Poems (Craik)/By the Alma River

by Dinah Maria Craik

BY THE ALMA RIVER.

ILLIE, fold your little hands;
   Let it drop, that "soldier" toy:
 Look where father's picture stands,—
   Father, who here kissed his boy
 Not two months since,—father kind,
 Who this night may—Never mind
 Mother's sob, my Willie dear,
 Call aloud that He may hear
 Who is God of battles, say,
 "O, keep father safe this day
   By the Alma river."

 Ask no more, child. Never heed
   Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk,
 Right of nations or of creed,
   Chance-poised victory's bloody work:
 Any flag i' the wind may roll
 On thy heights, Sebastopol;
 Willie, all to you and me
 Is that spot, where'er it be,
Where he stands—no other word!
Stands—God sure the child's prayer heard—
   By the Alma river.

 Willie, listen to the bells
   Ringing through the town to-day.
 That 's for victory. Ah, no knells
   For the many swept away,—
 Hundreds—thousands! Let us weep,
 We who need not,—just to keep
 Reason steady in my brain
 Till the morning comes again,
 Till the third dread morning tell
 Who they were that fought and fell
   By the Alma river.

 Come, we 'll lay us down, my child,
   Poor the bed is, poor and hard;
 Yet thy father, far exiled,
   Sleeps upon the open sward,
 Dreaming of us two at home:
 Or beneath the starry dome
 Digs out trenches in the dark,
 Where he buries—Willie, mark—
 Where he buries those who died
 Fighting bravely at his side
   By the Alma river.

 Willie, Willie, go to sleep,
   God will keep us, my boy;
 He will make the dull hours creep
   Faster, and send news of joy,
 When I need not shrink to meet
 Those dread placards in the street,
 Which for weeks will ghastly stare
 In some eyes—Child, say thy prayer
 Once again; a different one:
 Say, "O God, Thy will be done
   By the Alma river."