And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure Awaken with its call!

No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal Be seen upon his post!

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall has scaled.

He pa.s.sed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew and deeper The silence and the gloom.

He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden h.o.a.r; Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble, And groan from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead: Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead.

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

BY FELICIA HEMANS.

Son of the ocean isle!

Where sleep your mighty dead?

Show me what high and stately pile Is reared o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free, the white sail spread!

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains, By the pyramid o'erswayed, With fearful power the noon-day reigns, And the palm-trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun From Heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!

_There_ slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might Along the Indian sh.o.r.e, And far, by Ganges' banks at night, Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone;-- _There_ slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods The western wilds among, And free, in green Columbia's woods, The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on!

Let the arrow's flight be sped!

Why should _they_ reck whose task is done?

_There_ slumber England's dead.

The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

But let the storms rage on!

Let the forest-wreaths be shed: For the Roncesvalles' field is won,-- _There_ slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose 'Tis a dark and dreadful hour When round the ship the ice-fields close, And the northern-night-clouds lour;

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread!

_Their_ course with mast and flag is done, Even _there_ sleep England's dead.

The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave!

Are not the rocks their funeral piles?

The seas and sh.o.r.es their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free the white sail spread!

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

MEHRAB KHAN.

BY SIR F.H. DOYLE.

["Mehrab Khan died, as he said he would, sword in hand, at the door of his own Zenana."--_Capture of Kelat_.]

(1839.)

With all his fearless chiefs around The Moslem leader stood forlorn, And heard at intervals the sound Of drums athwart the desert borne.

To him a sign of fate, they told That Britain in her wrath was nigh, And his great heart its powers unrolled In steadiness of will to die.

"Ye come, in your mechanic force, A soulless ma.s.s of strength and skill-- Ye come, resistless in your course, What matters it?--'Tis but to kill.

A serpent in the bath, a gust Of venomed breezes through the door, Have power to give us back to dust-- Has all your grasping empire more?

"Your thousand ships upon the sea, Your guns and bristling squares by land, Are means of death--and so may be A dagger in a damsel's hand.

Put forth the might you boast, and try If it can shake my seated will; By knowing when and how to die, I can escape, and scorn you still.

"The n.o.ble heart, as from a tower, Looks down on life that wears a stain; He lives too long who lives an hour Beneath the clanking of a chain.

I breathe my spirit on my sword, I leave a name to honour known, And perish, to the last the lord Of all that man can call his own."

Such was the mountain leader's speech; Say ye, who tell the b.l.o.o.d.y tale, When havoc smote the howling breach, Then did the n.o.ble savage quail?

No--when through dust, and steel, and flame, Hot streams of blood, and smothering smoke, True as an arrow to its aim, The meteor-flag of England broke;

And volley after volley threw A storm of ruin, crushing all, Still cheering on a faithful few, He would not yield his father's hall.

At his yet unpolluted door He stood, a lion-hearted man, And died, A FREEMAN STILL, before The merchant thieves of Frangistan.

THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR.