A handful against a host

A speck on the armed plain—

Yet the ranks of the Muscov-warriors broke

As the cloud is rent by the lightning's stroke,
Never the same again.

Triumph! yet look around—
The toil begins anew—
Legions possess the ground-
And ye are all too few.

Enough! let none feel shame,
To quit the unequal strife :
Enough ye have done for fame,
Now strike a blow for life.

Back through the dreadful pass,
A shattered and thin array,
Through many a hostile mass
They cut their resolute way.

Through Cossacks who dog their flight,
Bold only against the flying;
Who dare not abide the fight,

But murder and rob the dying.

Back to the narrow fiord,

Where the fleets of England ride,
Where the Ocean calls her lord,
And will listen to none beside.

To the Highland warriors ranged.
In an order firm and true;
Back, but alas how changed!
Home, but how sadly few!

Six hundred rode they forth

On that bright October morn,

The chivalry of the north,

In the pride of their careless scorn.

Two hundred toiled they baek,

Fast-bleeding, faint, and slow: The rest on the field of battle lie, With stiffening limb and glazing eye,

With their faces turned to the pitying sky, Their feet to the ruthless foe.

Their home to the silent camp!
To the long and sad sick-bed!
To dream of the charger's tramp,
And the pale and gory dead!

But oh! 'tis a sacred spot,

Where rest those glorious slain : And it never shall be forgot,

While English men remain.

While yet one English heart,

With one noble thought swells large,
It shall burn in its deepest darkest cell
To hear of the men who fought so well,
For Duty alone who fought and fell,
In Balaclava's charge.

And oft with a sad delight,

And oft with a mournful pride,

We will sing of the matchless fight,

We will weep for the brave who died;

Ask not the good or gain;

Honour has not its price;

Heaven its chosen martyrs sings,

Earth with the fame of heroes rings,
Good and gain and glory springs

From seeds of sacrifice.

(w.)

TO THE EDITOR OF THE NEW RUGBEIAN.

SIR,-When wandering lately, during a long vacation ramble among the ruins of Carthage, I discovered an inscription in the Latin language, which appears to have escaped the notice of previous investigators. It runs as follows:

Fœmina erat solum ventri, credisne? senili
Solamen potum quæ dabat atque cibum;
Plurimus huic victus potusque cibusque fuere,

Huic tamen, heu ! multo tempore parta quies.

With my head full of the Eleusinian and Egyptian mysteries, I rushed back to England, determined to investigate to the utmost the deep and hidden meaning which these mysterious verses undoubtedly possess; but my attention has been much distracted by professional pursuits, and I am induced to ask whether any of the learned of Rugby can throw light on a subject, which, up to the present time, has baffled enquiry.

I am, Sir,

Your most obedient Servant,

LEX.

A TALE.

THEY loved one another, that will do for a beginning, for what need to say that they were born, or how that important event came about-though "Tristam Shandy' does take more than half his book in being born-as I said before, they loved one another, of course one was male, and the other female, or their love would not be

worth mentioning. Well, then, my hero loved my heroine, and she him; but who were they? and in what rank of life? Let us know something about them! Gently, good friends, gently, and ye shall know all that I know. She was (to begin with the lady) the daughter of the smith, and a very fair daughter she was,-I wish she had been mine-no I don't, though, for one can't fall in love with one's own daughter; but I wish she had been my lady-love instead of his, and so would you, too, if you could have seen her as I did, morning after morning, coming home from the dairy (but a short distance, by the bye) with her pails of pure white milk, matching well her face, except where it was pinker than the roses,—that is, matching her forehead, for her cheeks were bright and pink, and her mouth beautifully red. Of course you have already found out that she was a Devonshire girl, for where else are good complexions all over the world, but only in that heaven-favoured of shires. Well, of course you know, without my telling you, that he was her father's apprentice; all faithful apprentices love all lovely daughters in books, and have done so ever since, and indeed long before Hogarth's celebrated pictures. Then he was a faithful apprentice, you say; wait, dear readers, wait and see,don't hurry your story-teller, lest he commit himself, and tell you what you are yet to find out, and so destroy the little interest that may otherwise attach to this tale. However she was certainly a lovely daughter, and "he a most fortunate man "-for did not his master like, and his mistress love him? Observe, the smith was a widower, or the above remark would have been indecorous, to say the least.

This, then, was the state of affairs when I, for the good of my health, took up my abode at the smith's house—a

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very nice, clean house it was, and the inmates were-the smith, he and she, and your humble servant and storyteller. The smith, like many country people, had a complete horror of banks, and kept his money in his house,for what had he to fear? was he not liked by every one in the village? and besides, who could find the money even if they wished to steal it? No one knew of its whereabouts but only he, his daughter, and his apprentice,—and he and Richard were a match for any robbers: you may as well be told here what I learned much later-that the cashbox was kept in Ellen's room, in a cupboard behind the bed. For many weeks I lodged here, in fact, until I thought it unsafe to stay longer, lest I should become Richard's rival-she was so lovely and so good, so charitable to the poor, so tender to her father, and so very kind to meso I resolved to go. Next year, however, I came back; I could not get on without seeing her again; and I must say wished I had never come back; the old house was almost shut up, though the smith still worked at the forge, and his daughter, now pale and sad, still took the fresh milk to the little market-place: the smith had lost his 'prentice, and Ellen her lover. "What had happened?" I asked the neighbours,—I was afraid of asking the smith or his daughter," Why year arter year had gone; a few days maister Richard was off tu, and I do hear said with all the money which was to have been Miss Ellen's portion; old Carey was awful savage, and tried to follur 'im, but her would'nt let 'm, ''cause,' said she, ill greeting for spilled milk—we can live well enough without,—and I,' said she, 'shan't never want no portion, cos why, I shan't never marry no one, as he is turned out so badly.' So 'm let 'm go to 'Merika, I do hear said, money and all, more's the pity; my zun would have married her if she had had the