We had held on through the dusk, and we had held on in the light
Of the burning house; and later, in the dimness of the night,
They could see our fairer faces; we could find them by their cries,
By the flash of savage weapons and the glare of savage eyes.

With the midnight came a change—­that angry sea at length was cowed,
Its waves still broke upon us, but fell fainter and less loud;
When the ‘pale face’ of the dawn rose glimmering from his bed
The last black sullen wave swept off and bore away the dead.

That island all abloom with English youth, and fortified
With English valour, stood above the wild, retreating tide;
Those lads contemned Canute, and shamed the lesson that he read,—­
For them the hungry waves withdrew, the howling ocean fled.

Britannia, rule, Britannia! while thy sons resemble thee,
And are islanders, true islanders, wherever they may be;
Island fortified like this, manned with islanders like these,
Will keep thee Lady of thy Land, and Sovereign of all Seas!

RELIEVED!

(AT MAFEKING.)

        Said he of the relieving force,
          As through the town he sped,
        “Art thou in Baden-Powell’s Horse?”
          The trooper shook his head,
        Then drew his hand his mouth across,
          Like one who’s lately fed. 
        “Alas! for Baden-Powell’s horse—­
          It’s now in me,” he said.—­Daily Express.

HOW SAM HODGE WON THE VICTORIA CROSS.

BY WILLIAM JEFFREY PROWSE.

Just a simple little story I’ve a fancy for inditing;
  It shows the funny quarters in which chivalry may lodge,
A story about Africa, and Englishmen, and fighting,
  And an unromantic hero by the name of Samuel Hodge.

“Samuel Hodge!” The words in question never previously filled a
  Conspicuous place in fiction or the Chronicles of Fame;
And the Blood and Culture critics, or the Rosa and Matilda
  School of Novelists would shudder at the mention of the name.

It was up the Gambia River—­and of that unpleasant station
  It is chiefly in connection with the fever that we hear!—­
That my hero with the vulgar and prosaic appellation
  Was a private—­mind, a private!—­and a sturdy pioneer.

It’s a dreary kind of region, where the river mists arising
  Roll slowly out to seaward, dropping poison in their track. 
And accordingly few gentlemen will find the fact surprising
  That a rather small proportion of our garrison comes back!

It is filthy, it is foetid, it is sordid, it is squalid;
  If you tried it for a season, you would very soon repent;
But the British trader likes it, and he finds a reason solid
  For the liking, in his profit at the rate of cent, per cent.