THE FALL OF THE BRAVE.

ADDRESSED TO HIS BEREAVED PARENT.

DEEP in the foeman's mould he lies,
The youthful and the brave;
Without a stone to speak his worth,
Or mark the soldier's grave.

A cry for help came o'er the seas,
The Osmanli to shield;

He heard it, and with maiden sword
He sought the battle-field.

We blessed him as he left his home,
His noble soul to prove;

We loved him for our England's sake,
And he returned our love.

We never doubted once his heart

Was daring to a sin;

We knew his patriotic fire,

And mettle of his kin.

And knowing him, our watchful love

Pursued the path he trod;

And, when his footprints mocked our search,

We left him to his God.

Grim Death, with scythe of pestilence,

Britannia's flower mowed down;

We saw him mourn those hero-sons
Of England's old renown.

And bending with a wistful gaze,

To see his comrades die,

He heard those dying Britons say— "Our country's loss supply."

With eye upturned to Heaven, he asked,

That he in peril's hour,

Remembering how the brave could die,

Might have their share of power.

His prayer was heard, his wish was sealed, The hour immortal came,

And Balaklava wrote in blood

The Lancer's deathless name!

The order came, "Advance !"-Enough,

And veterans held their breath,

To see our troopers plough through fire
A pathway to their death.

To doubt if it were wisely given,

Was not a hero's part;

But "Onward," like a lightning stream,

And scorch the foeman's heart.

One deed of daring such as that

It takes an age to give;

Such thought we had, and prayed that Fate

Would let the victor live.

We dwelt upon that matchless charge,
And hoped your darling pride
Would oft beguile with martial tales

Your hours at eventide;

But Freedom claimed him for her own,
And Glory begged his name

Might be enrolled among the great

A favourite of Fame.

So came the fight at Inkermann,

Unparalleled in wars;

When England drove the savage foe
As thick as midnight stars.

And there he fell, as falls the brave,
Her right true gallant son;

One of those chosen souls who make
The base of Freedom's throne.

The thunders of that famous fray
Broke loud upon our shore,

And eagerly we sought the list
Of those to fight no more.

It came too soon-our grief gushed out

In torrents unsubdued:

For first of all those glorious ones

The name of "CLEVLAND" stood !

(A Weeper once, in ancient days,

Mourned where a Hebrew slept;

The noblest soul on earth was He,

But history says, "He wept.")

We wept: Humanity must weep,

So nature dropped a tear;

Then pictured we his shroudless corse, Stretched on his grassy bier.

We saw a gentle comrade's hand

Press lightly on his head;

Then with his fellow-soldiers make

The warrior's narrow bed.

No manufactured pomp of death

Bedecked his coffin rude;

His mourners were those bleeding hearts Which heaped the field of blood.

A carriage borrowed from the war

The bearer's office did;

His cap upon the coffin rode,

His sword across the lid.

No muffled drum, no funeral pall,

Salute, nor solemn knell

Told how they sorrowed o'er their loss
But tears, and one Farewell.