KILLED IN ACTION.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

          For him no words, the best were only weak
          And could not say what love desires to speak;
          For him no praise, no prizes did he ask,
          To serve his Queen was a sufficient task;
          For him no show, no idle tears be shed,
          No fading laurels on that lowly head. 
          He fought for England, and for her he fell
          And did his duty then—­and it is well.

          He deemed it but a little act, to give
          His life and all, if Freedom thus might live;
          And though he found the shock of battle rough,
          He might not flinch—­the glory was enough. 
          What if he broke, who would not tamely bend? 
          He strove for us, and craved no other end. 
          Nor should we ring too long his dying knell,
          He has a soldier’s crown—­and it is well.

          For him the tomb that is a nation’s heart,
          And doth endure when crumbling stones depart;
          To him the honour, like the brave to stand,
          With those who were in danger our right hand;
          For him no empty epitaph of dust,
          But that he kept for England safe her trust. 
          He is not dead; but, over war’s loud swell,
          Heard he his Captain’s call—­and it is well.

AT THE BREACH.

BY SARAH WILLIAMS.

               All over for me
        The struggle and possible glory! 
               All swept past,
        In the rush of my own brigade. 
               Will charges instead,
        And fills up my place in the story;
               Well,—­’tis well,
        By the merry old games we played.

There’s a fellow asleep, the lout! in the shade of the hillock
     yonder;
What a dog it must be to drowse in the midst of a time like this! 
Why, the horses might neigh contempt at him; what is he like, I
     wonder? 
If the smoke would but clear away, I have strength in me yet to hiss.

               Will, comrade and friend,
          We parted in hurry of battle;
               All I heard
          Was your sonorous, “Up, my men!”
               Soon conquering paeans
          Shall cover the cannonade’s rattle;
               Then, home bells,
          Will you think of me sometimes, then?

How that rascal enjoys his snooze!  Would he wake to the touch of
     powder? 
A reveille of broken bones, or a prick of a sword might do. 
“Hai, man! the general wants you;” if I could but for once call
     louder: 
There is something infectious here, for my eyelids are dropping too.