motives dare now vindicate them, let no prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my country shall take her place among the nations of the earth- then and not till then let my epitaph be written!

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

CHARLES Wolfe.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,

But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory!

THE PASS IN THE INDIAN HILLS.

FREDERICK W. ROBERTSON. EXTRACTS.

DURING Sir Charles Napier's campaign against the robber tribes of Upper Scinde, a detachment of troops was marching along a valley, the cliffs overhanging which were crested by the enemy. A sergeant, with eleven men, chanced to become separated from the rest by taking the wrong side of a ravine which they expected soon to terminate but which suddenly deepened into an

impassable chasm. The officer in command signalled to the party an order to return. They mistook the signal for a command to charge; the brave fellows answered with a cheer, and charged. At the summit of the steep mountain was a triangular platform, defended by a breastwork behind which were seventy of the foe. On they went, charging up one of those fearful paths, eleven against seventy. The contest could not long be doubtful with such odds. One after another they fell, six on the spot, the remainder hurled backward; but not until they had slain nearly twice their own number.

There is a custom, we are told, amongst the hillsmen, that when a great chieftain of their own falls in battle, his wrist is bound with a thread either of green or red, the red denoting the highest rank. According to custom, they stripped the dead, and threw their bodies. over the precipice. When their comrades came, they found their corpses stark and gashed; but round both wrists of every British hero was twined the red thread!

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

(The Duke of Wellington.)

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

A MIST was driving down the British Channel,
The day was just begun;

And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
And the white sails of ships;

And from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover
Were all alert that day

To see the French war-steamers speeding over
When the fog cleared away.

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,

Their cannon through the night,

Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations
On every citadel;

Each answering each, with morning salutations,
That all was well!

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 sun from the black forts' embrasure
Awaken with their 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 passed 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 hoar

Ah, what a blow! — that made all England tremble, And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,

The sun rose bright o'erhead — Nothing in Nature's aspect indicated

That a great man was dead.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

MARY E. BRADDON.

THE wistful hound creeps, listening, to the door;

The favorite steed stands idle in the stall; The wild-fowl, fearless, flutter on the moor; The old retainers linger in the hall;