ell."

She held a bouquet in her hand, and from it then she chose
For the dying soldier laddie a lovely snow-white rose;
And when the lad they buried, clasped in his hand was seen
The simple little snowy flower, the gift of Britain's Queen.

INKERMAN.

(November 5, 1854.)

BY GERALD MASSEY.

'Twas midnight ere our guns' loud laugh at their wild work did cease,
And by the smouldering fires of war we lit the pipe of peace.
At four a burst of bells went up through Night's cathedral dark,
It seemed so like our Sabbath chimes, we could but wake, and hark!
So like the bells that call to prayer in the dear land far away;
Their music floated on the air, and kissed us--to betray.
Our camp lay on the rainy hill, all silent as a cloud,
Its very heart of life stood still i' the mist that brought its
shroud;
For Death was walking in the dark, and smiled his smile to see
How all was ranged and ready for a sumptuous jubilee.

O wily are the Russians, and they came up through the mirk--
Their feet all shod for silence in the best blood of the Turk!
While in its banks our fiery tide of War serenely slept,
Their subtle serpentry unrolled, and up the hill-side crept.
In the Ruins of the Valley do the birds of carnage stir?
A creaking in the gloom like wheels! feet trample--bullets whir--
By God! the Foe is on us! Now the bugles with a start
Thrill--like the cry of a wronged queen--to the red roots of the
heart;
And long and loud the wild war-drums with throbbing triumph roll--
A sound to set the blood on fire, and warm the shivering soul.

The war-worn and the weary leaped up ready, fresh, and
true! No weak blood curdled white i' the face, no valour turned to
dew.
Majestic as a God defied, arose our little host--
All for the peak of peril pushed--each for the fieriest post!
Thorough mist, and thorough mire, and o'er the hill brow scowling
grim,
As is the frown of Slaughter when he dreams his dreadful dream.
No sun! but none is needed,--men can feel their way to fight,
The lust of battle in their face--eyes filled with fiery light;
And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the dark earth lay
The prophesying morning-red of a great and glorious day.

As bridegroom leaves his wedded bride in gentle slumbers sealed,
Our England slumbered in the West, when her warriors went afield.
We thought of her, and swore that day to strike immortal blows,
As all along our leagured line the roar of