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The time is come. See how he points his

eager hand this way, See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a

kite's upon the prey! With all his wit, he little deems, that

spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath in his despair one fearful

refuge left : He little deems that in this hand I clutch

what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows,

the portion of the slave; Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth

taunt and blow,Foul outrage which thou knowest not,

which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more,

and give me one more kiss: And now, mine own dear little girl, there

is no way but this." With that he lifted high the steel and smote

her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and

with one sob she died.

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SYDNEY DOBELL.
(SYDNEY YENDYS.)

1824—1874. THE SCENT OF HAY AT NIGHT. THERE went an incense through the land one night,

(men slept. Through the hushed holy land where tired

(Interlude of music. ) The haughty sun of June had walked, long days,

[mendicants, Through the tall pastures, which, like Hung their sear heads and sued for rain ; and he

(high hay-time. Had thrown them none. And now it was Through the sweet valley all her flowery

wealth At once lay low, at once ambrosial blood Cried to the moonlight from a thousand fields,

[that night, And through the land the incense went Through the hushed holy land where tired

men slept. It fell upon the sage, who with his lamp Put out the light of heaven. He felt it come, Sweetening the musty tomes, like the fair shape

(past Of that one blighted love, which from the Steals oft among his mouldering thoughts of wisdom,

[youth; And she came with it, borne on the airs of Old days sang round her, old memorial days,

[flowers all fadedShe crowned with tears, they dressed in And the night fragrance is a harmony All through the old man's soul. Voices of old,

[green, The home, the church upon the village Old thoughts that circle like the birds ofeven Round the grey spire. Soft sweet regrets, like sunset

(not. Lighting old windows with gleams day had Ghosts of dead years, whispering old silent

(mouldering now Through grass-grown pathways, by halls Childhood-the fragrance of forgotten fields;

(fragrance Manhood-the unforgotten fields whose

The gold sun went into the west,
And soft airs sang him to his rest;
And yellow leaves, all loose and dry,
Played on the branches listlessly;
The sky waxed palely blue; and high
A cloud seemed touched upon the sky-
A spot of cloud, -blue, thin, and still;
And silence basked on vale and hill.
'Twas autumn-tide-the eve was sweet

As mortal eye hath e'er beholden ;
The grass looked warm with sunny heat-
Perchance some fairy's glowing feet

Had lightly touched, and left it golden; A flower or two were shining yet; The star of the daisy had not yet set, It shone from the turf to greet the air Which tenderly came breathing there; And in a brook which loved to fret O'er yellow sand and pebble blue,

The lily of the silvery hue All freshly dwelt, with white leaves wet. Away the sparkling water played, Through bending grass and blessed flower;

names

Passed like a breath; the time of buttercups, The fluttering time of sweet forget-me-nots; The time of passion and the rose—the haytime

[man weeps, Of that last summer of hope! The old The old man weeps. His aimless hand the joyless book puts by ; As one that dreams and fears to wake, the

sage With vacant eye stifies the trembling taper, Lets in the moonlight, and for once is wise.

(Interlude of music.) There went an incense through the midnight land,

(men slept. Through the hushed holy land where tired It fell upon a simple cottage child, Laid where the lattice opened on the sky, And she looked up and said, “Those

flowers the stars Smell sweet to-night." God rest her

ignorance !

Where Romans trembled. Where the wreck

was saddest, Sweet pensive herbs, that had been gay elsewhere,

(still, With conscious mien of place, rose tall and And bent with duty. Like some village

children Who found a dead king on a battle-field, And with decorous care and reverend pity Composed the lordly ruin, and sat down, Grave without tears. At length the giant

lay, And everywhere he was begirt with years, And everywhere the torn and mouldering

Past Hung him with ivy. For Time, smit with

honour Of what he slew, cast his own mantle on

him, That none should mock the dead.

00:

RUINS OF ANCIENT ROME.

B. SIMMONS.

CAPE USHANT.

