To his heart death rose: and for Hardy, the faithful, he cried in his pain,—

'How goes the day with us, Hardy?'

"Tis ours':

Then he knew, not in vain

Not in vain for his comrades and England he bled: how he left her secure,

Queen of her own blue seas, while his name and example endure.

O, like a lover he loved her! for her as water he

pours

Life-blood and life and love, lavish'd all for her sake, and for ours!

- Kiss me, Hardy!-Thank God!—I have done my duty!'-and then

Fled that heroic soul, and left not his like among

men.

Hear ye the heart of a Nation
Groan, for her saviour is gone ;
Gallant and true and tender,
Child and chieftain in one?

Such another day never

England will weep for again,

When the triumph darkened the triumph,

And the hero of heroes was slain.

Francis Turner Palgrave.

LXXXIII

A SEA ADVENTURE

'How many?' said our good captain,

'Twenty sail and more!'

We were homeward bound,

Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the

Nore;

Right athwart our tack,

The foe came thick and black,

Like hell-birds and foul weather-you might count them by the score !

The Betsy Jane did slack

To see the game in view;
They knew the Union Jack,

And the tyrant's flag we knew.

Our captain shouted, 'Clear the decks!' and the bo'sun's whistle blew.

Then our gallant captain,

With his hand he seized the wheel,

And pointed with his stump to the middle of the foe,

'Hurrah, lads, in we go!'

(You should hear the British cheer, Fore and aft!)

'There are twenty sail,' sang he,

'But little Betsy Jane bobs to nothing on the sea!' (You should hear the British cheer,

Fore and aft!)

'See yon ugly craft

With the pennon at her main!

Hurrah, my merry boys,

There goes the Betsy Jane!'

(You should hear the British cheer,

Fore and aft!)

The foe, he beats to quarters, and the Russian bugles sound;

And the little Betsy Jane she leaps upon the sea. 'Port and starboard!' cried our captain;

Pay it in, my hearts!' sang he.

'We're old England's sons,

And we'll fight for her to-day!'
(You should hear the British cheer,
Fore and aft!)

'Fire away!'

In she runs,
And her guns

Thunder round.

Sydney Dobell.

LXXXIV

WAR

THEY say that' war is hell,' the 'great accursed,'
The sin impossible to be forgiven;

Yet I can look beyond it at its worst,
And still find blue in Heaven.

And as I note how nobly natures form

Under the war's red rain, I deem it true
That He who made the earthquake and the storm
Perchance makes battles too!

The life He loves is not the life of span
Abbreviated by each passing breath,
It is the true humanity of man
Victorious over death,

The long expectance of the upward gaze,
Sense ineradicable of things afar,
Fair hope of finding after many days
The bright and morning star.

Methinks I see how spirits may be tried,

Transfigured into beauty on war's verge,

Like flowers, whose tremulous grace is learnt beside
The trampling of the surge.

And now, not only Englishmen at need
Have won a fiery and unequal fray,—
No infantry has ever done such deed
Since Albuera's day!

Those who live on amid our homes to dwell

Have grasped the higher lessons that endure,— The gallant Private learns to practise well

His heroism obscure.

His heart beats high as one for whom is made
A mighty music solemnly, what time
The oratorio of the cannonade

Rolls through the hills sublime.

Yet his the dangerous posts that few can mark,
The crimson death, the dread unerring aim,
The fatal ball that whizzes through the dark,
The just-recorded name—

The faithful following of the flag all day,

The duty done that brings no nation's thanks,
The Ama Nesciri1 of some grim and grey
À Kempis of the ranks.

These are the things our commonweal to guard,
The patient strength that is too proud to press,
The duty done for duty, not reward,

The lofty littleness.

And they of greater state who never turned,

Taking their path of duty higher and higher, What do we deem that they, too, may have learned In that baptismal fire?

Not that the only end beneath the sun
Is to make every sea a trading lake,
And all our splendid English history one
Voluminous mistake.

They who marched up the bluffs last stormy week—
Some of them, ere they reached the mountain's

crown,

The wind of battle breathing on their cheek
Suddenly laid them down.

Like sleepers not like those whose race is run—
Fast, fast asleep amid the cannon's roar,
Them no reveillé and no morning gun

Shall ever waken more.

And the boy-beauty passed from off the face
Of those who lived, and into it instead
Came proud forgetfulness of ball and race,
Sweet commune with the dead.

And thoughts beyond their thoughts the Spirit lent,
And manly tears made mist upon their eyes,
And to them came a great presentiment

Of high self-sacrifice.

Thus, as the heaven's many-coloured flames
At sunset are but dust in rich disguise,
The ascending earthquake dust of battle frames
God's pictures in the skies.

William Alexander.

1 The heading of a remarkable chapter in the De Imitatione Christi.

LXXXV

THE LESSON OF THE WAR

THE feast is spread through England
For rich and poor to-day;
Greetings and laughter may be there,
But thoughts are far away;
Over the stormy ocean,

Over the dreary track,

Where some are gone, whom England
Will never welcome back.

Breathless she waits, and listens
For every eastern breeze
That bears upon its bloody wings
News from beyond the seas.
The leafless branches stirring
Make many a watcher start;
The distant tramp of steeds may send
A throb from heart to heart.

The rulers of the nation,

The poor ones at their gate,
With the same eager wonder
The same great news await.
The poor man's stay and comfort,
The rich man's joy and pride,
Upon the bleak Crimean shore
Are fighting side by side.

The bullet comes-and either
A desolate hearth may see;
And God alone to-night knows where
The vacant place may be!

The dread that stirs the peasant

Thrills nobles' hearts with fear

Yet above selfish sorrow

Both hold their country dear.

The rich man who reposes

In his ancestral shade,

The peasant at his ploughshare,
The worker at his trade,