But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

FASTer

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
wer

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

You know we French stormed Ratisbon :
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow,
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,"

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy :

You hardly could suspect

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through),

You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon !

The marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes :

"You're wounded!" " Nay," his soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside,
Smiling, the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace,

"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment
his roan

Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
our place;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole
weight

I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique Of the news which alone could save Aix from
right,
her fate,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the

brim,

And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let
fall,

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse with.
out peer,

Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise,
bad or good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is, friends flocking round,
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the
ground;

And no voice but was praising this Roland of
mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of

wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good
news from Ghent.

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS;* OR,
THE BRITISH SOLDIER IN CHINA.

And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next

["Some Seiks, and a private of the Buffs, having remained behind
day they were brought before the authorities and ordered to per
form Kotou. The Seiks obeyed, but Moyse, the English soldier,
declared he would not prostrate himself before any Chinainan alive,
and was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown

upon a dunghill.” — China Correspondent of the London Times. Į
LAST night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;

A drunken private of the Buffs,

Who never looked before.
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,

A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,

Bring cord or axe or flame,

He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

The "Buffs" are the East Kent regiment.

H