All--to the graves!

What is my feast? These babes forpined;--
Men ere their prime made old;--
These sots, with strong drink bleared and blind--
These herds of unsexed woman-kind
Foul-mouthed and bold--

These bodies, stunted, shrivelled, seared
With the malaria's breath;
In foetid dens and workshops reared;
From reeking sewers, drains uncleared,
Drinking in death.

What is my court? These cellars piled
With filth of many a year--
These rooms with rotting damps defiled--
These alleys where the sun ne'er smiled,
Darkling and drear!

These streets along the river's bank,
Below the rise of tide;
These hovels, set in stifling rank,
Sapped by the earth-damps green and dank--
These cess-pools wide.

These yards, whose heaps of dust and bone
Breathe poison all around;
These styes, whose swinish tenants grown
Half human, with their masters own
A common ground.

What are my perfumes? Stink and stench
From slaughter-house and sewer;
The oozing gas from opened trench,
The effluvia of the pools that drench
Court-yards impure.

What is my music? Hard-wrung groans
From strong men stricken down:
Women's and children's feebler moans,
And the slow death-bell's muffled tones
In every town.

Who are my lieges? Those that rule
In Vestry and at Board;
The Town-hall's glib and giddy fool,
The mob's most abject slave and tool
Though called its lord.

He who with prate of Vested Rights
Old forms of wrong defends;
Who for pound-foolishness still fights,
Wisdom, save penny-wisdom, slights;--
These are my friends.

* * * * *

THE INDUSTRIOUS COSSACKS.

We don't wonder that some of our Manchester friends should be content to
see the Russian forces holding the Principalities. Those who object to
the idleness of a military life must naturally admire an army of
occupation.

* * * * *

[Illustration: MR. 'ARRY BELVILLE, ON THE CONTINENT GENERALLY.

_'Arry Belville._ "YES! I LIKE IT EXTREMELY. I LIKE THE _Lazy ally_ SORT
OF FEELING. I LIKE SITTING AT THE DOOR OF A _Caffy_ TO SMOKE MY CIGAR;
AND ABOVE ALL (_onter noo_) IT'S A GREAT