On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw,
The burn rins blithe and fain:
There's nought wi' me I wadna gie
To look thereon again.

On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide:
There sounds nae hunting-horn

That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat
Round banks where Tyne is born.

The Wansbeck sings with all her springs
The bents and braes give ear;

But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings

I may not see nor hear;

For far and far thae blithe burns are,

And strange is a' thing near.

The light there lightens, the day there brightens, The loud wind there lives free:

Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me That I wad hear or see.

But O gin I were there again,

Afar ayont the faem,

Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed

That haps my sires at hame!

We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair,
And the sweet grey gleaming sky,
And the lordly strand of Northumberland,
And the goodly towers thereby;

And none shall know but the winds that blow
The graves wherein we lie.

CXIX

THE REVEILLÉ

HARK! I hear the tramp of thousands,
And of armed men the hum;

Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered
Round the quick alarming drum,—
Saying, 'Come,

Freemen, come!

Ere your heritage be wasted,' said the quick alarming drum.

'Let me of my heart take counsel: War is not of life the sum;

Who shall stay and reap the harvest

When the autumn days shall come?
But the drum

Echoed, 'Come!

Death shall reap the braver harvest,' said the solemn-sounding drum.

'But when won the coming battle,
What of profit springs therefrom?

What if conquest, subjugation,
Even greater ills become?'

But the drum

Answered, 'Come!

You must do the sum to prove it,' said the Yankee

answering drum.

'What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,

Whistling shot and bursting bomb,

When my brothers fall around me,

Should my heart grow cold and numb?'

But the drum

Answered, 'Come!

Better there in death united, than in life a recreant,

-Come!'

Thus they answered,-hoping, fearing,

Some in faith, and doubting some,

Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming,

Said, 'My chosen people, come!'
Then the drum,

Lo! was dumb,

For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, 'Lord, we come!'

CXX

WHAT THE BULLET SANG

O Joy of creation

To be!

O rapture to fly

And be free!

Be the battle lost or won

Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
I shall find my love-the one

Born for me!

I shall know him where he stands,
All alone,

With the power in his hands

Not o'erthrown;

I shall know him by his face,
By his god-like front and grace;
I shall hold him for a space
All my own!

It is he-O my love!
So bold!

It is I-All thy love

Foretold!

It is I. O love! what bliss!
Dost thou answer to my kiss?
O sweetheart! what is this

Lieth there so cold?

Bret Harte.

CXXI

A BALLAD OF THE ARMADA

KING Philip had vaunted his claims;

He had sworn for a year he would sack us;

With an army of heathenish names

He was coming to fagot and stack us;

Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,

And shatter our ships on the main;

But we had bold Neptune to back us—
And where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames

He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;

Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again,

And Hawkins bowl rubbers to BacchusFor where are the galleons of Spain?

Let his Majesty hang to St. James

The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some lustier games

Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain;

Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!But where are the galleons of Spain?

ENVOY

GLORIANA !-the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain;

He must reach us before he can rack us, And where are the galleons of Spain?

Dobson.

CXXII

THE WHITE PACHA

VAIN is the dream! However Hope may rave,
He perished with the folk he could not save,
And though none surely told us he is dead,
And though perchance another in his stead,
Another, not less brave, when all was done,
Had fled unto the southward and the sun,
Had urged a way by force, or won by guile
To streams remotest of the secret Nile,