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Bright science through each field of space

Has urged her mist-dispelling car,
Coy nature's hidden reign to trace,

To weigh each wind, and count each star:
Yet stay, thou proud philosophy,
First stoop to bid mankind be free.
And freedom has been long our own,

With all her soft and generous train,
To gild the lustre of the throne,

And guard the labour of the plain :
Ye heirs of ancient Runnymede !
Your slaves-oh! could it be?-are freed.
'Mid the drear haunts of force and strife,

The ministers of peace shall stand,
And pour the welling words of life

Around a parched and thirsty land;
While, spread beneath the tamarind tree,
Rise “happy homes, and altars free.”
Ye isles, that court the tropic rays,

Cluster'd on ocean’s sapphire breast;
Ye feathery bowers, ye fairy bays,

In more than fable now?“the blest:"
Waft on each gale your choral strain,
Till ev'ry land has rent the chain.
O England, empire's home and head,

First in éach art of peace and pow'r,
Mighty the billow crest to tread,

Mighty to rule the battle hour,
But mightiest to relieve and save,
Rejoice, that thou hast freed the slave.



Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward!
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred !
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred;
For up came an order which

Some one had blundered.

* In 1854.

“Forward the Light Brigade!

Take the guns,” Nolan said:
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
“Forward the Light Brigade,"
No man was there dismayed;
Not though the soldier knew

Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die;
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered:
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode, and well,
Into the jaws of death-
Into the mouth of hell

Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed all at once in air,
Sab’ring the gunners there;
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered ; Plunged in the battery smoke, With many a desperate stroke, The Russian line they broke, Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered.
Stormed at with shot and shell
While horse and hero fell;
Those that had fought so well
Came from the jaws of death,
Back from the mouth of hell
All that was left of them

Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made !

All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made !
Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred.-TENNYSON.



Miss Nightingale is one of those whom God forms for great ends. You cannot hear her say a few sentences - no, not even look at her, without feeling that she is an extraordinary being. Simple, intellectual, sweet, full of love and benevolence, innocent-she is a fascinating and perfect woman. She is tall and pale. Her face is exceedingly lovely; but better than all, is the soul's glory that shines through every feature so exultíngly. Nothing can be sweeter than her smile. It is like a sunny day in summer; and more of holiness than is expressed in her countenance one does not often meet on a human face as one passes along the dusty highways of life. Through all her movements breathes that high intellectual calm which is God's own patent of nobility, and is the true, seal of the most glorious aristocracy—that of mind-of soul !

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,

Our hearts in glad surprise,

To higher levels rise.
The tidal waves of deeper souls,
Into our inmost being rolls,

And lifts us unawares

Out of all meaner cares.
Honour to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,

And by their overflow,

Raise us from what is low.
Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the Dead;

The trenches cold and damp,

The starved and frozen camp.
The wounded from the battle plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain-

The cheerless corridors,

The cold and stony floors.
Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp, I see

Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.

* Santa Filomena, St. Philomel, “St. Nightingale.”

And slow, as in a dream of bliss
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss

The shadow as it falls

Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should be
Opened, and then closed suddenly,

The vision came and went;

The light shone, and was spent.
On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall cast,

From portals of the past.
A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land

A noble type of good

Heroic womanhood.
Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm, the lily, and the spear-

The symbols that of yore
Saint Filomena bore.-H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE HIGHLANDERS AND HAVELOCK. It was sixteen hundred rank and file with native levies made, Two thousand men of horse and foot, true each as his good blade; And at their head rode Havelock, his fearless forehead bareHis warrior locks, worn thin and white, waving with every air. Well knew that noble General what gallant souls he led, Right well his stalwart Highlanders knew too that snowy head: And through the night, by that pale light, forward the columns strode Over the yawning nullah and along the deep sand road, Fording the rain-swelled river-wave, breasting the weary hill, One thought alone in every heart, one purpose working still : To reach betimes the battle, and their 'leagured brothers save, Or bring the villain slayers to their victims' bloody grave. And left and right the scouts come in, and tell of squadrons near, But check no forward footsteps, and raise no thought of fear, Till the shrill jungle-chicken's cry hailed the day's rosy sign, And the gray light of morning showed the grim rebel line. Out spoke our gallant leader, “ Look ! yonder goes the way Towhere ouro'erpressed brothers stand, and where the butchers slayAnd in our road the knaves stand thick ; .wherefore, as you may see, Our path lies through their ranks, and carved shall quickly be.” They only rested from the march a thirty minutes space, Then rose and met their swarming foes in the sun's brightning face ; And long before the dew was dry, or sounds of morning still, The rattle of the strife was done-the slaves flew o'er the hill.

Onward again-the good grey head foremost in fight and march, While the sun's blazing gold burned up, through heaven's cloudless

arch. No hoarse command, no need of hand, nor voice in all their way, To bid them close these dust-clad files, to keep their just array; The hope that bears their captain on, the rage that scorneth rest, Throbs in the soldier's honest heart, burns in the drummer's breast Lightens the load of lance and gun, the weight of ringing steel, Whose biting ball and sharp swift fall, the assassin soon shall feel. Now sinketh in the tall cane-brake, the long thin line of spears ; Now on the crest the vengeful gleam of bayonets appears ; Now from his lair in rock and cave, the opposing foe they thrust And pass, but leave along the rear the battle's blood and dust; By night, by day, without a stay, right onward rolled their bánd, Til under Cawn pore's wall they met the fierce lord of that land. Scant time of breath-life and black death hang on the passing hour; The thunder breaks less sullenly, when heavy storm-clouds lour, Than breaks on those dark traitorous files, the fury of the few Whose eager eyes behold at last the sought-for caitiff crew; Once only, as the dastard crowd their heavy cannon plied, And swept with hissing hail of grape the green hills level side, But once they paused,

and crouching down under that deadly rain, Waited with noble patience that mocked at grief and painWaited, till, waving the true steel, brave Havelock cried aloud, “Enough, boys; up! take out these guns and clear away this

crowd.” Then up they sprang, and high out rang the long, loud British cheer,The saddest sound on all the earth for the oppressor's ear; And with set feet at equal beat, and steel at equal slant, Like blood-hounds on the view halloo, all fanged and grim and

gaunt, Out Hew they then, on rushed they then-a crash !--and once again The Highlanders of Havelock held the red battle plain. Oh, good grey head! that ever led first in the chase and charge, With hand so true and valiant, and heart so sound and large Oh, faithful fighters for the right! what need to swell the page With tale of blast by noonday's sun, and blight hy plague's wild

rage! I tell you, easy dwellers here, who own unused hands, That nine times in the open field met they the rebel bandsThat nine times from the open fields they drove them howling far, Each time, alas! grown weaker, with the wear of constant war; I tell you, twice they stemmed the flow of Ganges at his swell, Thrice on the farther bank gave fight, captured the cannon! Well! God's ways are dark! The bravest men that ever worked his will, Thinned by the battle and the pest, but all unbroken still, Rest on their arms—soul weary all—but rest to rise anew, And free their prisoned countrymen; as they will surely do, If God see good to grace therewith, on this side of the grave, The Highlanders of Havelock-the bravest of the brave.

London Press.

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