On which the Jews were forced to attend an annual Christian sermon in Rome.

Browning calls this poem "Holy Cross Day," but in Evelyn's time the sermon was preached on Jan. 7th, as the following extract from his diary shows:

"A sermon was preach'd to the Jewes at Ponte Sisto, who are constrained to sit till the houre is don: but it is with so much malice in their countenances, spitting, humming, coughing and motion that it is almost impossible they should heare a word from the preacher. A conversion is very rare."

III.

Higgledy piggledy, packed we lie,
Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty,
Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve,
Worms in a carcase, fleas in a sleeve.
Hist! square your shoulders, settle your
thumbs

And buzz for the bishop-here he comes.

IV.

Bow, wow, wow-a bone for the dog.
I liken his Grace to an acorned hog.
What, a boy at his side, with the bloom
of a lass,

To help and handle my lord's hour-glass!
Didst ever behold so lithe a chine?
His cheek hath laps like a fresh-singed
swine.

V.

Aaron's asleep-shove hip to haunch, Or somebody deal him a dig in the paunch!

Look at the purse with the tassel and knob,

And down with the angel and thingum bob.

What's he at, quotha? reading his text! Now you've his courtsey-and what comes next?

VI.

See to our converts-you doomed black dozen

No stealing away-nor cog, nor cozen! You five that were thieves, deserve it fairly;

You seven that were beggars, will live less sparely.

You took your turn and dipped in the hat,

Got fortune-and fortune gets you; mind that!

VII.

Give your first groan-compunction's at work;

And soft! from a Jew you mount to a Turk.

Lo, Micah-the selfsame beard on chin He was four times already converted in. Here's a knife, clip quick-it's a sign of

grace

Or he ruins us all with his hanging-face.

You say you'd like to hear me
The stirring story tell,
Of those who stood the battle

And those who fighting fell. Short work to count our lossesWe stood and dropped the foe An easily as by firelight

Men shoot the buck or doe. And while they fell by hundreds Upon the bloody plain, Of us, fourteen were wounded And only eight were slain.

The eighth of January,

Before the break of day, Our raw and hasty levies

Were brought into array. No cotton-bales before usSome fool that falsehood told; Before us was an earthwork

Built from the swampy mould. And there we stood in silence, And waited with a frown, To greet with bloody welcome The bull-dogs of the Crown.

The heavy fog of morning

Still hid the plain from sight, When came a thread of scarlet Marked faintly in the white. We fired a single cannon, And as its thunders rolled, The mist before us lifted

In many a heavy fold— The mist before us lifted

And in their bravery fine Came rushing to their ruin The fearless British line.

Then from our waiting cannon
Leaped forth the deadly flame,
To meet the advancing columns
That swift and steady came.
The thirty-twos of Crowley
And Bluchi's twenty-four
To Spotts's eighteen-pounders
Responded with their roar,
Sending the grape-shot deadly
That marked its pathway plain,
And paved the road it travelled
With corpses of the slain.

Our rifles firmly grasping,

And heedless of the din,
We stood in silence waiting
For orders to begin.
Our fingers on the triggers,

Our hearts, with anger stirred,
Grew still more fierce and eager

As Jackson's voice was heard:
"Stand steady! Waste no powder!
Wait till your shots will tell!
To-day the work you finish—
See that you do it well!"

Their columns drawing nearer,
We felt our patience tire,
When came the voice of Carroll,
Distinct and measured, "Fire!"

Oh! then you should have marked us
Our volleys on them pour—
Have heard our joyous rifles

Ring sharply through the roar,
And seen their foremost columns
Melt hastily away

As snow in mountain gorges
Before the floods of May.

They soon re-formed their columns,
And, mid the fatal rain
We never ceased to hurtle,

Came to their work again.
The Forty-fourth is with them,
That first its laurels won
With stout old Abercrombie
Beneath an eastern sun.
It rushes to the battle,
And, though within the rear
Its leader is a laggard,

It shows no signs of fear.

It did not need its colonel,

For soon there came instead
An eagle-eyed commander,
And on its march he led.
'Twas Pakenham in person,
The leader of the field;
I knew it by the cheering

That loudly round him pealed; And by his quick, sharp movement We felt his heart was stirred, As when at Salamanca

He led the fighting Third.

I raised my rifle quickly,
I sighted at his breast,
God save the gallant leader
And take him to his rest!
I did not draw the trigger,
I could not for my life.
So calm he sat his charger
Amid the deadly strife,
That in my fiercest moment
A prayer arose from me-
God save that gallant leader,
Our foeman though he be!

Sir Edward's charger staggers;
He leaps at once to ground.
And ere the beast falls bleeding
Another horse is found.
His right arm falls-'tis wounded;
He waves on high his left;
In vain he leads the movement,
The ranks in twain are cleft.
The men in scarlet waver

Before the men in brown,
And fly in utter panic-
The soldiers of the Crown!

I thought the work was over,

But nearer shouts were heard, And came, with Gibbs to head it, The gallant Ninety-third. Then Pakenham, exulting,

With proud and joyous glance, Cried, "Children of the tartanBold Highlanders-advance! Advance to scale the breast works, And drive them from their hold, And show the stainless courage That marked your sires of old!"

His voice as yet was ringing,
When, quick as light, there came
The roaring of a cannon,

And earth seemed all aflame.
Who causes thus the thunder

The doom of men to speak? It is the Baratarian,

The fearless Dominique.

Down through the marshalled Scotsmen
The step of death is heard,

And by the fierce tornado
Falls half the Ninety-third.

The smoke passed slowly upward,
And, as it soared on high,

I saw the brave commander
In dying anguish lie.

They bear him from the battle
Who never fled the foe;
Unmoved by death around them
His bearers softly go.

In vain their care, so gentle,
Fades earth and all its scenes;
The man of Salamanca

Lies dead at New Orleans.

But where were his lieutenants?
Had they in terror fled?
No! Keane was sorely wounded
And Gibbs as good as dead.
Brave Wilkinson commanding,
A major of brigade,
The shattered force to rally
A final effort made.
He led it up our ramparts,

Small glory did he gain-
Our captives some; some slaughtered,
And he himself was slain.

The stormers had retreated,
The bloody work was o'er;
The feet of the invaders

Were soon to leave our shore.

We rested on our rifles

And talked about the fight,
When came a sudden murmur
Like fire from left to right;
We turned and saw our chieftain,
And then, good friend of mine,
You should have heard the cheering
That rang along the line.
For well our men remembered
How little, when they came,
Had they but native courage,

And trust in Jackson's name;
How through the day he labored,
How kept the vigils still,
Till discipline controlled us—

A stronger power than will;
And how he hurled us at them
Within the evening hour,
That red night in December

And made us feel our power.