Followed by six swart warriors, all unarmed;
And Everard, producing from his pack

Some gaudy gifts, within the chieftain's hands
Placed them, and greeted him with friendly signs.
Then, drawing back as though to show his prize
To those accompanying him, the crafty chief
Uttered a cry, and swift, from every bush,
Flew whistling assegais, while in return.
The white men poured a volley on their foes,
And charged among them; but on Everard's horse,
Swiftly, the Caffre chief sprang with a bound,
And wound his arms around its rider's neck,

To bear him backward. Soon the chieftain found
His vaunted strength o'er-matched, and to the ground,
Bleeding and bruised, was hurled from Everard's

arms.

He gained his feet, and strove to reach the bush ;
But Everard overtook him-rode him down-

And raised his sword to cleave him through the brain;
And then, in very nobleness of heart,

He stayed his stroke, and spared his crouching foe,
But dashed the hilt against his brawny back,
And bore him to the ground, and galloped on
To aid his comrades. Kolo, like a snake,
Raises his glittering eyes; and, near his hand,
Beholds an assegai: it swiftly flew

With deadly aim, and Everard, transfixed

From spine to breast, swayed headlong from his horse,

Which tore, blood-sprinkled, on its maddened course.

A crack of rifles, and a ringing cheer

A tramp of horses,-welcome aid arrives;

And Kolo's warriors, on the bloody plain,
Fly, but to fall, beneath the leaden rain.

And so Charles found his brother.

On the sand,

Stretched by the side of other wounded men,

He lay insensible or writhed in pain,

Not knowing those around him.

Yet when eve

Came lessening the glare, he feebly spoke— Unconscious of his words; and with his hand Drew the hot sand about him as he died

Murmuring, so faintly, in his brother's arms, "O Ermengarde! Oh, colder than this snow! So loved--so lost. Ah!-fifteen years ago!"

PALE pink shells of the sea-washed sand,
Pearl-rose as the nails of my lady's hand,
Wondrously delicate, fragilely fair,

When you were living, what have you been

In the glimmering gloom of the sea-depths green ?

The beings have perished which pulsed within,

'Ere the storm up-tore you with cruel din,

Bearing you onward to gleam in the spray;

Had you your loves, and had you your hates,

Where the star-fish crawls through the sea-rock's gates?

I, who admire you, shall pass away,
But into the darkness, not into the day,

A thing to be hidden, a loathsome sight;
Beautiful sea-shells, musing, I sigh,

How did you live, to so gracefully die?

A murmur faint from the rippling waves Whispered in answer: "Here, in their graves,

They are mouldering darkly, decaying away; Yet their rose-tinted shells remain on the shore, To glisten like gems when the tempest's o'er."

And shall you, mortal, leave naught to gleam On the barren marge of life's hurrying stream? Nothing to brighten some wanderer's way? Can you not frame, with heart and with hands, Beautiful shells for the desolate sands?

SHE stood in the hazel-copse, by the stile,
When the daylight was dying away;
She waited and watched for a wearisome while,
While the rabbits crept out to play.

She stood so still, that the bat's dusk wing
Swept close by her braided hair;

And she sighed, as she gazed at a golden ring,
The gift of fair Broadstone's heir.