"THIS, or on this!”—“ Bring home with thee this shield,
Or be thou, dead, upon this shield brought home!"
So spake the Spartan mother to the son

Whom her own hands had armed. O strong of heart!

Yet know I of a fairer strength than this

Strength linked with weakness, steeped in tears and fears,
And tenderness of trembling womanhood;

But true as hers to duty's perfect law.

And such is theirs who in our England now,
Wives, sisters, mothers, watch by day, by night,
In many a cottage, many a stately hall,

For those dread posts, too slow, too swift, that haste
O'er land and sea, the messengers of doom;
Theirs, who ten thousand times would rather hear
Of loved forms stretched upon the bloody sod,
All cold and stark, but with the debt they owed
To that dear land that bore them duly paid,
Than look to enfold them in fond arms again,
By aught in honor's or in peril's path
Unduly shunned, reserved for that embrace.

C. F. HOFFMAN.

MONTEREY.

We were not many--we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day-

Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if he but 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 that swept

The slippery streets of Monterey.

We looked upon that banner,
And we swore to God on high,
To smite to-day the Saxon's might—
To conquer or to die.

Loud swells the charging trumpet-
'Tis a voice from our own land-
God of battles-God of vengeance,
Guide to-day the patriot's brand;
There are stains to wash away-

There are memories to destroy,
In the best blood of the Briton
To-day at Fontenoy.

Plunge deep the fiery rowels

In a thousand reeking flanksDown, chivalry of Ireland,

Down on the British ranks

Now shall their serried columns

Beneath our sabres reel

Through their ranks, then, with the war-horseThrough their bosoms with the steel.

With one shout for good King Louis,
And the fair land of the vine,
Like the wrathful Alpine tempest,
We swept upon their line-
Then rang along the battle-field

Triumphant our hurrah,

And we smote them down, still cheering "Erin, slanthagal go bragh."

As prized as is the blessing

From an aged father's lip—

As welcome as the haven

To the tempest-driven ship-
As dear as to the lover

The smile of gentle maid-
Is this day of long-sought vengeance
To the swords of the Brigade.

See their shattered forces flying,
A broken, routed line-
See England, what brave laurels

For your brow to-day we twine.

O, thrice blessed the hour that witnessed

The Briton turn to flee

From the chivalry of Erin,

And France's "fleur de lis."

As we lay beside our camp-fires,
When the sun had passed away,
And thought upon our brethren,

Who had perished in the fray-
We prayed to God to grant us,
And then we'd die with joy,
One day upon our own dear land
Like this of Fontenoy.

THE GRASP OF THE DEAD.

'Twas in the battle-field, and the cold pale moon
Looked down on the dead and dying;
And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail,
Where the young and brave were lying.

With his father's sword in his red right hand,
And the hostile dead around him,

Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground,
And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,
Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking.
Careless he stept, where friend and foe
Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
The soldier paused beside it:

He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength,
But the grasp of the dead defied it.

He loosed his hold, and his English heart

Took part with the dead before him;

L. E. LANDON.

And he honored the brave who died sword in hand,
As with softened brow he leant o'er him.

"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it:

Before I would take that sword from thine hand,

My own life's blood should dye it.

Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
Or the wolf to batten o'er thee;
Or the coward insult the gallant dead,

Who in life had trembled before thee."

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth,
Where his warrior foe was sleeping;

And he laid him there in honor and rest,
With his sword in his own brave keeping!

IMAGE OF WAR.

LORD BYRON.

HARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?-the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high;-from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon.
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon

Flashing afar-and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done;

For on this morn three potent nations meet,

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

From "Childe Harold."