For he cares, not he, for a paltry life
As he rushes along to the goal,

It but costs him a shake of his iron limb
And a shriek from his mighty soul.

Yet I glory to think that I help to keep

His footsteps a little in place,

And he thunders his thanks as he rushes on
In the lightning speed of his race;

And I think that he knows when he looks at me
That, though made of clay as I stand,

I could make him as weak as a three-hours' child
With a paltry twitch of my hand.

But I trust in his strength and he trusts in me,
Though made but of brittle clay,

While he is bound in the toughest of steel
That tires not night nor day;

But for ever flashes, and stretches and strives,
While he shrieks in his smoky glee-

Hurrah for the puppets that, lost in their thoughts,
Could rub the lamp for me!

Oh, that some Roman-when Rome was great-
Some quick light Greek or two-

Could come from their graves for one half-hour
To see what my fellows can do ;

I would take them with me on this world's wild steed,
And give him a little rein;

Then rush with his clanking hoofs through space,
With a wreath of smoke for his mane.

I would say to them as they shook in their fear,
"Now, what is your paltry book,

Or the Phidian touch of the chisel's point
That can make the marble look,

THE ENGINE-DRIVER'S SONG.

To this monster of ours, that for ages lay

In the depths of the dreaming earth,

Till we brought him out with a cheer and shout,
And hammered him into birth."

Oh, see how he tosses aside the night,
And roars in his thirsty wrath,

While his one great eye gleams white with rage
At the darkness that muffles his path;
And lo! as the pent-up flame of his heart
Flashes out from behind its bars,

It gleams like a bolt flung from heaven and rears
A ladder of light to the stars.

Talk of the sea fleeing back in his wrath
By a line of unyielding stone,

Or the slender clutch of a thread-like bridge
That knits two valleys in one!

Talk of yon miracle-working wires,
And their world-embracing force;

O Heaven, give me the bits of steel

In the mouth of the thunder horse!

Ay, give me the heat of his fire-fed breast,

And the shake of his giant frame,

And the sinews that work like the shoulders of Jove

When he launches a bolt of flame;

And give me that Lilliput rider of his,

Stout and wiry and grim,

Who can vault on his back as he puffs his pipe,

And whisk the breath from him.

Then hurrah for our mighty engine, boys;

He may roar and fume along

For a hundred years ere a poet arise

To shrine him in worthy song;

41

Yet if one with the touch of the gods on his lips,

And his heart beating wildly and quick, Should rush into song at this demon of ours, Let him sing too the shovel and pick.

ALEX. ANDERSON.

PART IV.

Ballads.

THE COLOUR-BEARER.

THE shock of battle swept the lines,
And wounded men and slain
Lay thick as lie in summer fields,
The ridgy swathes of grain.

The deadly phalanx belched its fire,
The raking cannon pealed,
The lightning-flash of bayonets
Went glittering round the field.

On rushed the steady Twenty-Fourth
Against the bristling guns,

As if their gleams could daunt no more
Than that October sun's.

It mattered not though heads went down,
Though gallant steps were stayed,
Though rifles dropped from bleeding hands,
And ghastly gaps were made.

THE COLOUR-BEARER.

"Close up !"—was still the stern command,
And with unwavering tread,

They held right on, though well they knew
They tracked their way with dead.

As fast they pressed with labouring breathi,
Clinched teeth and knitted frown,
The sharp, arrestive cry rang out,—
"The colour-bearer's down!"

Quick to the front sprang, at the word,
The youngest of the band,

And caught the flag still tightly held
Within the fallen hand.

With cheer he reared it high again,
Yet claimed one instant's pause

To lift the dying head and see
What comrade's face it was.

"Forward!" the captain shouted loud,
Still "Forward !"—and the men
Snatched madly up the shrill command
And shrieked it out again.

But like a statue stood the boy,
Without a foot's advance,

Until the captain shook his arm,

And roused him from his trance.

-His home had flashed upon his sight,
The peaceful, sunny spot!

He did not hear the crashing shells,

Nor heed the hissing shot.

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He saw his mother wring her hands,
He caught his sister's shriek,-
And sudden anguish racked his brow,
And blanched his ruddy cheek.

The touch dissolved the spell, he knew, He felt the fearful stir;

He raised his head and softly said, "He was my brother, Sir !"

Then grasping firm the crimson flag
He flung it free and high,
While patriot-passion stanched his grief,
And drank its channels dry.

Between his close-set teeth he spake,
And hard he drew his breath,—
"God help me, Sir,—I'll bear this flag
To victory-or to death!"

The bellowing batteries thundered on,
The sulphurous smoke rose higher,
And from the columns in their front,
Poured forth the galling fire.

But where the bullets thickest fell,
Where hottest raged the fight,

The steady colours tossed aloft
Their blood-red trail of light.

Firm and indomitable still

The Twenty-Fourth moved on, A dauntless remnant only left,

The staunch three-score were gone!