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 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; 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!' 'Fire away!' In she runs, Thunder round. Sydney Dobell. LXXXIV WAR THEY say that' war is hell,' the 'great accursed,' Yet I can look beyond it at its worst, And as I note how nobly natures form Under the war's red rain, I deem it true The life He loves is not the life of span The long expectance of the upward gaze, Methinks I see how spirits may be tried, Transfigured into beauty on war's verge, Like flowers, whose tremulous grace is learnt beside And now, not only Englishmen at need 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 Rolls through the hills sublime. Yet his the dangerous posts that few can mark, The faithful following of the flag all day, The duty done that brings no nation's thanks, These are the things our commonweal to guard, 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 They who marched up the bluffs last stormy week— crown, The wind of battle breathing on their cheek Like sleepers not like those whose race is run— Shall ever waken more. And the boy-beauty passed from off the face And thoughts beyond their thoughts the Spirit lent, Of high self-sacrifice. Thus, as the heaven's many-coloured flames 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 Over the dreary track, Where some are gone, whom England Breathless she waits, and listens The rulers of the nation, The poor ones at their gate, The bullet comes-and either 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, |