Imatges de pÓgina
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Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and

death in the ground! Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! down, down! and creep

through the hole! Keep the revolver in hand! You can hear him-the mur

derous mole. Quiet, ah! quiet-wait till the point of the pickaxe be

through! Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than

before,Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no

more; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced

on a day, Soon as the blast of that underground thunder-clap echoed

away, Dark through the smoke and the sulphur, likę so many fiends

in their hell, Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon

yell,Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemies fell. What have they done? Where is it? Out yonder. Guard

the Redan! Storm at the Water-gate! storm at the Bailey-gate! storm,

and it ran Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drowned by the

tide-So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall

escape? Kill or be killed, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers

and men! Ready! take aim at their leaders,--their masses are gapped

with our grapeBackward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging

forward again, Flying and foiled at the last by the handful they could not

subdue; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and

in limb, Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey,

to endure, Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on Still--could we watch at all points? we were every day

fewer and fewer. There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that

passed : “Children and wives—if the tigers leap into the fold un

awares, Every man die at his post-and the foe may outlive us at

last-Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into

theirs !" Roar upon roar! in a moment two mines, by the enemy

sprung, Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. Riflemen, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be

as true! Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank fusi

lades, Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which

they had chung, Twice from the ditch where they shelter, we drive them

with hand grenades; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.

Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake

out-tore Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces Riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of

or more.

the sun,

goes he.

One has leapt up on the breach, crying out, “ Follow me,

follow me!” Mark him,-he falls! then another, and him too, and down Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the

traitors had won ? Boardings, and rafters, and doors,-an embrasure! make

way for the gun ! Now double charge it with grape! It is charged and we fire,

and they run. Praise to our Indian brothers and let the dark face have

his due! Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faith.

ful and few,Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and

smote them, and slew,That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew.

Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. We

can fight; But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all through the

night, Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarmıs; Bugles and drums in the da ess, and shoutings and sound

ings to arms, Ever the labor of fifty that had to be done by five, Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive, Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loop-holes

around, Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the

ground, Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies, Stench of old al decaying, and infinite torment of flies, Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English

field, Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be

healed, Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless knife,Torture and trouble in vain--for it never could save us a life. Valor of delicate women who tended the hospital bed, Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead, Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for

grief, Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief. Havelock baffled or beaten, or butchered, for all that we

knew,Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the

still shattered walls Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls,But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. Hark! cannonade, fusilade! is it true what was told by the

scout? Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell

mutineers! Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears! All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout, Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering

cheers, Forth from their holes and their hidings our women and

children come out, Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good

fusileers, Kissing the war-hardened hand of the Highlander wet with Dance to the pibroch! saved! we are saved! is it you? is it

their tears!

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you? Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of

Heaven! “Hold it for fifteen days!" we have held it for eighty-seven! And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England

blew.

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THE BABY'S KISS.-G. R. EMERSON.

AN INCIDENT OF THE CIVIL WAR.
Rough and ready the troopers ride,
Pistol in holster and sword by side;
They have ridden long, they have ridden hard,
They are travel-stained and battle-scarred:
The hard ground shakes with their martial tramp,
And coarse is the laugh or the men of the camp.
They reach a spot where a mother stands
With a baby, shaking its little hands,
Laughing aloud at the gallant sight
Of the mounted soldiers fresh from the fight.
The captain laughs out,—" I will give you thin
A bright piece of gold, your baby to kiss.”
"My darling's kisses cannot be sold,
But gladly he'll kiss a soldier bold.”
He lifts up the babe with a wanly grace,
And covers with kisses its smiling face,
Its rosy cheeks, and its dimpled charms;
And it crows with delight in the soldier's arms
“Not all for the captain,” the trooners call;
“The baby, we know, has a kiss for all."
To each soldier's breast the baby is pressed
By the strong, rough men, and kissed and caressed
And louder it laughs, and the lady's face
Wears a mother's smile at the fond embrace.
"Just such a kiss," cries one warrior grim,
“When I left my boy, I gave to him.”
“And just such a kiss, on the parting day,
I gave to my girl as asleep she lay.”
Such were the words of these soldiers brave,
And their eyes were moist when the kiss they gave.

A MARINER'S DESCRIPTION OF A PIANO.

A sea-captain, who was asked by his wife to look at some pianos while he was in the city, with a view of buying her one. wrote home to her: “I saw one that I thought would suit you, black walnut hull, strong bulk-heads, strengthened fore and aft with iron frame, ceiled with whitewood and maple. Rigging, steel wire-double on the rat lines, and whipped wire on the lower stays, and heavier cordage. Belaying pins of steel and well driven home. Length of taffrail over all, six feet two inches. Breadth of beam thirty-eight inches; depth of hold fourteen inches. This light draft makes the craft equally serviceable in high seas or low flats. It has two martingales, one for the light airs and zephyr winds, and one for strong gusts and sudden squalls. Both are worked with foot rests, near the kelson, handy for the quartermaster, and out o' sight of the passengers. The running gear from the hand-rail to the cordage is made of white. wood and holly; works free and clear; strong enough for the requirements of a musical tornado, and gentle enough for the requiem of a departing class. Hatches, black walnut; can be battened down proof against ten-year-old boys and commercial drummers, or can be clewed up, on occasion, and sheeted home for a first-class instrumental cyclone. I sailed the craft a little, ard thought she had a list to starboard. Anyhow, I liked the starboard side better than the port, but the ship-keeper told me the owners had other craft of like tonnage awaiting sale or charter, which were on just even keel.”

TRUST.-FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

Better trust all and be deceived,

And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart, that if believed

Had blessed one's life with true believing.
Oh, in this mocking world too fast

The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;
Better be cheated to the last

Than lose the blessed hope of truth.

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