XI.

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 a.s.sault, better aimed are your flank fusilades; Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung, Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand grenades--, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.

XII.

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.

XIII.

Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but that the traitors had won?

Boardings, and raftings, 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.

XIV.

Hark! cannonade! fusilade! is it true that 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.

XV.

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.

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.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

SONNETS.

To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy gra.s.s, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,--an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E'en like the pa.s.sage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.

J. KEATS.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great G.o.d! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn, Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide.

Doth G.o.d exact day labor, light deny'd, I fondly ask? but patience to prevent That murmur soon replies, G.o.d doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.

JOHN MILTON.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise; I love thee with the pa.s.sion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith; I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if G.o.d choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BBOWNING.

IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY.

I.

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that?

The coward slave, we pa.s.s him by, We dare be poor for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea-stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.

II.

What though on hamely fare we dine.

Wear hodden gray and a' that, Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man, for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that!

III.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that; The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that!

IV.

A king can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he maunna fa' that!

For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.

V.

Then let us pray that come it may-- As come it will for a' that-- That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth May bear the gree, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that.