Round the Bivouac Fire - poem for recitation - 1885

Another poem from Samuel K. Cowan. Once more with themes of warfare. This one shows an inward struggle, a warrior who recruits God, is eager to give God credit for the bloody mess they have made, yet an awareness that the same God would rather be known as the God of Peace.

This poem was published in at least ten newspapers in the first half of 1885.

Round the Bivouac Fire.

(Poem for Recitation.)

Round the bivouac fire, at midnight, lay the weary warrior-band;
Bloody were their spears with slaughter: gory was each hero's hand :
For the ghastly fight was ended : from each soul a whisper came :
"God of Battles! we have triumphed: hallowed be Thy Mighty Name!"  

It was beautiful, at midnight, when the bloody war was done,
When the battle clashed no longer, and no longer blazed the sun,
Calmly, in the balmy starlight, to repose out wearied limbs,
Not a sound to stir the stillness, save the sound of holy hymns: 

"Thou hast given us the glory: Thou hast cast our foes to shame!
God of Battles! we have triumphed: hallowed be Thy mighty name!
Thou hast given us the glory: Thou hast bade our troubles cease:
Thou art great as God of Battles: Thou art best as God of Peace!"

Peaceful was the world around them: in the peaceful summer skies
Watched the sentry stars above them, like the host of angel-eyes :
Shone the sentinel stars in splendour on each slumbering hero's head,
And the moonlight gleamed in glory on the dying and the dead.

Rosily wore the night to morning: cheerily, at their heart's desire,
Sang the soldiers songs of triumph, round the ruddy bivouac fire:
Flushed their faces were with glory: strong were they, and brave, and tall:
But the tender tears of childhood bathed the bravest face of all!

Pensive, by the gleaming firelight, mute the lonely warrior stood:
In his hand a paper grasped he, scrawled with letters, large and crude:
In his gory hands he grasped it; and the tender childly tear,
From his manly bosom welling, bathed the blood upon his spear!

Silent wore the night to morning: silent, at their heart's desire,
Watching lay the weary warriors, round the gleaming bivouac fire:
"What's the news from England, comrade! What's the sorry news for thee,
From the friends we left behind us, and our home beyond the sea?"

Then the gory paper sped he, scrawled with letters, crude and wild:
"Little news from England, comrades: 'tis a letter from my child."
"From our merry babes in England, welcome is the news!" they said:
And the soldiers lay in silence, while the warrior rose and read :

"Little brother died at Christmas: mother told me not to tell;
But I think it better, father, for you said, 'The dead are well.'
He was buried side o' Mary—mother since has never smiled
Till we meet, good-bye, dear father—from your little loving child "

Silent wore the night to morning; silent, at their soul's desire,
Lay the warriors, lost in dreaming, round the dying bivouac fire;
Home were they, once more, in England! miles were they from war's alarms!
Hark! the sudden bugle sounding! Hark! the cry: " To arms to arms! "

Out from ambush, out from thicket, charged the foemen through the plain;
"Up, my warriors! arm, my heroes! Strike for God and home, again!
For our homes, our babes, our country!" And the ruddy morning light
Flared on brandished falchions bloody still with gore of yesternight!

Purple grew the plain with slaughter-steed and rider, side by side;
And the crimson day of carnage in a crimson sunset died:
Shuddering on the field of battle glimpsed the starlight overhead,
And the moonlight, ghost-like, glimmered on the dying and the dead!

Faint and few, around the fire-light, were the stretched, out wearied limbs:
Faint and few the hero-voices that uprose in holy hymns:
Few the warriors left to whisper, "Thou hast cast our foes to shame :
God of Battles! we have triumphed: hallowed be Thy mighty Name!"

On the purple plain of slaughter, who is this that smiles in rest,
With a shred of gory paper lying on his mangled breast?
Nought remaining, save a fragment, scrawled with letters, crude and wild:
"Till we meet, good-bye, dear father—from your little loving child!"

Raise him softly: lift him gently stanch his lifeblood, ebbing slow:
He is breathing—he is whispering—what is this he murmurs low?
"Saved! my child—my home—my country! Father, give my pangs release:
Thou art great as God of Battles: Thou art best as God of Peace!"

SAMUEL K. COWAN M.A., in The Theatre.

Source:

Round the Bivouac Fire. (1885, April 17). The North Eastern Ensign (Benalla, Vic. : 1872 - 1938), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT TO The North Eastern Ensign.). Retrieved March 28, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article70806556