Or close the wall up with our English dead.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a

man

As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every

spirit

Listen! It is the knell
Of a passing soul-
The midnight lamentation
Of some stricken nation
For a chieftain's soul!
It is just begun,

The many-throated moan
Now the clangor swells
As if a milion bells

Had blent their tones in one!
Accents of despair

Are these to mortal ear;

But all this wild funereal music blown
And sifted through celestial air
Turns to triumphal pæans here!
Wave upon wave the silvery anthems
flow;

Wave upon wave the deep vibrations roll
From that dim sphere below.
Come, let us go-

Surely, some chieftain's soul!

-Thomas B. Aldrich.

My youth is past, and yet I am but

young,

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought for death and found it in the wombe,

I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe,

And now I die, and now I am but made. The glass is full, and vet my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done! -Chediock Ticheborne.

ALMA.

A battle in the Crimean War won by the Allies, over the Russians, Sept. 20, 1854.

Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be,

Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.

Yesterday unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known, Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown.

In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name,

And a star forever shining in their firmament of fame.

Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower and shrine, Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine;

Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head, Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead.

Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say— When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away

'He has passed from us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hillside.'