And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Asshur1 are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ;2
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

BE KIND. (ANON.)

Be kind to the old man, while strong in thy youth-
Be kind, not in seeming alone, but in truth;
He once was as young and as hopeful as thou,
With a bosom as light, as unwrinkled a brow!

Be kind to the poor man, and give of thy bread,
With shelter and pillow to comfort his head;
His lot and thine own may be one ere he dieth,
Or neighbour to thine the low grave where he lieth!

1 The widows of Asshur, the wives of the Assyrian soldiers.

2 Baal, supposed to have founded the kingdom of Babylon, He was afterwards worshipped as a god.

Be kind to the crooked, the lame, and the blind;
What's lacked in the body they feel in the mind;
And while virtue through trial and pain cometh
forth,

In the mind, not the body, is man's truest worth.

Be kind to the fallen who lives but to mourn;
Be kind to the outcast who seeks to return;
Be kind to the hardened who never hath prayed;
Be kind to the timid who still is afraid!

The injured, who down by oppression is borne;
The slighted who withers; the victim of scorn;
The flattered who topples aloft but to fall;
The wronger and wronged-oh, be kindly to all!

For vast is the world of the generous mind,
And narrow the sphere to the selfish assigned;
And clear is the path of the warm and the true—
Of the haughty and vain, how delusive the view;

Then unto the old show respect while thou mayest— The poor, while to Him who gives all things thou prayest

The weak or the lost, 'neath the load of his sorrow-And thine own cup of joy shall o'erflow ere the morrow!

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

(WOLFE.)

Charles Wolfe, an Irish clergyman and a poet of great promise, was born in 1791 at Dublin. He died in 1823. Though he wrote several other poems, he is best remembered as the author of the following verses, which Lord Byron has described as the most perfect ode in our language.'

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

с

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his

head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him n;

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

NOTE. In 1808 Sir John Moore, a distinguished soldier, was appointed to the command of our army in Spain, then fighting against the French. Finding himself in the interior of the country, and opposed to a vastly superior French force, he skilfully retreated to Corunna, a town on the north-west coast of Spain. Here a battle was fought, in which he was killed by a cannon-shot, January 16, 1809. Our army then embarked for England-the fleet being in the harbour; but before embarking several of his comrades hurriedly buried his corpse, wrapped in his military cloak, and without any of the ceremonies which usually accompany a military funeral.

PILGRIM FATHERS. (MRS. HEMANS.)

THE breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rockbound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed,

And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore.

came

Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame: