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 murderous 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, like 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.

the Redan!

Guard

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 grape

Backward 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 unawares,

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 fusilades,

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

or more.

Riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of

the sun,

One has leapt up on the breach, crying out, "Follow me, follow me!"

Mark him, he falls! then another, and him too, and down goes he.

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, faithful 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 alarms; Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and soundings 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 oifal 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 their tears!

ᎳᎳᎳᎳᎳ

Dance to the pibroch! saved! we are saved! is it you? is it 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.

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 of 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 this
A bright piece of gold, your Łaby to kiss."

"My darling's kisses cannot be sold,
But gladly he'll kiss a soldier bold.”
He lifts up the babe with a manly 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 troopers 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 whitewood 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, and 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.