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Poem by Henry Newbolt


"The sleep that Tippoo Sahib sleeps
  Heeds not the cry of man;
The faith that Tippoo Sahib keeps
  No judge on earth may scan;
He is the lord of whom ye hold
  Spirit and sense and limb,
Fetter and chain are all ye gain
  Who dared to plead with him."

Baird was bonny and Baird was young,
  His heart was strong as steel,
But life and death in the balance hung,
  For his wounds were ill to heal.
"Of fifty chains the Sultan gave
  We have filled but forty-nine:
We dare not fail of the perfect tale
  For all Golconda's mine."

That was the hour when Lucas first
  Leapt to his long renown;
Like summer rains his anger burst,
  And swept their scruples down.
"Tell ye the lord to whom ye crouch,
  His fetters bite their fill:
To save your oath I'll wear them both,
  And step the lighter still."

The seasons came, the seasons passed,
  They watched their fellows die;
But still their thought was forward cast,
  Their courage still was high.
Through tortured days and fevered nights
  Their limbs alone were weak,
And year by year they kept their cheer,
  And spoke as freemen speak.

But once a year, on the fourth of June,
  Their speech to silence died,
And the silence beat to a soundless tune
  And sang with a wordless pride;
Till when the Indian stars were bright,
  And bells at home would ring,
To the fetters' clank they rose and drank
  "England! God save the King!"

The years came, and the years went,
  The wheel full-circle rolled;
The tyrant's neck must yet be bent,
  The price of blood be told:
The city yet must hear the roar
  Of Baird's avenging guns,
And see him stand with lifted hand
  By Tippoo Sahib's sons.

The lads were bonny, the lads were young,
  But he claimed a pitiless debt;
Life and death in the balance hung,
  They watched it swing and set.
They saw him search with sombre eyes,
  They knew the place he sought;
They saw him feel for the hilted steel,
  They bowed before his thought.

But he--he saw the prison there
  In the old quivering heat,
Where merry hearts had met despair
  And died without defeat;
Where feeble hands had raised the cup
  For feebler lips to drain,
And one had worn with smiling scorn
  His double load of pain.

"The sleep that Tippoo Sahib sleeps
  Hears not the voice of man;
The faith that Tippoo Sahib keeps
  No earthly judge may scan;
For all the wrong your father wrought
  Your father's sons are free;
Where Lucas lay no tongue shall say
  That Mercy bound not me."

Henry Newbolt

Henry Newbolt's other poems:
  1. The Quarter-Gunner's Yarn
  2. The Non-Combatant
  3. Northumberland
  4. Waggon Hill
  5. Hawke

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