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But while the west bin red to sce,
And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"
I looked without, and lo! my sonne

Came riding downe with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on,

Till all the welkin rang again, " Elizabeth! Elizabeth ! (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath, Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

" The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe,

The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne

Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith; “Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

A lurid mark and dread to see;
And awsome bells they were to mee
That in the dark rang “ Enderby.”
They rang the sailor lads to guide

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And l-my sonne was at my side,

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "Oh, come in life, or come in death! Oh, lost ! my love, Elizabeth !" And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter

deare; The waters laid thee at his doore

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow stretched wrecks about the grass,

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and mee. But each will mourn his own (she saith): And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away,

With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play

Afar I heard her milking song.
He looked across the grassy lea,
To right, to left. · Ho Enderby!"
They rang “ The Brides of Enderby!"

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With that he cried and beat his breast;

For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest,

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.

ROBERT BROWNING.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH

CAMP. (Supposed to be spoken by one of Napoleon's

soldiers.)

And rearing Lindis, backward pressed,

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and

rout Then beaten foam flew round about Then all the mighty floods were out!

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:

A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow

Oppressive with its mind.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave,

The heart had hardly time to beat Before a shallow seething wave

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet; The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea !

Upon the roofe we sate that night,

The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon-light Stream from the church tower, red and

high

Just as perhaps he mused, “My plans

That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes

Waver at yonder wall,”—
Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound
Full galloping; nor bridle drew

Untill he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:

You hardly could suspect(So tight he kept his lips compressed,

Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast

Was all but shot in two.

Were the promises divine

That were passed along the line,
As they gathered in their myriads ere the

dawn;
While their priests in full accord

Chanted glory to the Lord,
And blessed the Russian banner and the

sword for battle drawn.

"Well,"cried he,“Emperor by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon !
The Marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his wings

Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The Chief's eye flashed;

his plans Soared up again like fire. The Chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes : "You're wounded !” “Nay," his soldier's

pride Touched to the quick, he said: “I'm killed, Sire!" "And, his Chief beside,

Smiling the boy fell dead.

Stealthily and darkly,

'Mid the rain and sleet;
No trumpet-call resounding,

Nor drum's tempestuous beat-
But shadow-like and slow,
Came the legions of the foe,
Moving dimly up the steep

Where the British camp, asleep,
Lay unconscious of the danger lurking near;

And the soldier breathing hard,

On the cold and sodden sward, Dreamed of victory and glory, or of home

and England dear.

Hark! heard ye not a rumbling

On the misty morning air,
Like the rush of rising tempests

When they shake the forest bare?
The outposts on the hill
Hear it close, and closer still.
'Tis the tramp of iron heels,

'Tis the crash of cannon-wheels, And“Toarms!" "To arms!” “Toarms!"

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is the cry:

CHARLES MACKAY.

"'Tis the Russians on our flank !

Up, and arm each British rank ! And meet them, gallant Guardsmen, to

conquer or to die."

INKERMANN. 1854.

SEBASTOPOL lay shrouded

In thick Vovember gloom,
And through the midnight silence

The guns had ceased to boom.
The sentinel outworn
In watching for the morn,
From Balaclava's heights

Beheld the Russian lights,
In the close-beleagured fortress far adown;

And heard a sound of bells

Wafted upwards through the dells, And a roar of mingling voices and of an

thems from the town.

Then rose the loud alarum

With a hurricane of sound,
And from short uneasy slumber

Sprang each hero from the ground;
Sprang each horseman to his steed,
Ready saddled for his need;
Sprang each soldier to his place,

With a stern, determined face; [far, While the rousing drum and bugle echoed

And the crack of rifles rung,

And the cannon found a tongue, As down upon them bursting came the

avalanche of war !

They prayed the God of Justice

To aid them in the wrong, They consecrated Murder

With jubilee and song.. To the slain, the joys of heaven, To the living, sin forgiven,

Through the cold and foggy darkness

Sped the rocket's fiery breath, And the light of rapid volleys,

In haze of Living Death; But each British heart that day Throbbed impetuous for the fray

And our hosts undaunted stood | (May the splendour of their friendship

Beating back the raging flood, (sea,, never wane!)
That came pouring from the valley like a By the men who fighting fell
Casting havoc on the shore,

With Cathcart and Lourmel,
With a dull and sullen roar,-

Or lived with placid Raglan, avengers of The thunder-cloud above it, and the light

the slain. ning flashing free.

