Nor column trophied for triumphal show?

None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so.

As the ground was before, thus let it be; How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!

And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?...

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose, with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;-- But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet-- But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is! it is!--the cannon's opening roar!

Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a b.l.o.o.d.y bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings; such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated! Who would guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star: While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! they come, they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose-- The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard--and heard too have her Saxon foes-- How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pa.s.s Grieving--if aught inanimate e'er grieves-- Over the unreturning brave--alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the gra.s.s, Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure; when this fiery ma.s.s Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of l.u.s.ty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal sound of strife; The morn the marshalling of arms; the day Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!

THE LAY OF THE BRAVE CAMERON.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

At Quatre Bras, when the fight ran high, Stout Cameron stood with wakeful eye, Eager to leap as a mettlesome hound, Into the fray with a plunge and a bound, But Wellington, lord of the cool command, Held the reins with a steady hand, Saying, "Cameron, wait, you'll soon have enough.

Give the Frenchmen a taste of your stuff, When the Cameron men are wanted."

Now hotter and hotter the battle grew, With tramp and rattle, and wild halloo, And the Frenchmen poured, like a fiery flood, Right on the ditch where Cameron stood.

Then Wellington flashed from his steadfast stance On his captain brave a lightning glance, Saying, "Cameron, now have at them, boy, Take care of the road to Charleroi, Where the Cameron men are wanted."

Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from a bow Into the midst of the plunging foe, And with him the lads whom he loved, like a torrent, Sweeping the rocks in its foamy current; And he fell the first in the fervid fray, Where a deathful shot had shove its way, But his men pushed on where the work was rough, Giving the Frenchmen a taste of their stuff, Where the Cameron men were wanted.

'Brave Cameron, then, front the battle's roar His foster-brother stoutly bore, His foster-brother with service true, Back to the village of Waterloo.

And they laid him on the soft green sod, And he breathed his spirit there to G.o.d, But not till he heard the loud hurrah Of victory billowed from Quatre Bras, Where the Cameron men were wanted.

By the road to Ghent they buried him then, This n.o.ble chief of the Cameron men, And not an eye was tearless seen That day beside the alley, green: Wellington wept--the iron man!

And from every eye in the Cameron clan The big round drop in bitterness fell, As with the pipes he loved so well His funeral wail they chanted.

And now he sleeps (for they bore him home, When the war was done across the foam), Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben, With his sires, the pride of the Cameron men.

Three thousand Highlandmen stood round, As they laid him to rest in his native ground; The Cameron brave, whose eye never quailed, Whose heart never sank, and whose hand never failed, Where a Cameron man was wanted.

A SONG FOR STOUT WORKERS.

BY JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

Onward, brave men, onward go, Place is none for rest below; He who laggeth faints and fails.

He who presses on prevails!

Monks may nurse their mouldy moods Caged in musty solitudes; Men beneath the breezy sky March to conquer or to die!

Work and live--this only charm Warms the blood and nerves the arm, As the stout pine stronger grows By each gusty blast that blows.

On high throne or lonely sod, Fellow-workers we with G.o.d; Then most like to Him when we March through toil to victory.

If there be who sob and sigh.

Let them sleep or let them die; While we live we strain and strive, Working most when most alive!

Where the fairest blossom grew, There the spade had most to do; Hearts that bravely serve the Lord, Like St. Paul, must wear the sword!

Onward, brothers, onward go!

Face to face to find the foe!

Words are weak, and wishing fails, But the well-aimed blow prevails!

AT THE BURIAL OF A VETERAN.

"Hodie tibi, cras mihii."

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Yours to-day and ours to-morrow, Hither, comrade, hence to go; Yours the joy and ours the sorrow, Yours the weal and ours the woe.

What the profit of the stronger?

Life is loss and death is gain; Though we live a little longer, Longer life is longer pain.

Which the better for the weary-- Longer travel? Longer rest?

Death is peace, and life is dreary: He must die who would be blest.

You have pa.s.sed across the borders, Death has led you safely home; We are standing, waiting orders, Ready for the word to come.

Empty-handed, empty-hearted, All we love have gone before, And since they have all departed, We are loveless evermore.

Yours to-day and ours to-morrow, Hither, comrade, hence to go; Yours the joy and ours the sorrow, Yours the weal and ours the woe.