UPSTOOD The hoar unconscious walls, bisson and bare,

(whom Like an old man deaf, blind, and gray, in The years of old stand in the sun and mur

mur

Of childhood and the dead. From parapets Where the sky rests; from broken niches -each

[them, -More than Olympus, for the gods dwelt in Below, from senatorial halls,

and seats Imperial ; where the ever-passing Fates Wore out the stone, strange hermit birds croaked forth

[heights Sorrowful sounds; like watchers on the Crying the hours of ruin, when the clouds Dressed every myrtle on the walls in mourn

ing. With calm prerogative the eternal pile Impassive shone with the unearthly light Of immortality. When conquering suns Triumphed in jubilant earth, it stood out dark

[captive With thoughts of ages: like some mighty Upon his death-bed in a Christian land, And lying, through the chant of psalm and creed,

[brow, Unshriven and stern, with peace upon his And on his lips strange gods.

WHAT of the night, ho! Watcher there

Upon the armed deck,
That holds within its thunderous lair

The last of Empire's wreck-
E'en him whose capture now the chain

From captive earth shall smite; Ho! rocked upon the moaning main,

Watcher, what of the night? "The stars are waning fast-the curl

Of morning's coming breeze, Far in the North begins to furl

Night's vapour from the seas. Her every shred of canvas spread,

The proud ship plunges free, While bears afar, with stormy head,

Cape Ushant on our lee."

At that last word, as trumpet stirred,

Forth in the dawning grey
A silent man made to the deck

His solitary way,
And leaning o'er the poop, he gazed

Till on his straining view
That cloud-like speck of land, upraised,

Distinct but slowly grew.
Well may he look until his frame

Maddens to marble there;
He risked Renown's all-grasping game;

Dominion or despair

Rank weeds and grasses
Careless and nodding grew, and asked no

leave,

SIMMONS-THORNBURY.

73

And lost-and lo, in vapour furled,

The last of that loved France, For which his prowess cursed the world,

Is dwindling from his glance. Rave on, thou far-resounding deep,

Whose billows round him roll!
Thou'rt calmness to the storms that sweep

This moment o'er his soul.
Black chaos swims before him, spread

With trophy-shaping bones,
The council strife, the battle-dead,

Rent charters, cloven thrones.
Yet, proud One! could the loftiest day

Of thy transcendent power
Match with the soul-compelling sway

Which in this dreadful hour
Aids thee to hide beneath the show

Of calmest lip and eye
The hell that wars and works below-

The quenchless thirst to die?
The white dawn crimsoned into morn,

The morning flashed to day,
And the sun followed, glory-born,

Rejoicing on his way;
And still o'er ocean's kindling flood

That muser cast his view,
While round him awed and silent stood

His fate's devoted few.

No-gladly forward he would dash

Amid that onset on,
Where blazing shot and sabre-crash

Pealed o'er his empire gone.
There, 'neath his vanquished eagles tost,

Should close his grand career, Girt by his heaped and slaughtered host.

He lived--for fetters here!
Enough :-in noontide's yellow light

Cape Ushant melts away,
Even as his kingdom's shattered might

Shall utterly decay;
Save when his spirit-shaking story,

In years remotely dim,
Warms some pale minstrel with his glory

To raise the song to him.

:0:

G. WALTER THORNBURY.

1828-1876. THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY.

He lives, perchance, the past again,

From the fierce hour when first On the astounded hearts of men

His meteor presence burst; When blood-besotted Anarchy

Sank, quelled, amid the glare Of thy far-sweeping musketry,

Fame-fraught Vendémiaire ! And darker thoughts oppress him now

Her ill-requited love Whose faith, as beauteous as her brow,

Brought blessings from above; Her trampled heart, his darkening star,

The cry of outraged Man,
And white-lipped Rout and wolfish War

Loud thundering on his van.
Oh for the sulphurous eve of June,

When down that Belgian hill
His bristling Guard's superb platoon

He led unbroken still!
Now would he pause, and quit their side

Upon destruction's marge, Nor king-like share with desperate pride

Their vainly glorious charge?

