And they wept, and shook one-another's hands,
And the women sobbed in a crowd;
And every one knelt down where he stood,
And we all thanked God aloud.

That happy time, when we welcomed them,
Our men put Jessie first;

And the general gave her his hand, and cheers
Like a storm from the soldiers burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed,
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears,
As the pipes played Auld Lang Syne.

ROBERT T. S. LOWELL.

BY THE ALMA RIVER.

ILLIE, fold your little hands;

Let it drop-that "soldier" toy:
Look where father's picture stands-
Father, that here kissed his boy
Not a month since-father kind,
Who this night may (never mind
Mother's sob, my Willie dear)
Cry out loud that He may hear
Who is God of battles-cry,
"God keep father safe this day
By the Alma River!"

Ask no more, child. Never heed
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk;
Right of nations, trampled creed,
Chance-poised victory's bloody work;
Any flag i' the wind may roll

On thy heights, Sebastopol !
Willie, all to you and me

Is that spot, whate'er it be,

Where he stands-no other word

Stands-God sure the child's prayers heard

Near the Alma River.

Willie, listen to the bells

Ringing in the town to-day; That's for victory. No knell swells For the many swept awayHundreds, thousands. Let us weep, We, who need not-just to keep Reason clear in thought and brain Till the morning comes again;

Till the third dread morning tell

Who they were that fought and—fell
By the Alma River.

Come, we'll lay us down, my child;
Poor the bed is-poor and hard;
But thy father, far exiled,

Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home;
Or, beneath the starry dome,
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries-Willie, mark !—
Where he buries those who died
Fighting-fighting at his side-
By the Alma River.

Willie, Willie, go to sleep;

God will help us, O my boy!
He will make the dull hours creep

Faster, and send news of joy;
When I need not shrink to meet
Those great placards in the street,
That for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eyes-child, say that prayer
Once again a different one-
Say, "O God! Thy will be done
By the Alma River."

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

THE TROOPER'S DEATH.

'HE weary night is o'er at last!

We ride so still, we ride so fast!

We ride where death is lying. The morning wind doth coldly pass, Landlord! we'll take another glass,

Ere dying.

Thou, springing grass, that art so green, Shalt soon be rosy red, I ween,

My blood the hue supplying!

I drink the first glass, sword in hand,
To him who for the Fatherland
Lies dying!

Now quickly comes the second draught,
And that shall be to freedom quaffed
While freedom's foes are flying!
The rest, O land, our hope and faith!
We'd drink to thee with latest breath,

Though dying!

My darling!-ah, the glass is out!
The bullets ring, the riders shout-
No time for wine or sighing!
There! bring my love the shattered glass—
Charge! on the foe! no joys surpass

Such dying!

From the German. Translation of R. W. RAYMOND.

BALAKLAVA.

THE charge at Balaklava!

O that rash and fatal charge!
Never was a fiercer, braver,
Than that charge at Balaklava,
On the battle's bloody marge!
All the day the Russian columns,

Fortress huge, and blazing banks,
Poured their dread destructive volumes
On the French and English ranks—
On the gallant allied ranks !
Earth and sky seemed rent asunder
By the loud incessant thunder!
When a strange but stern command—
Needless, heedless, rash command—
Came to Lucan's little band-

Scarce six hundred men and horses
Of those vast contending forces :-
"England's lost unless you save her!
Charge the pass at Balaklava!"

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Far away the Russian eagles

Soar o'er smoking hill and dell,
And their hordes, like howling beagles,
Dense and countless, round them yell!
Thundering cannon, deadly mortar,
Sweep the field in every quarter!
Never, since the days of Jesus,
Trembled so the Chersonesus!

Here behold the Gallic Lilies-
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies-
Float as erst at old Ramillies!
And beside them, lo! the Lion!

With her trophied cross, is flying!
Glorious standards !—shall they waver
On the field of Balaklava?

No, by heavens! at that command-
Sudden, rash, but stern command—
Charges Lucan's little band!

Brave six hundred! lo! they charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Down yon deep and skirted valley,

Where the crowded cannon playWhere the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli

Down that gorge they swept away! Down that new Thermopylæ, Flashing swords and helmets see! Underneath the iron shower,

To the brazen cannon's jaws, Heedless of their deadly power,

Press they without fear or pauseTo the very cannon's jaws! Gallant Noland, brave as Roland At the field of Roncesvalles, Dashes down the fatal valley,

Dashes on the bolt of death,
Shouting with his latest breath,
"Charge, then, gallants! do not waver,
Charge the pass at Balaklava !"

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Now the bolts of volleyed thunder
Rend that little band asunder,
Steed and rider wildly screaming,'

Screaming wildly, sink away;
Late so proudly, proudly gleaming,
Now but lifeless clods of clay-
Now but bleeding clods of clay!
Never, since the days of Jesus,
Saw such sight the Chersonesus!
Yet your remnant, brave six hundred,
Presses onward, onward, onward,

Till they storm the bloody pass-
Till, like brave Leonidas,

They storm the deadly pass,
Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli,
In that wild shot-rended valley-
Drenched with fire and blood, like lava,
Awful pass at Balaklava!