And as long as France and England On darkness grew the daylight,

Shall give birth to manlike men, 'Mid the loud, incessant peal ;

Their deeds shall be remembered, On the daylight followed noontide,

Should the battle burst again; As they struggled steel to steel !

And to actions as sublime O ye gallant souls and true!

Shall inspire each future time ! O ye great immortal few!

And when War's alarms shall cease, On your banner bright unfurled

And the nations live in peace, Shone the freedom of the world ; Safe from Tyranny, its murder and its In your keeping lay the safety of the lands;

ban, Lay the splendour of our name;

Let us tell with generous pride Lay our glory and our fame;

How our heroes fought and died, And ye held and raised them all in your And saved a threatened world on the dauntless hearts and hands!

heights of Inkermann!

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Thus fourteen thousand freemen,

Invincible in right,
Defeated seventy thousand

In fierce unequal fight!
Thus Thermopylæ of old
And its men of Titan mould
Were surpassed, at duty's call,
By the Briton and the Gaul;

OH, pleasant eventide !

Clouds on the western side
Grow grey and greyer, hiding the warm

sun.
The bees and birds, their happy labour

done, Seek their close nests and bide.

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The gnats whirl in the air,

The evening gnats; and there The owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sail

(snail For prey; the bat wakes; and the shelless

Comes forth clammy and bare.
Hark! that's the nightingale,

Telling the self-same tale Her song told when this ancient earth was young ;

[sung So echoes answered when her song was

In the first wooded vale.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab

There lies a lonely grave;
And no man knows that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er,
For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

We call it love and pain,

The passion of her strain;
And yet we little understand or know:
Why should it not be rather joy that so

Throbs in each throbbing vein ?
In separate herds the deer

Lie; here the bucks and here
The does, and by its mother sleeps the

fawn; Through all the hours of night until the

dawn
They sleep, forgetting fear.
The hare sleeps where it lies,

With wary half-closed eyes;
The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to

cluck; Only the fox is out, some heedless duck

Or chicken to surprise.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the trampling,

Or saw the train go forth, Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great' sun ; Noiselessly as the spring-time

Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves ; So, without sound of music

Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown

The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle

On gray Beth-Peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie

Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking

Still shuns that hallowed spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drums,

Follow his funeral car: They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed,

While peals the minute-gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

We lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honoured place,

With costly marble drest,
In the great minster transept

Where lights like glories fall, And the organ rings, and the sweet choir

sings Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the truest warrior

That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher

Traced with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage

As he wrote down for men.

MATTHEW ARNOLD. ISEULT OF BRITTANY, AFTER

TRISTAN'S DEATH.
And is she happy? Does she see un-

moved The days in which she might have lived

and loved Slip, without bringing bliss, slowly away, One after one, to-morrow like to-day? Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will: Is it this thought that makes her mien so

still, Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though

sweet, So sunk,-so rarely lifted save to meet Her children's? She moves slow; her voice

alone Has yet an infantine and silver tone, But even that comes languidly; in truth, She seems one dying in a mask of youth. And now she will go home, and softly lay Her laughing children in their beds, and

play Awhile with them before they sleep; and

then She 'll light her silver lamp, which fisher

men, Dragging their nets through the rough

waves afar Along this iron coast, know like a star, And take her broidery-frame, and there

she'll sit Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it, Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind Her children, or to listen to the wind. And when the clock peals midnight, she

will move Her work away, and let her fingers rove Across the shaggy brows of Tristan's

hound, Who lies, guarding her feet, along the

ground; Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes Fixed, her slight hands clasped on her lap;

then rise, And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have

told Her rosary beads of ebony tipped with gold, Then to her soft sleep; and to-morrow 'll be To-day's exact repeated effigy.

And had he not high honour,

The hill-side for a pall,
To lie in state while angels wait,

With stars for tapers tall,
And the dark rock.pines,like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand in that lonely land

To lay him in the grave?

In that strange grave without a name,

Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again, oh, wondrous thought!

Before the Judgment Day,
And stand with glory wrapt around

On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life

With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave in Moab's land!

O dark Beth-Peor's hill !
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,

And teach them to be still.
God hath His mysteries of grace,

Ways that we cannot tell ;
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep

Of him He loved so well.

Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall; The children, and the gray haired seneschal, Her women, and Sir Tristan's aged hound Are there the sole companions to be found.

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