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TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN ARTHUR WATKIN WILLIAMS WYNN, WHO FELL AT ALMA, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: When from grim alma's blood-stained height
Last Line: "among the free born dead -- they found him."
Subject(s): Alma, Battle Of The (1854); Crimean War (1853-1856); Soldiers


WHEN from grim Alma's blood-stained height,
There came the sound of woe,
And in thy first and latest fight
That noble head was low;
As those who loved and trembled knew
That all their darkest fears were true;
Each fond heart, clinging to the dead,
Felt fiery thirst within it burn --
A restless, throbbing hope to learn
How in those hours, each gloomy thread
Of waning life was spun.
And yearnings from thine English home
Bounded across the ocean foam: --
"Where did ye find my son?"
The answer, from that fatal ground,
Came pealing with a trumpet sound,
"Close to the Russian gun,
"With many a gallant friend around him,
"In one proud death -- 'twas thus we found him.

"He lay, where dense the war-cloud hung,
"Where corpse on corpse was thickest flung --
"Just as a British soldier should;
"The sword he drew,
"Still pointing true
"To where the boldest foeman stood.
"His look, though soft, was calm and high;
"His face was gazing on the sky,
"As if he said, 'Man cannot die,
"Though all below be done.'
"Thus was it that we saw him lie,
"Beneath the Russian gun."
Right up the hill our columns sped,
No hurrying in their earnest tread;
The iron thunder broke in storms,
Again, and yet again --
On their firm ranks, and stately forms,
It did but break in vain;
Though all untrained by war to bear
The battle's deadly brunt,
The ancient heart of Wales was there,
Still rushing to the front.
Their blood flowed fast along those steeps,
But the proud goal was won,
And the moon shone on silent heaps,
Beyond the Russian gun.
For there, with friends he loved around him,
Among the foremost dead -- they found him.

Oh, there are bitter tears for thee,
Young sleeper by the Eastern sea,
Grief that thy glory cannot tame;
It will not cease to ache,
And anguish beyond any name,
In hearts that fain would break;
Still, thy brave bearing on that day
Lends to those mourners strength to say,
"Thy will, O God, be done.
"We bow before Thy living throne,
"And thank Thee for the mercy shown,
"Even when Thy summons dread was thrown
"Forth from the Russian gun."
No agony that gasps for breath
Lengthened his hopeless hours of death,
No quenchless longing woke in vain
For those he ne'er could see again.
By noble thoughts and hopes befriended,
By Honor to the last attended,
His haughty step the hill ascended;
At once -- his hand and brain reposed,
At once -- his dauntless life was closed;
One mystic whirl of mighty change --
One sea-like rush of blackness strange --
And all the roaring tumult dim
Was cold, and dark, and still, for him,
Pain cannot rack, nor fever parch,
Now that his course is run,
And ended that majestic march
Up to the Russian gun;
For there, with friends he loved around him,
Serene as sleep -- they sought and found him.

And still for ever fresh and young,
His honored memory shall shine,
A light that never sets, among
The trophies of his ancient line.
Yea, though the sword may seem to kill,
Each noble name is living still,
A ray of Glory's sun.
And many a child, remembering well
How by sad Alma's stream he fell,
His tale with boyish pride shall tell,
"I bear the name of one
"Who, in that first great fight of ours
"Against the tyrant's servile powers,
"Upon the red Crimean sod
"Went down for liberty and God,
"Close to the Russian gun;
"For there, with friends he loved around him,
"Among the free born dead -- they found him."





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