ON THE DEATH OF HENRY HAVELOCK. NOVEMBER 1857.

MOURN but rejoice! the Hero dies,

But wearing glory's crown ;

Fate lifts his spirit to the skies,

And leaves us his renown.

A mark for ever is his name,

Who Treason's strength withstood;

And all immortal is his fame,

For he was great and good.

Destined the British sword to wield,
In duty's path he trod;

He nerved his soldiers for the field,

And trusted in his God.

His army answered worthily,

They knew their leader well; And all their deeds of chivalry

Proud history shall tell.

No numbers quelled-no hardships broke

They turned aside for none;

He gave the sign, the word he spoke,
The day was fought and won.

In two short months nine battles fought
Gave nine of victories gained;

But glory was too dearly bought-
Nothing for life remained.

Mourn but rejoice-rejoice but mourn !

Untimely was the blow,

The Star bestowed, but all unworn,

He never lived to know.

Choice are their country's gifts to those
Who proudly prize their birth,

And honours sweeten the repose

Of gallantry and worth.

Only the gloomy cypress frowned
O'er heart and head so true,

Whom gratitude afar had crowned

With titled laurels too.

Mourn but rejoice! he lived to see

His sacred hopes fulfilled,

That city saved from cruelty,

And women's anguish stilled.

This was the glory, this the prize
That God's own hand bestowed,
Then raised his spirit to the skies,
And loosened all his load.

In peace or war, in calm or strife,
Whoever thou may'st be,

Still trust in Him who gave thee life,

And He will care for thee:

When storms arise and dangers shock, And demons treason plan,

Remember Henry Havelock,

And be an Englishman.

REFLECTIONS AT MIDNIGHT.

LEAR shines the moon in midnight sky,

CLEAR

And calm the silent city sleeps,

Yet 'neath this halo from on high,

There must be many a heart that weeps!

Repose is still-must grief be loud?
Its deepest sighs we cannot hear;
The storm may pass-but ah! the cloud
That hangs, and rains the secret tear.

So secret that it waits the night
To shroud its glitter in her pall,

So deep that in the inward fight
The weeper scarcely heeds its fall.

And there's a grief that's deeper still,
The grief that e'en forbids the tear,
And burns the drop that Nature's skill

Has wrought, to water sorrow here.

Such grief finds life while others rest,
And, haply, now on some doth lie,
The tyrant of some aching breast

That would not live, and cannot die !

If so, ah! blessèd were the voice
That whispered in the sullen ear,
"Mourner, though thou canst not rejoice,
Look up, and see the sky is clear!"

And if perchance, with cold disdain

The listless ear were turned away,

As if resolved to nourish pain

The voice compassionate would say:

"How thinkest thou the moon could ride So clear in yon blue arc above,

If here, on grief and trouble's side,

Nothing were left of Peace and Love?

“While Heaven can claim her azure hue,

The clouds must break and cease to rain;

And Hope is here to whisper true,

And speak of happiness again :