"As without sound or struggle,
The stars, unhurrying, march,
Where Allah's finger guides them,
Through yonder purple arch,
These Franks, sublimely silent
Without a quickened breath,
Went, in the strength of duty,
Straight to their goal of death.

"If I were now to ask you,
To name our bravest man,
Ye all at once would answer
They called him Mehrab Khan.
He sleeps among his fathers,
Dear to our native land,

With the bright mark he bled for,
Firm round his faithful hand.

"The songs they sing of Roostum
Fill all the past with light;

If truth be in their music
He was a noble knight.
But were these heroes living,
And strong for battle still,
Would Mehrab Khan or Roostum

Have climbed, like these, the Hill ?"

And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave, As chief, he chose himself what risks to run ; Prince Roostum lied, his forfeit life to save,

Which these have never done."

Enough!" he shouted fiercely : Doomed though they be to hell, Bind fast the crimson trophy

Round both wrists-bind it well.

BILL'S ENGINE.

Who knows but that great Allah

May grudge such matchless men, With none so decked in heaven,

To the fiend's flaming den ?"

Then all those gallant robbers
Shouted a stern "Amen!"

They raised the slaughtered sergeant--
They raised his mangled ten.
And when we found their bodies
Left bleaching in the wind,
Around BOTH wrists in glory

That crimson thread was twined.

Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core,
Rung, like an echo, to that knightly deed':
He bade its memory live for evermore,

That those who run may read.

SIR FRANCIS DOYLE.

BILL'S ENGINE.

THE way that it came about was this-
I was stoker for over two years to Bill,
But something was always going amiss
With that creaking confounded engine still.

We never ran time, and were always late;
Now a throttle valve would get choked and stop,

Then an axle grew hot as a coal in the grate;

Next a tube would be burst and into the shop.

I11

How glum Bill looked when delays took place,
He would chew till his lips were almost black ;
Then he'd say, looking grimly into my face,

“I wish I was rid of this engine, Jack !”

But she stuck to us still, like one of the Fates,
Snorting and creaking on until

A sort of proverb grew up with our mates—
“Six hours behind time, like Jack and Bill !”

Well, one night on our way through Deepside Moss—
It was our turn out with the Midnight Goods—
Bill had raved at the engine till he was cross,
And had now slunk into his sleepy moods;

When, just as I lifted up my head

From the furnace door, there right in front (I had missed the signal standing red)

Was a mineral train that had stopped to shunt.

I shut off the steam, and I shook up Bill

"For God's sake look out”—when with one wild roar, And a crash that is making my ears ring still, We pitched into the train, and I knew no more.

When I came to myself I was down on the bank,
Half a yard from my head lay a waggon wheel,
With its axle twisted and bent like a crank,
But no hurt was upon me that I could feel.

Then I heard coming downward the sound of speech,
And, struggling up to the top, I found
That engine and tender lay piled on each,

With a fence-work of waggons and vans around.

NIGHT ON THE LAKE.

113

“What a smash!" said the Guard, and I asked, “Where's Bill ?" He turned, and the light of his lamp was cast

On a form at my feet, lying stiff and still:

Bill had got rid of his engine at last.

ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

NIGHT ON THE LAKE.

I LIE in my red canoe,

On the water still and deep,
And o'er me darkens the blue,
And beneath the billows sleep,

Till, between the star o'erhead
And those in the lake's embrace,
I seem to float like the dead
In the noiselessness of space.

And out of the height above,
And out of the deep below,
A thought that is like a ghost

Seems to gather and gain and grow.

That now and for evermore

This silence of death shall hold,

While the nation's fade and die

And the countless years are rolled.

But I turn the light canoe,

And, darting across the night,

Am glad of the paddles' noise
And the camp-fire's honest light.

EDWARD KEARSLEY.

H

PADDLE-SONG.

THE mist is thick, the waters quick,
And fast we flit along;

The foam-bells flash, the paddles splash:
Sing us a merry song.

What's this I see come swift to me

Across the rapids dark?

A princess fair, with yellow hair,

A red canoe of bark.

Her golden hair floats thick and fair,

Far, far behind her lee,

And pike and trout come quickly out
Her merry locks to see.

With a silver gun, a silver gun,

The tall white swan she slew :

He moaned a hymn, his sight grew dim, It might have been I or you.

The feathers, white as the still moonlight, Toss red on the waters free,

And gay trout break the silent lake

The small white boats to see.

The round white ball has found his heart: It might have hit you or me.

The round white ball has found his heart:

Ah sad ah sad to see!