind will roam To Britain's isles, and the mailed array, Of warriors stern, upon his rescue bent; And oft with beating heart in slumber deep, He hears the slogan of his clan. Oft he'll weep, ISTot for himself, but for the wasting forma Who crawl a living mass of death — for babes Who cling for life upon dead mothers' breasts — For mothers wailing o'er their starving babes, In their wild raving agony for bread. He strains his weary eyes o'er burning sands, And views the waving plumes and glittering steel, And banners fluttering, and his heart oft sinks At the false sporting of the mirage there. And oft, when aching heart and throbbing brow Did need their rest, the Arab's rebel horde Advanced against tne town ; then heavy eves Flashed the (taring chivalry of the chief, And traitors fall, and the victory's won By the true arm of Britain's peerless son. Far 'mid the burning glare of sun and sand, Relief moves on, o.'er desert, rock, and plain, Where never blade of grass or herb did grow, But fever and fell death lay heroes low, Oui 1 brave pres3 on. To-day, the rebel hordes Are driven back — to-night, they stand at bay ; To-morrow's sun shall glare, yet on and on They march, and fight, and conquer as they go j For well l.hey know an ever-sleepless eve Is watching their advance, and death and woe Still sends the quivering lance, and layeth low The thin ranks of the beleagured brave. And as our hosts march on, our hearts scarce beat ; Will they be late ? C-tia he, still brave, hold out, And keep at bay the rebel swarm ; whose force And d tiring numbers never grow the less? Or shall our banners wave above the dead And o'er the throbless heart of Britain's son Be draped in mourning for our peerless one ?

(To he continued.')