pompous display of honors to the memory of some veteran patriot, who was suffered to linger out his latter days in unregarded penury!

"How proud we can press to the funeral array

Of him whom we shunned in his sickness and sorrow;
And bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day,

Whose pall shall be borne up by heroes to-morrow."

We are profuse in our expressions of gratitude to the soldiers of the revolution. We can speak long and loud in their praise, but when asked to bestow something substantial upon them, we hesitate and palter. To them we owe every thing, even the soil which we tread, and the air of freedom which we breathe. Let us not turn them houseless from habitations which they have erected, and refuse them even a pittance from the exuberant fruits of their own labors. FROM SPRAGUE.

CCLIV. HECTOR.

THE siege and destruction of Troy is the subject of Homer's Iliad. Priam was its king. His son Hector was its bravest and most successful defender, but was, at last, slain by Achilles, one of the assailing Greeks. Cassandra was a sister of Hector. The following is from Pope's translation.

AURORA; morning. ILION; Troy.

Now shed Aurora round her saffron ray,

Sprung through the gates of light, and gave the day:
Charged with their mournful load, to Ilion go

The sage and king, majestically slow.
Cassandra first beholds, from Ilion's spire,
The sad procession of her hoary sire,

Then, as the pensive pomp advanced more near,
Her breathless brother stretched upon the bier;
A shower of tears o'erflows her beauteous eyes,
Alarming thus all Ilion with her cries.

"Turn here your steps, and here your eyes employ,
Ye wretched daughters, and ye sons of Troy !

If e'er ye rushed in crowds, with vast delight,
To hail your hero, glorious from the fight;
Now meet him dead, and let your sorrows flow!
Your common triumph, and your common woe."

In thronging crowds they issue to the plains,
Nor man, nor woman in the walls remains,
In every face the self-same grief is shown,
And Troy sends forth one universal groan.
Even to the palace the sad pomp they wait;
They weep, and place him on the bed of state.
A melancholy choir attend around,

With plaintive sighs, and music's solemn sound:
Alternately they sing, alternate flow

The obedient tears, melodious in their woe.
While deeper sorrows groan from each full heart,
And nature speaks at every pause of art.

แ

Then to the corse the weeping consort flew;

Around his neck her milk-white arms she threw,

And, oh my Hector! oh my lord!" she cries,

"Snatched in thy bloom from these desiring eyes.
Thou to the dismal realms forever gone!

And I abandoned, desolate, alone!
Our Ilion now, her great defender slain,
Will sink a smoking ruin on the plain.

Who now protects her wives with guardian care?
Who saves her infants from the rage of war?
Now hostile fleets must waft those infants o'er,
Those wives must wait them on a foreign shore!

Why gav'st thou not to me thy dying hand?
And why received not I thy last command?
Some word thou wouldst have spoke, which sadly dear,
My soul might keep, or utter with a tear;
Which never, never, could be lost in air,
Fixed in my heart, and oft-repeated there!"
FROM HOMER.

CCLV.-ENGLAND'S DEAD.

Go, stranger! track the deep,

Free, free, the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'erswayed,
With fearful power the noon-day reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade.
But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!
There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,

And far, by Ganges' banks at night,

Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread

For those that from their toils are gone;
There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on!

Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done? There slumber England's dead!

On the frozen deep's repose 'Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, To chain her with their power.

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread!

Their course with mast and flag is done,
There slumber England's dead.

FROM MRS. HEMANS.

CCLVI. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

DURING the siege of Sebastopol, an English officer received orders to attack with his small force a very large body of Russians, who were defended by heavy batteries. Though suspecting from the disproportion, some mistake, he charged with such promptness and courage, that the enemy, astonished to see this brave handful rushing into the jaws of death, were brought to a sudden stand, and had the attack been seconded, it is supposed that important results might have followed. A small portion only succeeded in regaining their ranks. It proved afterward that a mistake in the bearer of the order, cost this useless sacrifice of life.

This event is celebrated in the following lines by Tennyson, Poet Laureate of England.

แ

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of death,

Rode the six hundred.

Charge!" was the captain's cry;
Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs but to do or die;

Into the valley of death, rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,

Into the mouth of hell,

Into the jaws of death, rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

They that had struck so well

Rode through the jaws of death,

Half a league back again,

Up from the mouth of hell,

All that was left of them, left of six hundred.

Honor the brave and bold!
Long shall the tale be told,
Yes, when our babes are old,
How they rode onward.

FROM TENNYSON.

CCLVII. THE ONSET.

RED ROSE, in the last stanza, refers to the wars between the houses of York and Lancaster for the English throne. The red rose was adopted by one party as its emblem, and the white rose by the other.

SOUND an alarum! The foe is come!

I hear the tramp, the neigh, the hum,

The cry, and the blow of his daring drum:

Huzza!

Sound! The blast of our trumpet blown
Shall carry dismay into hearts of stone.
What! shall we shake at a foe unknown?
Huzza! huzza!

Have we not sinews as strong as they?
Have we not hearts that ne'er gave way?
Have we not God on our side to-day?

Huzza!

Look! they are staggered on yon black heath:
Steady awhile, and hold your breath!

Now is your time, men! Down, like death!
Huzza! huzza!

Stand by each other, and front on your foes!
Fight, while a drop of red blood flows!
Fight, as ye fought for the old red rose!

Huzza!

Sound! Bid your terrible trumpet bray!
Blow, till their brazen throats give way!
Sound to the battle! Sound, I say!

Huzza! hozza!

FROM PROCTOR.