He hoped to see again (But ah that hope was vain) Those English colors he had served so well;

He fell, forsaken, undismayed,

True to the land that thus his trust betrayed.

His was the hardest part,

That tries the staunchest heart;

Better the headlong charge when hundreds die,

Than the relentless foe
Watching to strike the blow,

And the slow waiting while the bullets fly

No friends, no hope, but, like a star, High duty shining through the clouds of

war.

No stately Gothic fane
Roofs in the hero slain,

But the wide sky above the desert sands;
No graven stone shall tell
Where at the last he fell,

And, if interred at all, bv alien hands,-
Thrust in a shallow grave to wait

The last loud summons to the fallen great.

No more can England boast

Her name from coast to coast

Shall be a passport to her wandering sons;

Once they could freely roam,

As in their Island home,

Safe far abroad as underneath her guns; Or, should mishap for vengeance call, Swift would her anger on the oppressor fall.

But let the meed of blame

Fall with its weight of shame

On those who lacked the courage to command;

The heart of England beats

In London's thronging streets,
And in the quiet places of the land.
Still to its old traditions true,

In spite of all our rulers failed to do.
-Bertram Tennyson.

On Jan. 27, 1842, Ralph Waldo Emerson lost his (then) only son, a lovely child of five years. As in Milton's Lycidas and Shelley's "Adonais," his grief found expression in verse.

The South-wind brings
Life, sunshine and desire,

And on every mound and meadow
Breathes aromatic fire;

But over the dead he has no power,
The lost, the lost, he cannot restore;
And, looking over the hills, I mourn
The darling who shall not return.

I see my empty house,

I see my trees repair their boughs;
And, he, the wondrous child,
Whose silver warble wild
Outvalued every pulsing sound
Within the air's cerulean round,-
The hyacinthine boy, for whom

Morn well might break and April

bloom,

The gracious boy, who did adorn
The world whereinto he was born,
And by his countenance repay
The favor of the loving Day,-
Has disappeared from the Day's eye;
Far and wide she cannot find him;
My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him.
Returned this day, the south-wind
searches,

And finds young pines and budding birches;

But finds not the budding man;
Nature, who lost, cannot remake him;
Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him;
Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain.

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

-Ralph Waldo Emerson.

UNTER DEN LINDEN.

(Emperor William II of Germany, born Jan. 27, 1859.)

The rays of waning sunlight steal
Along the overhanging eaves;
The awnings droop and scarcely feel
The wind that stirs the linden leaves;
And here the curious strangers try

To wile away an idle hour,
And watch the crowd that surges by
All day before the Cafe Bauer.
Not all unmoved can one abide

And with a careless heart survey
This city of imperial pride,

Where men make history to-day; Here is no idle pleasure-mart

To witch the fancy of an hour; Here throbs a nation's living heart, Here beats the pulse of conscious power.

On every side, displayed afar,

Flung out with martial blazonry, Are symbols of successful war, While he who looks can ever see Behind the veil that Peace has spread, The banners of a mighty camp,

Can hear above the hum of trade The gathering armies' ceaseless tramp.

And suddenly with naught to show

What stilled the tongue and checked the feet,

As when a wind has ceased to blow,
A hush comes o'er the busy street,
A bugle sounds; and in reply

Rolls forth a distant storm of drums; Then down the Linden runs the cry: "The Kaiser comes! The Kaiser comes !"

Cold eyes, set lips, a restless glance

That wanders in uneasy quest, With looks that like a living lance Blaze from beneath the helmet-crest; Upon that face as on a page

Has nature stamped with cruel truth The heartlessness of cynic age,

The reckless insolence of youth.

What morbid motive half defined, What oestrus-thought that stings and stays,

Goads on his restless, brooding mind

This sceptred Sphinx of modern days?

It is ambition's poisoned wine-
The throb, perchance, of ceaseless pain-
The spark of genius half divine-
The burning of a madman's brain?

And this is he whose sword and pen

All Europe eyes with bated breath, Whose word can arm a million men,

Whose nod can hurl them on to death: A nation's life, a nation's ease,

The honour of a nation's name, The awful fates of war and peace, All centred in a single frame.

O type of all the dreadful past When birth made brutes the lords of brain!

When Hope stood naked to the blast, And cowering Freedom clanked her chain!

Thou art the last of all the line

Of them that set with lordly beck The ruthless heel of right divine Forever on a nation's neck!

Yet thus, perchance, must victors pay The price that War has sternly set; The while, ere Peace returns to stay,

There looms a conflict mightier yet Than that which burst in years before When German unity awoke Saluted by the cannon's roar Amid the mists of battle-smoke.

To scourge the land with sword and flame

The northern Cossack grimly waits; The Dane remembers Duppel's shame, The Austrian broods o'er Koniggratz; While on the hills of fair Lorraine That front the slopes of VendenheimA tiger with a slender chain

The Gallic foeman bides his time.