'Twas the day beside the Pyramids,

It seems but an hour ago,That Kleber's Foot stood firm in squares,

Returning blow for blow. The Mamelukes were tossing

Their standards to the sky, When I heard a child's voice say, “My men,

Teach me the way to die!"
'Twas a little drummer, with his side

Torn terribly with shot;
But still he feebly beat his drum,

As though the wound were not.
And when the Mamelukes' wild horse

Burst with a scream and cry,
He said, O men of the Forty-third,

Teach me the way to die!
“My mother has got other sons,

With stouter hearts than mine,
But none more ready blood for France

To pour out free as wine.
Yet still life's sweet," the brave lad moaned,

“ Fair are this earth and sky; Then comrades of the Forty-third,

Teach me the way to die !" I saw Salenche, of the granite heart,

Wiping his burning eyesIt was by far more pitiful

Than mere loud sobs and cries.

EDWARD ATHERSTONE.

One bit his cartridge till his lip

Grew black as winter sky: But still the boy moaned; Forty-third,

Teach me the way to die!"

SUNRISE.

Oh, never saw I sight like that!

The sergeant flung down flag, Even the fifer bound his brow

With a wet and bloody rag,
Then looked at locks and fixed their steel,

But never made reply,
Until he sobbed out once again,

Teach me the way to die!"
Then, with a shout that flew to God,

They strode into the fray;
I saw their red plumes join and wave,

But slowly melt away.
The last who went-a wounded man-

Bade the poor boy good bye,
And said, “We men of the Forty-third

Teach you the way to die!"
I never saw so sad a look

As the poor youngster cast, When the hot smoke of cannon

In cloud and whirlwind passed. Earth shook, and heaven answered.

I watched his eagle eye As he faintly moaned, "The Forty-third

Teach me the way to die!"

SOON I began with eager foot to climb The high cliff, from whose top I might behold

(grass The glorious spectacle. The short soft Had caught a plenteous dew: the mountain herbs

[long Repaid my rude tread with sweet fragrance: The ascent and steep; and often did I pause To breathe and look around on the rich vales And swelling hills, each moment bright

ening. Thus with alternate toil and rest I climbed To the high summit, then walked gently on, Till by the cliff's precipitous edge I stood. Oh, then what glories burst upon my sight! The interminable ocean lay beneath At depth immense ;—not quiet as before, For a faint breath of air, even at the height On which I stood I scarce felt, played over it, Waking innumerous dimples on its face, As though 'twere conscious of the splendid

guest That e'en then touched the threshold of

heaven's gates, And smiled to bid him welcome. Far away To either hand the broad curved beach stretched on;

(vance And I could see the slow-paced waves adOne after one, and spread upon the sands, Making a slender edge of pearly foam Just as they broke;—then softly falling back, Noiseless to me on that tall head of rock, As it had been a picture, or descried Through optic tubes leagues off.

A tender mist Was round the horizon and along the vales; But the hill-tops stood in a crystal air; The cope of heaven was clear and deeply blue,

[east And not a cloud was visible. Towards the An atmosphere of golden light, that grew Momently brighter, and intensely bright, Proclaimed the approaching sun. Now,

now he comes ! A dazzling point emerges from the sea; It spreads; it rises ;—now it seems a dome Of burning gold;-higher and rounder now It mounts—it swells; now like a huge

balloon Of light and fire, it rests upon the rim Of waters; lingers there a moment; then

Then, with a musket for a crutch,

He leaped into the fight; 1, with a bullet in my hip,

Had neither strength nor might.
But, proudly beating on his drum,

A fever in his eye,
I heard him moan, "The Forty-third

Taught me the way to die!"
They found him on the morrow,

Stretched on a heap of dead;
His hand was in the grenadier's

Who at his bidding bled.
They hung a medal round his neck,

And closed his dauntless eye ;
On the stone they cut, “ The Forty-third

Taught him the way to die!'Tis forty years from then till now,

The grave gapes at my feet,
Yet when I think of such a boy

I feel my old heart beat.
And from my sleep I sometimes wake,

Hearing a feeble cry,
And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-third,

Teach me the way to die!"

Soars up.

Exulting I stretched forth my arms, And hailed the king of summer. Every hill

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