CLXVIII.

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

THAT last day in Lucknow fort;
We knew that it was the last,

That the enemy's mines had crept surely in,

And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death,
And the men and we all worked on;
It was one day more of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife,
A fair young gentle thing,
Wasted with fever in the siege,

And her mind was wandering.

1

She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid,

And I took her head on my knee; "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," Oh, please, then waker. me."

She said,

She slept like a child on her father's floor,

In the flecking of woodbine shade,

When the house-dog sprawls by the half-open door, And the mother's wheel is stayed.

It was smoke and roar and powder stench,
And hopeless waiting for death;

But the soldier's wife like a full-tired child,
Seemed scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep and I had my dream
Of an English village lane

And wall and garden, - till a sudden scream

Brought me back to the rear again.

There Jessie Brown stood listening,
And then a broad gladness broke
All over her face, and she took my hand,
And drew me near and spoke : —

"The Highlanders! O dinna ye hear
The slogan far awa?

The McGregor's? Ah! I ken it weel;
It is the grandest of them a'!

"God bless the bonny Highlanders;

We're saved! we're saved!" she cried; And fell on her knees and thanks to God Poured forth, like a full flood tide.

Along the battery line, her cry

Had fallen among the men ;

And they started; for they were there to die, – Was life so near them then?

They listened, for life, and the rattling fire
Far off, and the far off roar

Were all, and the colonel shook his head,
And they turned to their guns once more.

Then Jessie said, "The slogan's dune,
But can ye no hear them, noo?

The Campbells are coming! it's nae a dream
Our succors hae broken through!

We heard the roar and the rattle afar,
But the pipers we could not hear;
So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it must be heard,
A shrilling ceaseless sound;
It was no noise of the strife afar,
Or the sappers underground.

It was the pipe of the Highlanders,

And now they played " Auld Lang Syne"; It came to our men like the voice of God; And they shouted along the line.

And they wept and shook each other's hands,
And the women sobbed in a crowd;

And every one knelt down where we stood,
And we all thanked God aloud.

That happy day, when we welcomed them in,
Our men put Jessie first;

And the General took her hand;

And cheers from the men like a volley burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartans streamed,
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears,
And the pipers played " Auld Lang Syne."

Anonymous.

CLXIX.

PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.

THE golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Like forms and landscapes magical they lay.
Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye

Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip

Were like the wingéd god's, breathing from his flight.

"Bring me the captive, now!

My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,

And I could paint the bow

Upon the bended heavens — around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

"Ha! bind him on his back!

Look ! as Prometheus in my picture here!

Quick! - or he faints! - stand with the cordial near!

Now - bend him on the rack!

Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

"So,

let him writhe! How long

Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now

What a fine agony works upon his brow!

Ha! gray-haired and so strong!

How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!

"Pity' thee! So I do!

I pity the dumb victim at the altar

But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee, though I knew

A thousand lives were perishing in thine
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

"But, there's a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn -
And though its crown of flame

Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

"Ay-though it bid me rifle.

--

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first-
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,

And taunt its mother till my brain went wild

"All-I would do it all

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot

Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!

O heavens! - but I appall