It was not thine, that forehead Oh, once, once bending to these wid owed lips, Take back the tender warmth of life from me, let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse The light of mine, and give me death with thee? THE SONG OF THE CAMP. "GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said, "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow. They lay along the battery's side, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame; But all sang "Annie Lawrie." Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, That voice, the perfect music of Something upon the soldier's cheek pour thy heart? Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars! And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Lawrie." Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest TO A BAVARIAN GIRL. THOU, Bavaria's brown-eyed daughter, Art a shape of joy, Standing by the Isar's water With thy brother-boy; In thy dream, with idle fingers Threading through his curls, On thy cheek the sun's kiss lingers, Rosiest of girls! Woods of glossy oak are ringing With the echoes bland, While thy generous voice is singing Songs of Fatherland, Songs, that by the Danube's river And where waves in green light quiver, Down the rushing Rhine. Life, with all its hues and changes, Like those dreamy Alpine ranges Where the village maidens gather Or in sunny harvest weather, Where the autumn fires are burning Where the mossy wheels are turning In the ancient mills; SIR HENRY TAYLOR. [From Philip Van Artevelde.] He was a man of that unsleeping spirit, He seemed to live by miracle: his food Was glory, which was poison to his mind And peril to his body. He was one Of many thousand such that die betimes, Whose story is a fragment, known to few. Then comes the man who has the luck to live, And he's a prodigy. Compute the chances, And deem there's ne'er a one in dangerous times Who wins the race of glory, but than him A thousand men more gloriously endowed Have fallen upon the course; a thousand others Have had their fortunes foundered by a chance, Whilst lighter barks pushed past A smaller tally, of the singular few ers, Bear yet a temperate will and keep the peace. Is question not of argument, but fact. Our thoughts and feelings past the The more that interest overtakes of change And comprehends, till what it comprehends Is comprehended in eternity, The world knows nothing of its great- | And in no less a span. est men. [From Philip Van Artevelde.] THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. THIS circulating principle of life Awakening up a particle of matter, term Sustains the congruous fabric, and This vagrant principle so multiform, dies; Matter dies off it, and it lives else- LOVE RELUCTANT TO ENDANGER where, THE human heart cannot sustain Her spirits ran, she knew not why, Than was their wont, in times than these Less troubled, with a heart at ease. So meet extremes; so joy's rebound Is highest from the hollowest ground; So vessels with the storm that strive Pitch higher as they deeplier dive. Of glutted Avarice, caps tossed up in air, Or pen of journalist with flourish fair; Bells pealed, stars, ribbons, and a titular name These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare; His rightful tribute, not his end or aim, Or true reward; for never yet did these |