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Thereafter his hearers noted

In his prayers a tenderer strain,
And never the gospel of hatred
Burned on his lips again.

And the scoffing tongue was prayerful,
And the blinded eyes found sight,
And hearts, as flint aforetime,

Grew soft in his warmth and light.

The Bivouac Fire.

(Verse printed as Prose.)

Round the bivouac fire, at midnight, lay the weary soldierband; bloody were their spears with slaughter, gory was each hero's hand, for the ghastly strife was ended: From each soul a whisper came— "God of battles, we have triumphed; hallowed be Thy holy name!" It was beautiful, at midnight, when the bloody war was done, when the battle clashed no longer, and no longer blazed the sun, calmly, in the balmy starlight, to repose outwearied limbs; not a sound to stir the stillness, save the sound of holy hymns: "Thou hast given us the glory: Thou hast bade our troubles cease: Thou art great as God of battles: Thou art best as God of peace!"

Pensive, by the gleaming firelight, mute one lonely Soldier stood; in his hand he grasped a paper, scrawled in letters large and crude-in his gory hands he grasped it; and the tender childlike tear, from his manful bosom welling, bathed the blood upon his spear! Then the gory paper oped he, scrawled in letters crude and wild-"Little news from England, comrades; 'tis a letter from my child!"

"O my father! what hath kept you? You are nigh three years away; it was snowtime when you left us-this is morn of new year's day. 'Goodbye, baby, until summer, or till Christmas-time,' you said: O my father! what hath kept you? summer, Christmas, twice have fled. Mother says your war is holy-that you bear a noble name-that you fight for God and honour, and to shield our home from shame; yet I often hear her praying: 'Make all war, O God, to cease: Thou art great as God of battles: Thou art best as God of peace.' Night and morn I pray for father; in the sunny morning hours I am often in the garden; I have sown your name in flowers-like your coat, in flowers of scarlet, all in tulips soldier-red. Come, before the flowers are faded-come, before your name is dead!

Little brother died at Christmas-mother told me not to tell--but I think it better, father, for you said, 'The dead are well.' He was buried side o Mary; mother since has never smiled. Till we meet, good-bye, dear father... from your LOVING LITTLE CHILD."

Silent wore the night to morning-silent, at their soul's desire, lay the soldiers, lost in dreaming, round the dying bivouac fire: home were they again in England! miles were they from war's alarms!.. Hark! the sudden bugle sounding! hark! the cry, "To arms! to arms!" Out from ambush, out from thicket, charged the foemen through the plain; “Up, my warriors! arm, my heroes! strike for God and home again!-for our homes, our babes, our country!" and the ruddy morning light flared on brandished falchions, bloody still with gore of yesternight.

Purple grew the plain with slaughter, steed and rider side by side; and the crimson day of carnage in a crimson sunset died: shuddering on the field of battle glimpsed the starlight overhead; and the moonlight, ghostlike, glimmered on the dying and the dead. Faint and few around the firelight were the laid out wearied limbs-faint and few the hero-voices that uprose in holy hymns; few the warriors left to whisper, "Thou hast cast our foes to shame: God of battles, we have triumphed; hallowed be Thy mighty name!"

On the purple plain of slaughter, who is this that smiles in rest, with a shred of gory paper lying on his mangled breast? nought remaining save a fragment, scrawled in letters crude and wild-"Till we meet, good-bye, dear father, from your loving little child!" Raise him softly, lift him gently; staunch his life-blood ebbing slow; he is breathing! he is whispering! What is this he mutters low? "Saved! my child-my home-my country! FATHER, give my pangs release: Thou art great as God of battles: Thou art best as God of peace."

The Three Preachers.

(Verse printed as Prose.) There are Three Preachers, ever preaching, filled with eloquence and power:-one is old, with locks of white, skinny as an anchorite: and he preaches, every hour, with a

shrill fanatic voice, and a bigot's fiery scorn:-" -"Backward! ye presumptuous nations; man to misery is born! born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer-born to labour and to pray! Backward, ye presumptuous nations-back! be humble, and obey!"

The Second is a milder Preacher; soft he talks, as if he sung; sleek and slothful in his look, and his words, as from a book, issue glibly from his tongue. With an air of selfcontent high he lifts his fair white hands: "Stand ye still, ye restless nations, and be happy, all ye lands ! Fate is law, and law is perfect; if ye meddle, ye will mar; change is rash, and ever was so we are happy as we are!"

Mightier is the Younger Preacher; genius flashes from his eyes; and the crowds who hear his voice give him, while their souls rejoice, throbbing bosoms for replies. Awed they listen, yet elated, while his stirring accents call: "Forward! ye deluded nations; Progress is the rule of all: Man was made for healthful effort; Tyranny has crushed him long: he shall march from good to better, and do battle with the wrong.

On

"Standing still is childish folly, going backward is a crime: none should patiently endure any ill that he can cure. ward keep the march of Time! Onward! While a wrong remains to be conquered by the right; while Oppression lifts a finger to affront us by his might; while an error clouds the reason of the universal heart, or a slave awaits his freedomaction is the wise man's part.

"Lo! the world is rich in blessings; Earth and Ocean, Flame and Wind, have unnumbered secrets still, to be ran sacked, when you will, for the service of mankind: Science is a child, as yet; but her power and scope shall grow, and her triumphs in the future shall diminish toil and woe; shall extend the bounds of pleasure with an ever-widening ken; and, of woods and wildernesses, make the homes of happy men.

"Onward!—there are ills to conquer; daily, wickedness is wrought; Tyranny is swoln with Pride, Bigotry is deified, Error intertwined with Thought; Vice and Misery ramp and crawl: root them out, their day has passed; Goodness is alone immortal, Evil was not made to last: Onward! and all Earth shall aid us ere our peaceful flag be furled!"-And the preaching of this Preacher stirs the pulses of the world.

The Red Thread of Honour.

Eleven 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,

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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 wristGreen for the brave, for heroes

One crimson thread we twist.

Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen,
For these, whose life has fled,
Which is the fitting colour,

The green one, or the red?"

"Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear
Their green reward," each noble savage said ;
"To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear,
Who dares deny the red?"

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right,
Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came;
Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height
Rolled back its loud acclaim.

Once more the chief gazed keenly

Down on those daring dead;

From his good sword their hearts' blood
Crept to that crimson thread.

Once more he cried, "The judgment,

Good friends, is wise and true, But though the red be given,

Have we not more to do?

"These were not stirred by anger,
Nor yet by lust made bold;
Renown they thought above them,
Nor did they look for gold,
To them their leader's signal
Was as the voice of God:
Unmoved, and uncomplaining,
The path it showed they trod.
"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

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