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

For now Russia's rallied forces,
Swarming hordes of Cossack horses,
Trampling o'er the reeking corses,

Drive the thinned assailants back,
Drive the feeble remnant back,
O'er their late heroic track!
Vain, alas! now rent and sundered,
Vain your struggles, brave two hundred !
Thrice your number lie asleep,
In that valley dark and deep.
Weak and wounded you retire
From that hurricane of fire-
That tempestuous storm of fire-
But no soldiers, firmer, braver,

Ever trod the field of fame,
Than the Knights of Balaklava-
Honor to each hero's name!
Yet their country long shall mourn
For her rank so rashly shorn-
So gallantly, but madly shorn

In that fierce and fatal charge,
On that battle's bloody marge.
Alexander Beaufort MeEK

CAVALRY SONG.

UR good steeds snuff the evening air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle; The foeman's fires are twinkling there; He leaps to hear our sabres jingle!

66

HALT!

Each carbine send its whizzing ball:
Now, cling! clang! forward all,
Into the fight!

Dash on beneath the smoking dome;

Through level lightnings gallop nearer ! One look to heaven! No thoughts of home: The guidons that we bear are dearer. CHARGE!

Cling! clang! forward all!

Heaven help those whose horses fall⚫
Cut left and right!

They flee before our fierce attack!

They fall! they spread in broken surges.
Now, comrades, bear our wounded back
And leave the foeman to his dirges.
WHEEL!

The bugles sound the swift recall:
Cling! clang! backward all!

Home, and good-night!

EDMUND Clarence StedMAN.

THE NOBLEMAN AND THE PENSIONER.

LD man, God bless you! does your pipe taste sweetly?

A beauty, by my soul!

A red-clay flower-pot, rimmed with gold so neatly!

What ask you for the bowl?"

"O, sir, that bowl for worlds I would not part with; A brave man gave it me,

Who won it-now what think you?-of a bashaw
At Belgrade's victory.

"There, sir, ali! there was booty worth the showing— Long life to Prince Eugene !

Like after-grass you might have seen us mowing

The Turkish ranks down clean."

"Another time I'll hear your story;—
Come, old man, be no fool;

Take these two ducats-gold for glory-
And let me have the bowl!"

'I'm a poor churl, as you may say, sir;

My pension's all I'm worth:

Yet I'd no give that bowl away, sir,

For all'ae gold on earth.

"Just her now! Once, as we hussars, all merry, Hard on the foe's rear pressed,

A blundering rascal of a janizary
Shot through our captain's breast.

"At once across my horse I hove him--
The same would he have done-

And from the smoke and tumult drove him
Safe to a nobleman.

"I nursed him, and, before his end, bequeathing His money and this bowl

To me, he pressed my hand, just ceased his breathing And so he died, brave soul!

"The money thou must give mine host-so thought I— Three plunderings suffered he :

And, in remembrance of my old friend, brought I
The pipe away with me.

"Henceforth in all campaigns with me I bore it,
In flight or in pursuit ;

It was a holy thing, sir, and wore it
Safe-sheltered in my boot.

"This very limb, I lost it by a shot, sir,
Under the walls of Prague:

First at my precious pipe, be sure, I caught, sir,
And then picked up my leg."

"You move me even to tears, old sire :

What was the brave man's name? Tell me, that I, too, may admire,

And venerate his fame.”

"They called him only the brave Walter; His farm lay near the Rhine.”

"God bless your old eyes! 't was my father, And that same farm is mine.

[Written in the year 1846, in Mexico, the author being at tha time Colonel of the 1st Regiment Georgia Volunteers.] HE tattoo beats-the lights are gone,

The camp around in slumber lies,
The night with solemn pace moves on,
The shadows thicken o'er the skies;
But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.

I think of thee, O darling one,
Whose love my early life hath blest―
Of thee and him-our baby son-
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast.
God of the tender, frail, and lone,
O, guard the tender sleeper's rest!

And hover gently, hover near

To her whose watchful eye is wet-
To mother, wife--the doubly dear,

In whose young heart have freshly met
Two streams of love so deep and clear,
And cheer her drooping spirits yet.
Now, while she kneels before thy throne,
O, teach her, Ruler of the skies,
That, while by thy behest alone

Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise,
No tear is wept to Thee unknown,
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!
That Thou canst stay the ruthless hand
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain;
That only by Thy stern commands

The battle's lost, the soldier's slain;
That from the distant sea or land

Thou bring'st the wanderer home again.

And when upon her pillow lone

Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, May happier visions beam upon

The brightening current of her breast, No frowning look or angry tone

Disturb the Sabbath of her rest! Whatever fate these forms may show, Loved with a passion almost wild,

By day, by night, in joy or woe,

By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled, From every danger, every foe,

W

O God, protect my wife and child!

HENRY R. JACKSON.

MONTEREY.

