A British cheer! it rends the air,
The brave foe breaks in wild despair,
Now every soldier breathes a prayer
That he may live to have a share
In the burning of Ulundi.
Old England's honour is at stake,

Her sons stand firm, nor think to break,
They heard her urging words that spake
On that day at Ulundi.

The living wall' is opening wide,
And forth the gallant Lancers ride,

'

For death or glory' is their pride,
And Buller's Horse' is at their side,
And now they ride victorious.
Their ghastly work is quickly done;
Edgell a soldier's death has won,
And England lost another son,
All honour to the glorious!

Where kraals were burning all around,
Where dead lay scattered on the ground,
Where England stood victorious crown'd,
Was many a bitter relic found

Of wild Insandula.

Perchance some soldier heav'd a sigh,
And wished a brother then was nigh,
A brother who knew how to die
At wild Insandula.

Where has not England's banner spread? Where does an English soldier tread, And laurels do not crown his head? Where are not buried English dead? Now even at Ulundi.

At last poor Chelmsford, worn and tried, With racking brain and wounded pride,

And now the Nubian's work is done,

She's brought the news to England's shore.
Her task-to tell of victory won,

To sweeten what had gone before.
England! thou need'st to weep no more.

Oh, mothers! spare the boys ye lost,
Your country asked them at your hand,
They were the price the victory cost;
And there wept one within your land,
Whose son fell not in victory grand.

And in the Nubian's joyful wake
The Jumna's prisoner slowly nears,
His mother's heart must surely break
For her son disgraced; yet may her tears
Be dried by his deeds in after years.

Soon many names shall be forgot,
The war shall loom in the dim past;
A cross alone shall mark the spot
Where a comrade fell or a boy held fast,
But let one name live to the last-

The name of one so brave and grand,
So honourable, true, and good,

When honoured in his native land,
Told how his comrades by him stood,

Gave them the praise :-great Evelyn Wood.

A LETTER FROM AN OLD GIRL.

Baveno, Lago Maggiore, Oct. 1879.

Beatrice. I wonder you will always be talking, Signor Benedict, when nobody heeds you.' (Much Ado about Nothing.)

I FEAR it is too possible that 'dear Lady Disdain's' severe remark may apply to these feeble efforts to tell you a little about Fairyland, but there are some of you who would perhaps like to hear something of the wanderings of an old High School girl. Separated from you now by many miles of land and sea, she is ever united to you in the feelings of love and honour, which our School cannot fail to inspire in the hearts of those, who have once gleaned in her golden harvest field.

A few weeks ago I knew what it was to wake up for the first time in Italy, and may many of you do so too some day! It was late when we arrived the night before, and though the moon had risen, a silver fire, over the mountains, we had only had a dim vision of black outlines rising on either side of the lake, which might have been the waters of the Styx save for the reflection on the gleaming track of the steamer. Here and there a little cluster of lights nestled like glowworms on the shore, and at many of these we stopped for a few moments, while hoarse voices shouted through the darkness the name of the place, such as 'Canobbio! signori,' or 'Pallanza! signori,' and then, after a short interval of bustle and confusion, and much excitement on the part of the Italian officials, splash went the rope, and on we went again into the darkness, throwing up a shower of sparks into the night. But I must not stop to tell you any more about that night-journey, only you can scarcely imagine how thankful we were to find ourselves comfortably in bed at last, and how soon we forgot everything, even the great St. Gothard Pass, over which the

diligence had been jolting us for a whole day and a half. I wish there was time to tell you more about that wonderful Pass; its gentle opening, its deepening ravine down which the swift Reuss comes rushing, the gradual disappearance of familiar fir-trees and châlets as the precipices grow more and more steep and rugged. Then as we toiled on, ever upwards, the snow crept lower and lower down the rocks, and when we reached at last the savage and desolate region at the summit, it was piled up in huge drifts at each side of the road, for the season was getting late. No sign of life was visible about the great glistening white peaks or silent little lakes; the Reuss had dwindled to a mountain beck, but nevertheless went tearing past us with the same energy as before. On we crawled through the still cold air, under a brilliant cloudless sky, till suddenly crack went the whip! and Huï!' shouted the postillions to the horses, for about the thousandth time, but with some effect at last, for they started off at a gallop, and away we rattled down the most appalling zigzag road. At every corner the heavy carriage swung over a precipice, righted itself apparently by a miracle, and continued its downward course till we reached the haunts of men once more. After a night spent at the little village of Airolo, situated at the southern entrance of the Great St. Gothard tunnel, we started off again along the side of the Ticino river, and the wonderful railway, nearly completed now. Countless cascades fall foaming down the rocky heights on each side of the narrow ravine, until at last it widens and lets in vineyards and gardens, and villages with red-roofed houses and campanile church towers. These beautiful towers also crown the summits of nearly all the high hills on each side of the road. But the fear of the immortal Baedeker is before my eyes while I write about these things, so you must awake with me in Italy, and come up through the woods into the vineyards, where that illustrious person is unknown. This is the way, out through the garden, which runs along the shore of the lake. Long-tailed lizards are whisking about in

6

the hot October sunshine, the dry cicale' is whirring somewhere, or rather everywhere. There are hedges and clumps of salvias of such a scarlet as England never saw; roses, and beautiful yellow marguerites. The whole air is perfumed by the Olea fragrans, divinest of all scents on earth; and, close by, the orange and citron trees stand sedately along the garden wall. Just beneath lies the broad blue mirror of the lake; to the right the beautiful confusion of crooked red-tiled roofs on the Isola Pescatori is faithfully reflected in the calm waters. A little beyond rise the terraces of the Isola Bella, to which distance decidedly lends enchantment; and opposite, on the other side of the bay, behind the wooded Isola Madre, home of all sweet scents, the red roofs of a little town are shining in the sun, its campanile rising like some fair beacon.

Beyond Pallanza, beyond the near wooded hills dotted with white villages, the mountains, wave upon wave, are melting in purest purple into the tender Italian sky. Up the valley to the left rises a great white peak, a splendid vision above the clouds; that, you know, is the Simplon,-but who cares for names in Fairyland! But come out of the garden, through the little village, where each passer-by salutes you with a smiling buono giorno, and turn up into the woods under chestnut and mulberry trees. A pretty brown-faced girl, with a gay kerchief round her head, is coming down the steep path, bending beneath the heavy basket of grapes on her back. Will the signora accept some?' she says, smiling sweetly; and then, after an exchange of courtesies, we climb on up to the nearest vineyard. The vines are trailing from tree to tree on green terraces, looking down over the lake. Each natural arch frames in a different picture, some village nestling below in the trees, the little town across the blue water, or the splendid Monte Duro, also on the other slope of Lago Maggiore. The grapes are hanging in heavy clusters on every side, the boys and girls are climbing the ladders with baskets, and gathering in the purple harvest. A little rogue casts one