Yet louder at the solemn portal,

The trumpet floats and waits;
And still more wide, in living pride,
Fly back the golden gates.

And those from Inkerman swarm onwards,
Who made the dark fight good-
One man to nine, till their thin line
Lay, where at first it stood.

But though cheered high by mailed millions
Their steps were faint and slow,

In each proud face the eye might trace
A sign of coming woe.

A coming woe which deepened ever,
As down that darkening road,
Our bravest tossed to plague and frost,
In streams of ruin flowed.

All through that dim despairing winter,
Too noble to complain,

Bands hunger-worn, in raiment torn,
Came, not by foeman slain.

And patient, from the sullen trenches
Crowds sunk, by toil and cold-
Then murmurs slow, like thunders low,
Wailed through the brave of old.

Wrath glided o'er the Hall of Heroes,
Anguish, and shame, and scorn,

As clouds that drift, breathe darkness swift
O'er seas of shining corn.

Wrath glided o'er the Hall of Heroes,
And veiled it like a pall,

Whilst all felt fear, lest they should hear
The Lion-banner fall.

And if unstained that ancient banner

Keep yet its place of pride,

Let none forget how vast the debt
We owe to those who died.

Let none forget THE OTHERS, marching
With steps we feel no more,

Whose bodies sleep, by that grim deep

Which shakes the Euxine shore.

Sir F. Doyle.

THE LAST BUCCANIER.

OH England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high,
But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;
And such a port for mariners I shall ne'er see again
As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,
All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;
And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free
To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,

Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

Oh the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like

gold.

And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;
And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee,
To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

Oh sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze
A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,
With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar
Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the
shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be ;

So the King's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were

we.

All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night;

And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,

Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she

died;

But as I lay a gasping, a Bristol sail came by,

And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going-I'm sure I can't tell where;
One comfort is, this world's so hard. I can't be worse off

there :

If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main,
To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again.

C. Kingsley.

HERVÉ RIEL.

I.

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
Did the English fight the French,-woe to France!
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue,
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,
With the English fleet in view.

II.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfre

ville;

Close on him fled, great and small,

Twenty-two good ships in all;

And they signalled to the place

'Help the winners of a race!

Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick—or, quicker still,

Here's the English can and will!'

III.

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; 'Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass ?'

laughed they :

'Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,

Shall the Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,
And with flow at full beside ?

Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.
Reach the mooring? Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay!'

IV.

Then was called a council straight.

Brief and bitter the debate :

'Here's the English at our heels, would you have them take in

tow

All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!' (Ended Damfreville his speech). 'Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate.

V.

I Give the word!' But no such word

Was ever spoke or heard ;

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these -A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate-first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet

With his betters to compete!

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.