Of his efforts in a philosophic vein, "The Platonist" (p. 261) may be cited, as also may the "Epicurean," which we venture to quote here.

"How gently, beautiful and calm,
The quiet river murmurs by;

How soft the light, how full of balm

The breeze that soothes the dark'ning sky!

"In every clime, in every state,

We may be happy if we will;
Man wrestles against iron fate,

And then complains of pain and ill.

"The flowers, the beasts, the very heaven,
Calmly their destined paths pursue;
All take the pleasures that are given,
We only find them short and few.

"Oh that mankind, alive to truth,

Would cease a hopeless war to wage;
Would reap in youth the joys of youth,-
In age the peacefulness of age!

"Upon an everlasting tide

Into the silent seas we go;
But verdure laughs along the side,
And roses on the margin blow.

"Nor life, nor death, nor aught they hold,
Rate thou above their natural height;
Yet learn that all our eyes behold,
Has value, if we mete it right.

"Pluck then the flowers that line the stream,
Instead of fighting with its power;

But pluck as flowers, not gems, nor deem
That they will bloom beyond their hour.

"Whate'er betides, from day to day,
An even pulse and spirit keep;
And like a child, worn out with play,

When wearied with existence, sleep."

Two of his poems, published after the date of his last volume, deserve notice: "The Battle of Famars" (celebrating the heroic deed of his grandfather, Welbore Ellis Doyle, who rallied his regimentfourteenth of the line, and, under a heavy fire, took the fortified Camp of Famars). This had appeared in The Cornhill Magazine, and he reprinted it near the end of the "Reminiscences." And, second, a tribute to the memory of General Gordon, with which that volume closes. Both are in his finest ballad vein. Here are a few stanzas from the latter-altogether worthy of the subject:

"In Eastern skies the Dawn grows red,
But yet yon Heaven itself must know,
That those young morning beams are shed,
Upon a poorer world below;

He who for England, helped by none,

So long his crushing burdens bore,

As grand and lonely as the sun,

Set yesterday to rise no more.

Oh Mother England! faint not yet,

But teach us how to strive like him;

There burns a hope before us set,

A Beacon never waning dim.

If we, through Gordon's strength grow strong,
And nurse within us, living still

That it may lead our steps along,

A Presence from his heart and will;
We shall press forward to our goal,
Sustained by echoes from the Past,
Sustained by Him-whose Death-notes toll
Sublime as any, though the last;
Yes; we must follow on his track,
Like those, who coming from afar,
To Bethlehem, never looking back,
Followed in faith that sudden star."

ALEX. H. JAPpp.

POEMS.

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE,

1.-MEHRAB KHAN.

"Mehrab Khan died, as he said he would, sword in hand, at the door of his own Zenana.”—Capture of Kelat.

WITH all his fearless chiefs around

WITH

The Moslem leader stood forlorn,
And heard at intervals, the sound
Of drums athwart the desert borne,
To him a sign of fate, they told

That Britain in her wrath was nigh,
And his great heart its powers unrolled
In steadiness of will to die.

"Ye come, in your mechanic force,

A soulless mass of strength and skillYe come, resistless in your course,

What matters it ?-'Tis but to kill. A serpent in the bath, a gust

Of venomed breezes through the door, Have power to give us back to dust

Has all your grasping empire more?

"Your thousand ships upon the sea,
Your guns and bristling squares by land,
Are means of death-and so may be
A dagger in a damsel's hand.

Put forth the might you boast, and try
If it can shake my seated will;
By knowing when and how to die,
I can escape, and scorn you still

"The noble heart, as from a tower,

Looks down on life that wears a stain He lives too long who lives an hour

Beneath the clanking of a chain. I breathe my spirit on my sword,

I leave a name to honour known, And perish, to the last the lord

Of all that man can call his own."

Such was the mountain leader's speech;
Say ye, who tell the bloody tale,
When havoc smote the howling breach,
Then did the noble savage quail?

No-when through dust, and steel, and flame,
Hot streams of blood, and smothering smoke,
True as an arrow to its aim,

The meteor-flag of England broke;

And volley after volley threw

A storm of ruin, crushing all,

Still cheering on a faithful few,

He would not yield his father's hall.

At his yet unpolluted door

He stood, a lion-hearted man,

And died, A FREEMAN STILL, before

The merchant thieves of Frangistan.

II. THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR.

TOLD TO THE AUTHOR BY THE LATE SIR CHARLES JAMES NAPIER.

LEVEN men of England

A breast-work charged in vain ;

Eleven men of England

Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain.

Slain; but of foes that guarded
Their rock-built fortress well,
Some twenty had been mastered,
When the last soldier fell.

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way
Across the sand-waves of the desert sea,
Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay,
Lord of their wild Truckee.

These missed the glen to which their steps were bent,
Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard,
And, in that glorious error, calmly went
To death without a word.

The robber-chief mused deeply,
Above those daring dead;
"Bring here," at length he shouted,
"Bring quick, the battle thread.
Let Eblis blast for ever

Their souls, if Allah will:
But we must keep unbroken
The old rules of the Hill.

"Before the Ghiznee tiger

Leapt forth to burn and slay;

Before the holy Prophet

Taught our grim tribes to pray;

Before Secunder's lances

Pierced through each Indian glen;

The mountain laws of honour

Were framed for fearless men.

"Still when a chief dies bravely,
We bind with green one wrist-
Green for the brave, for heroes

One crimson thread we twist.