By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

WILLIAM Cowper.

A BALLAD OF WAR.

"Oh! were you at war in the red Eastern land?
What did you hear, and what did you see?
Saw you my son, with his sword in his hand?
Sent he, by you, any dear word to me?"

66 I come from red war, in that dire Eastern land;
Three deeds saw I done one might well die to see;
But I know not your son, with his sword in his hand;
If
you would hear of him, paint him to me."
"Oh, he is as gentle as south winds in May!"

""Tis not a gentle place where I have been." "Oh, he has a smile like the outbreak of day!" “Where men are dying fast, smiles are not seen."

"Tell me the mightiest deeds that were done.

Deeds of chief honour, you said you saw three: You said you saw three-I am sure he did one. My heart shall discern him, and cry 'This is he!" "

"I saw a man scaling a tower of despair,

And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud." "That was my son! Had he streams of fair hair?" "Nay; it was black as the blackest night-cloud.

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the fortress was won, And they said it was grand for a man to die so.” "Alas for his mother? He was not my son.

Was there no fair-hair'd soldier who humbled the foe ?"

“I saw a man charging in front of his rank, Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die: Straight as an arrow hurled into the flank

Of a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nigh."

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but the battle was won, And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air.

Be comforted, mother; he was not thy son;

Worn was his forehead, and gray was his hair."

"Oh! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose;

I kissed it last night in my dream. I have heard

Two legends of fame from the land of our foes;

But you said there were three: you must tell me the third."

“I saw a man flash from the trenches and fly

In a battery's face; but it was not to slay :

A poor little drummer had dropp'd down to die,

With his ankle shot through, in the place where he lay.

"He carried the boy like a babe through the rain, The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and shell; And he walked at a foot's pace because of the pain,

Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell.”

"Did he live?" "No; he died: but he rescued the boy. Such a death is more noble than life (so they said). He had streams of fair hair, and a face full of joy,

And his name "—"Speak it not! 'Tis my son! He is dead!

"Oh, dig him a grave by the red rowan tree,

Where the spring moss grows softer than fringes of foam! And lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me,

For I shall be ready before he comes home.

"And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath, And a tale to touch hearts through the slow-spreading

years

How he died his noble and beautiful death,

And his mother, who longed for him, died of her tears.

"But what is this face shining in at the door,

With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair? Are you come, blessed ghost, from the far heavenly shore? Do not go back alone-let me follow you there!"

"Oh! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain ;

I come to your heart, and God answers your prayer. Your son is alive from the hosts of the slain,

And the Cross of our Queen on his breast glitters fair!" MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY.

[By kind permission of Messrs. Daldy, Isbister, & Co.]

HORATIUS: A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME. (AN EXTRACT.)

Alone stood brave Horatius,

But constant still in mind;

Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
And the broad flood behind.
"Down with him!" cried false Sextus,
With a smile on his pale face;
"Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena,
"Now yield thee to our grace."

K

Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see;
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus nought spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus

The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome:

"Oh, Tiber! father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
Take thou in charge this day!"
So he spake, and speaking sheathed
The good sword by his side,
And with his harness on his back
Plunged headlong in the tide.

And when above the surges

They saw his crest appear,

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany

Could scarce forbear to cheer.

*

Never, I ween, did swimmer,
In such an evil case,

Struggle through such a raging flood

Safe to the landing place:

But his limbs were borne up bravely

By the brave heart within, And our good father Tiber

Bore bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus;

"Will not the villain drown?

But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sacked the town!" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "And bring him safe to shore ; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before."

And now he feels the bottom:
Now on dry earth he stands :
Now round him throng the Fathers
To press his gory hands:

And now, with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River-gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.

They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right,

As much as two strong oxen

Could plough from morn till night;

And they made a molten image,
And set it up on high,

And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.

It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all folk to see;

Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knee:
And underneath is written,

In letters all of gold,

How valiantly he kept the bridge

In the brave days of old.