cho to that knightly deed;
He bade its memory live for evermore,
That those who run may read.

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

["Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs having remained behind with
the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next
morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to
perform the _Kotow_. The Sikhs obeyed, but Moyse, the English
soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any
Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body
thrown on a dunghill."--_Times_.]

_Last night_ among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs
Who never looked before.
_To-day_ beneath the foeman's frown
He stands in Elgin's place
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,
A heart with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord or axe or flame;
He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

For Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleam'd
One sheet of living snow;
The smoke above his father's door,
In grey, soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more
Doom'd by himself, so young?

Yes, honour calls!--with strength like steel
He put the vision by.
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untamed,
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring--
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.

A FISHERMAN'S SONG.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Hurrah! the craft is dashing
Athwart the briny sea;
Hurrah! the wind is lashing
Th