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.

A little mound we saw them raise,

Upon that broken slope;

Then weeping go to bind and soothe
Our country's pride and hope.

Full many a kindred deed that day
All piously was done;

Whilst war roared out a requiem,

As gun replied to gun.

No flow'ret there may crown their graves,

As our sweet daisies do;

But this our Fatherland hath sworn
To wrest them from the foe.

Peace, lady,-thou hast done thy partA son thou hadst to give :

Now England writes his epitaph

"He died that I might live."

THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY TO HIS FRIENDS.

ONE farewell word he fain would say,
Ere he pursues his prosy way:

If he of flowers has sung to you,
Or spider-webs impearled with dew,

Or tears that from the eyelids roll,
Pray charge it to his tender soul:
The heather-bell, the furze, the broom,
The rose's tints, the lily's bloom,

The wildest flowers that scent the air,
Or those that blow in choice parterre,

He loved them all-the meanest thing
That grew, or flew, or crept, he'd sing ;
The umbrageous walk, the odorous bower,
The nightbird's song at silent hour,
Were dear to him, yet nought so dear
As that which human form did wear-

THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY TO HIS FRIENDS. 187

The maiden in her blushing pride;

An infant gambolling by her side;
A wife by her domestic fire,

Her husband all her heart's desire;
An infant group to cheer the place;
A sire and dame with wrinkled face;
A youth, just starting out in life,
Unused to poverty and strife ;-
Such sights he loved, and joy he felt
Where innocence and pleasure dwelt:
But he could spare a falling tear

For the young bride o'er yonder bier;
And when in death a parent slept,
Oh! how with orphans hath he wept!
Try not his song with those who stand
The scholars of his native land;
For fortune treated him so rude,
When nine years old he toiled for food.
Nature, not Art, hath stored his mind,
And Nature hath been wondrous kind.
Now, if one sentence you approve,
A mother's smile, a wife's sweet love,
Moved him to tie his thoughts in rhyme;
Theirs be the praise, and God's the time.

His simple aim is far beneath
A poet's fame or poet's wreath :
Enough if he through life has trod,

And served his neighbour and his God.

J. UNWIN, GRESHAM STEAM PRESS, BUCKLERSBURY, LONDON.

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