But that's a grim jest,

The old tale of rest.

For a lever to lift the sun

A thing not to be done.

Under that rushing rain of fame,
To stand still, and aim-?

Fie! send them not!

There is no man alive

Could fire a single shot,

But Italy found a pair

To stand JUST THERE,

And fire twenty-five.

See, the gun's in its place!

Through rags of smoke, in the ring of your glass

You may see a busy face

Or a quiet figure pass,

Hard at work, and so near
You almost fancy you hear.

One loads, one fires-that's all!
(All but the hope and the fear).

Now they all look up and smile:

If they had a minute to spare,
They would stop and shake hands there.
Italy gave them a cheer,

And got ready to charge, for while

You look, there's a breech in the wall

The gap grows large

Not wide enough yet for a charge,

But nearly; they work with a will!

One, he is but a boy,

Has such a look of joy;

The other, a year or two older,

A little grave and still,

But not a whit colder;

Like a man who knows

What he leaves, and where he goes,
With ready heart.
Why not?

He has done his part

He was on Marsala's shore.

If he must leave the land he frees,

Love goes with him under the sod,
He gives a gallant soul to God,
And Garibaldi sees.

The blast

He wants no more.

That's the tenth shot!

Of the shells rushing past

Is shaking their hair

On they work, and God takes care-
Death not in, it is the air!

Twenty! the wall gives way

The two look back to their ranks,

And nod and say,

"Excuse us for making you wait so long!
You are getting ready? Thanks!
In a minute you may come."
They are quite at home;

Not a fold in the brow,

They are getting used to it now
We are afraid no more!
Twenty-four.

Twenty-five! Is anything wrong?

Take the glass and look!

What do you say that you see?
Your hand shook.

Nothing

Pass it to me!

Twenty-five-ere I fix
It will be twenty-six.

Now! There's the gun.

But the place is void.
What lies on the plain?
Do not look again.

Dead, shattered, destroyed!

With their work done.

All, but the name lost;

All dead, but the deed;

So, and at such cost,

Ampola was freed.

-M. B. Smedley.

Dead in the Street.

Under the lamplight, dead in the street,
Delicate, fair, and only twenty,

There she lies,

Face to the skies,

Starved to death in a city of plenty. Spurned by all that is pure and sweet, Passed by busy and careless feet;

Hundreds bent upon folly and pleasure,

Hundreds with plenty of time and leisure—

Leisure to speed Christ's mission below, To teach the erring and raise the lowly; Plenty in Charity's name to show

That life has something divine and holy.

Boasted charms, classical brow,
Delicate features, look at them now;

Look at her lips-once they could smile;
Eyes, well, ne'ermore shall they beguile;

Nevermore, nevermore words of hers

A blush shall bring to the saintliest faca She had found, let us hope and trust, Peace in a higher and better place.

And yet, despite of all, still I ween
Joy of some hearth she must have been.
Some fond mother, fond of the task,

Has stooped to finger the dainty curl;
Some proud father has bowed to ask

A blessing for her, his darling girl. Hard to think, as we look at her there, Of all the tenderness, love and care, Lonely watching and sore heartacheAll the agony, burning tears, Joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, Breathed and suffered for her sweet sake.

Fancy will picture a home afar,

Out where the daisies and buttercups are;
Out where life-giving breezes flow,

Far from those sodden streets, foul and low;
Fancy will picture a lonely hearth,
And an aged couple, dead to mirth,
Kneeling beside a bed to pray,

Or lying awake o' nights to hark

For things that may come in the rain and dark-
A hollow-eyed woman with weary feet;
Better they never know

She whom they cherished so
Lies this night lone and low-
Dead in the street.

The Durham Pitman's Dog.

Heigh! keeper, spare that dog
An' let maa Pincher be;
Tie tiv his tail a cog,

But spare his life for me.

Thoo shot maa dog, thoo did;
He lay an' nivver powed;
He closed his eyes, he did,

An' nivver more bow-wowed.

He was the finest dog

That ivver blood warmed in

Aa found him in a bog,

Cawd deed, both flesh an' skin.

Aa bred the beast mesell,

A tarryer tiv a T;

Aa heerd our Jenny tell

His like we'll nivver see.

Aa pull'd the Bible oot,

An' there Aa writ his nyem;

Ax Jinny, if ye doot,

For she can tell the syem.