Is there nought in the heaven above, whence the hail and the levin are hurled, But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling world ;

;

The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and

bear me to silence and sleep

With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and voices of women who weep?

AFTER THE SKIRMISH

ROHILCUND, 1858

'Mid the broken grass of a trampled glade Where the bayonets met and the fight

was sorest,

We had found him lying; and there we laid Our friend in the depth of an Indian forest

Just as the evening shadow's pall

t;

Over his grave from the hills came streaming, By the rippled fret and the eddying fall Of a snow-fed river, cool and creaming,

With the funeral march still echoing round, We had spread the mould o'er his tartan gory;

But as we turned from the shapeless mound Sweet rose the music of " Annie Laurie

Full and clear from the pacing band, Passionate strain of a love-lorn story. How can they breathe it in strangers' land, Air of our northern " Annie Laurie" ?:

For he whom we leave in the lonely brake, Watched by the Himalay Mountains

hoary,

Will not his brain from the death-sleep wake,

Touched by the magic of " Annie Laurie "?

Heaven forfend! May the earth lie dense
O'er the heart that beat and the eyes
that glistened;
What if a motionless nerve has sense?
What if an upturned face had listened ?

Listened as over his prison close

f

Floated that rich, voluptuous cadence, Faint with the scent, like an autumn rose, Of youth, and beauty, and soft-hued maidens ;

Of a long late eve, and the falling dew ;

Never again shall the dewdrop wet him; Of a woman's hand, and a promise trueWill not the kindliest now forget him?

Chaining his spirit's upward flight,

Staying his soul, though at heaven's own portal,

With the soft refrain of a lost delight, With the shadowy charm of a fairy mortal.

Lured by the sensuous melody's spell,
Little he recks of the angel's glory;
Piercing sad is the earth's farewell

Sighed in the music of " Annie Laurie."

MRS. EARL.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. HOLLAND

Carve no stone above her head,
Rather let her praise be read
In the shining eyes of youth,
Taught by her to gaze at Truth:
Let her honour be approved

In the deeds of those she loved,
And each life inspired by her
Be her worthy chronicler.

Never soul more chastely wise.

Watched the world through deeper eyes;

Hardly shall, the future tell

What the influence of her spell;
How her speech's virgin gold

Took the grace of antique mould;
How her heart like altar fire
Burned with flame of high desire;
How divine Philosophy,

Handmaid of the Lord, stood nigh
Prompting her the Truths that wrought

In her every look and thought-
All has fled; no written scroll
Holds the story of her Soul;

In Time's archives is set forth
No escutcheon of her worth,
Naught remains save memory!
Nay, such sweetness cannot die,
Though her name be never set
In Fame's tarnished Coronet.

As within a garden green
Shall that dearest name be seen,
Showing as in lilies writ,

And with roses framing it.

We who hung upon her words
Caught the throb of heavenly chords,
Touching harmonies of earth

Into a diviner birth;

Felt the Stoics' rigid School
Soften into Christian rule;
Learnt what hidden virtue lies
In the life which fools despise ;
Longed to play the nobler part
With the right chivalric heart;
Honeyed lore of poet and sage,
Simples of the golden age-
These, as into sweets distilled,
All her days with fragrance filled;
These, as garlands wreathed and fair,
Guard her solemn sepulchre.

All Love's herald could proclaim
Lies within her twofold name,

Mary, hers, whose home was blest

By the living Lord as guest;
Sibyl, her majestic eyes
Rapt in lofty mysteries,

But, if childhood met her sight,
Melted into loving light.

Precious as her counsel's store,
Yet her comforting was more ;
When she stood by misery
With divining sympathy,

When her every grace and power
Found in Love its crowning dower.
Where the hallowed sunshine fills
That lone vale 'mid Kentish hills,
Where her stainless child has rest
'Neath her native earth's kind breast,
Let her sleep, while April rain
Calls the blossoms forth again,
While the nightingales rejoice,

And the wild bees' murmurous voice
Hums the sombre trees among,
Like an echo of old song.

While the fading leaves shall fall
To one lonely thrush's call,

While the snow shall drift and pass
Like a shadow on life's glass,

While the world shall onward roll
Nearer its mysterious goal.

Strew with violets dim the sod,
Leave her Epitaph with God.