Stout-hearted sons of Fatherland! Who kneel to God but face the foe, And side by side together stand

To sing the song of long ago That, rising from a myriad throats, A nation's battle-hymn divine, Thrills on the ear like bugle notes: "Fest steht und treu die Wacht am

Rhein !"

Such thoughts the musing fancy weaves
Throughout the drowsy summer day,
While glints the sunlight on the eaves
Along the Linden's stately way
Where still the curious strangers try
To wile away an idle hour,
And watch the crowd that surges by
All day before the Cafe Bauer.
-Harry Thurston Peck.

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,

Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',

They shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago. -Henry Newbolt.

January 28.

DRAKE'S DRUM.

Sir Francis Drake was one of the great ad mirals of the Elizabethan age and like many of them was a Devonshire man. He early became

a sailor and for over forty years followed the sea. He was a terror to the Spaniards, many of whose treasure ships he captured. He sailed around the world and finally died and was buried at sea, Jan. 28, 1596.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas:

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went with

heart at ease,

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth

Hoe.

Strike et when your powder's runnin' low:

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,

An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth
Hoe.

Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,

Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an-toe, An' the shore lights flashin', an' the night tide dashin',

He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake lies in his hammock till the great Armadas come,

EPIGRAM ON FRANCIS DRAKE.

The stars above will make thee known,
If man were silent here:

The sun himself cannot forget
His fellow-traveller.

-Cowley, translated by Ben Jonson.

January 29.

ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD.

The latter days of George III. form one of the most pitiful spectacles in history. For the last ten years of his life he was insane, with only occasional lucid intervals. He died Jan. 29, 1820.

Written under Windsor Terrace.

I saw him last on this terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness,
Begirt with his court; and in all the
crowd

Not a single look of sadness.

Bright was the sun, the leaves were

green

Blithely the birds were singing; The cymbals replied to the tambourine, And the bells were merrily ringing.

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier,

When not a word was spokenWhen every eye was dim with a tear,

And the silence by sobs was broken.

The coffin bore his name; that those
Of other years might know,
When earth its secrets should disclose,
Whose bones were laid below.

"Peace to the dead!" no children sung, Slow pacing up the nave;

No prayers were read, no knell was rung, As deep we dug his grave.

We only heard the winter's wind,
In many a sullen gust,
As o'er the open grave inclined,

We murmured, "Dust to dust!"

A moonbeam from the arch's height Streamed, as we placed the stone; The long aisles started into light, And all the windows shone.

We thought we saw the banners then That shook along the walls, Whilst the sad shades of mailed men Were gazing on the stalls.

'Tis gone!-Again on tombs defaced Sits darkness more profound; And only by the torch we traced The shadows on the ground.

And now the chilling, freezing air
Without blew long and loud;

Upon our knees we breathed one prayer,
Where he slept in his shroud.

We laid the broken marble floor,-
No name, no trace appears!

And when we closed the sounding door,
We thought of him with tears.
-William Lisle Bowles.

January 31.

THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES.

Charles Edward, the grandson of James II. of England, was known as the Young Pretender to distinguish him from his father the Old Pretender, the son of James II. In the rising of 1745 he was at one time very near entering London, but the fatality that hung over the Stuarts overwhelmed him; he retreated to Scotland where he and his army were utterly routed at Culloden. With him the direct line of the Stuarts became extinct. He died Jan. 31, 1788.

1731.

Beautiful face of a child,
Lighted with laughter and glee,
Mirthful, and tender, and wild,
My heart is heavy for thee!
1744.

Beautiful face of a youth,

As an eagle poised to fly forth To the old land loyal of truth,

To the hills and the sounds of the North:

Fair face, daring and proud,

Lo! the shadow of doom even now,
The fate of thy line, like a cloud,
Rests on the grace of thy brow!
1773
Cruel and angry face,

Hateful and heavy with wine,
Where are the gladness, the grace,
The beauty, the mirth that
thine?

Ah, my Prince, it were well,

were

Hadst thou to the gods been dear,To have fallen where Keppoch fell,

With the war-pipe loud in thine ear! To have died with never a stain

On the fair White Rose of Renown, To have fallen fighting in vain,

For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown!

More than thy marble pile,

With its women weeping for thee,
Were to dream in thine ancient isle,
To the endless dirge of the sea!
But the Fates deemed otherwise;

Far thou sleepest from home,
From the tears of the Northern skies,
In the secular dust of Rome.
A city of death and the dead,
But thither a pilgrim came,
Wearing on weary head

The crowns of years and fame:
Little the Lucrine lake

Or Tivoli said to him,
Scarce did the memories wake,

Of the far-off years and dim,
For he stood by Avernus' shore.
But he dreamed of a Northern glen,
And he murmured, over and o'er,
"For Charlie and his men:"
And his feet, to death that went,

Crept forth to St. Peter's shrine,
And the latest Minstrel bent

O'er the last of the Stuart line.

-Andrew Lang.