WHY frown you at me, old portraits,
In the sombre light of the hall,
Senator, warrior, courtier,

That stare from the pictured wall?

Do you but deem me unworthy

Of the race whose fortune I share,

That your eyes gleam cold, and your pressed lips hold

Reproaches for me to bear?

What have you not learned, old portraits-
Grim ghosts of the past and gone—

How your offspring hallow your actions,
From days when you fitfully shone?

We vaunt of the good you wrought us;

The wrong we bury in years;

Or, when forced to speak of the base and weak, Plead evil atoned by tears.

Then frown not at me, old portraits,
Nor have fear,-for in time to be,

In your dark line there shall be a blank,
'Stead of pictured spectre of me :
But I will live in my children,

The true, and the loving and gay,

Who'll blot out the blame and cherish my name, When I, too, have passed away.

SHOT through the heart, in yesterday's fray, He fell on the field of battle;

And the sad, sad news will reach the home Where innocent children prattle.

He was only one of thousands slain, 'Mid din of the rifle's rattle;

And this must console his weeping wifeHe fell on the field of battle.

What did he fight for?

Nothing at all

King's feud from minister's tattle;

Just think what glory the soldier gains

Who falls on the field of battle!

HIGH Harrow, that shoots a fair shaft to the sky,
Where the spire of thy church rises up from the hill;
How many brave missiles from thee forward fly,
To grow radiant in virtue, or droop into ill!

The grim king of terrors, across a bleak plain,

Dealing fleet flaming weapons against a doomed town, With bent arm rains ruin, each sharp barb a bane, For the will is all-evil that driveth them down.