E were not many-we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day;
Yet many a gallant spirit would

Give half his years if but he could
Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed

In deadly drifts of fiery spray,

Yet not a single soldier quailed

When wounded comrades round them wailed

Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on, still on our column kept,

Through walls of flame, its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast, Stormed home the towers of Monterey. Our banners on those turrets wave,

And there our evening bugles play; Where orange boughs above their grave, Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and tell at Monterey.

We are not many-we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey?

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

THE HEART OF THE BRUCE.

T was upon an April morn,

While yet the frost lay hoar,

We heard Lord James's bugle-horn

Sound by the rocky shore.

Then down we went, a hundred knights, All in our dark array,

And flung our armor in the ships

That rode within the bay.

We spoke not as the shore grew less,
But gazed in silence back,
Where the long billows swept away
The foam behind our track.

And aye the purple hues decayed
Upon the fading hill,

And but one heart in all that ship
Was tranquil, cold, and still.

The good Lord Douglas paced the deck,
And O, his face was wan!

Unlike the flush it used to wear

When in the battle-van.

"Come hither, come hither, my trusty knight,

Sir Simon of the Lee,

There is a freit lies near my soul

I fain would tell to thee.

"Thou know'st the words King Robert spoke

Upon his dying day :

How he bade take his noble heart

And carry it far away;

"And lay it in the holy soil

Where once the Saviour trod,
Since he might not bear the blessed Cross,
Nor strike one blow for God.
"Last night as in my bed I lay,

I dreamed a dreary dream :-
Methought I saw a pilgrim stand

In the moonlight's quivering beam. "His robe was of the azure dye,

Snow-white his scattered hairs,
And even such a cross he bore
As good St. Andrew bears.

"Why go ye forth, Lord James,' he said,
'With spear and belted brand?
Why do you take its dearest pledge
From this our Scottish land?

"The sultry breeze of Galilee

Creeps through its groves of palm, The olives on the Holy Mount

Stand glittering in the calm;

"But 't is not there that Scotland's heart
Shall rest, by God's decree,
Till the great angel calls the dead
To rise from earth and sea!

"Lord James of Douglas, mark my re e
That heart shall pass once more
In fiery fight against the foe,
As it was wont of yore.

"And it shall pass beneath the Cross,
And save King Robert's vow;
But other hands shall bear it back,
Not, James of Douglas, thou!'
"Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray,
Sir Simon of the Lee-
For truer friend had never man
Than thou hast been to me-

"If ne'er upon the Holy Land

'Tis mine in life to tread,

Bear thou to Scotland's kindly earth
The relics of her dead."

The tear was in Sir Simon's eye
As he wrung the warrior's hand-
Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I'll hold by thy command.

"But if in battle-front, Lord James,
'T is ours once more to ride,
Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend,
Shall cleave me from thy side!"

And aye we sailed and aye we sailed
Across the weary sea,

Until one morn the coast of Spain
Rose grimly on our lee.

And as we rounded to the port,

Beneath the watch-tower's wall, We heard the clash of the atabals,

And the trumpet's wavering call.
"Why sounds yon eastern music here
So wantonly and long,

And whose the crowd of armèd men
That round yon standard throng?"
The Moors have come from Africa
To spoil and waste and slay,

And King Alonzo of Castile

Must fight with them to-day."

"Now shame it were," cried good Lord James, "Shall never be said of me

That I and mine have turned aside

From the Cross in jeopardie!

"Have down, have down, my merry men all—

Have down unto the plain, We'll let the Scottish lion loose

Within the fields of Spain!"

"Now welcome to me, noble lord,
Thou and thy stalwart power,
Dear is the sight of a Christian knight,
Who comes in such an hour!

"Is it for bond or faith you come,
Or yet for golden fee?

Or bring ye France's lilies here,
Or the flower of Burgundie?"

"God greet thee well, thou valiant king,
Thee and the belted peers-
Sir James of Douglas am I called,
And these are Scottish spears.

"We do not fight for bond or plight,

Nor yet for golden fee;

But for the sake of our blessed Lord,
Who died upon the tree.

"We bring our great King Robert's heart
Across the weltering wave,

To lay it in the holy soil

. Hard by the Saviour's grave

"True pilgrims we, by land or sea,
Where danger bars the way;
And therefore are we here, Lord King,
To ride with thee this day!"

The King has bent his stately head,
And the tears were in his eyne-
"God's blessing on thee, noble knight,
For this brave thought of thine!

"I know thy name full well, Lord James;
And honored may I be,

That those who fought beside the Bruce
Should fight this day for me!

"Take thou the leading of the van,

And charge the Moors amain,
There is not such a lance as thine
In all the host of Spain!"

The Douglas turned towards us then,
O, but his glance was high !—
"There is not one of all my men
But is as bold as I.

"There is not one of all my knights
But bears as true a spear-
Then onward, Scottish gentlemen,
And think King Robert's here!"

The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew,
The arrows flashed like flame,
As spur in side, and spear in rest,
Against the foe we came.