Those whose guard you take will find me,
As they pass below."

So the soldier spoke, and staggering,
Fell amid the snow.

And ever on the dreary heights
Down came the snow.

"Men, it must be as he asks;
Duty must be done;
Far too few for half our tasks;
We can spare not one.
Wrap him in this; I need it less;
Fear not; they shall know;
Mark the place, yon stunted larch,
Forward!" On they go.

And silent on their silent march
Down sank the snow.

O'er his features, as he lies,

Calms the wrench of pain;

Close, faint eyes; pass, cruel skies,
Freezing mountain plain.

With far soft sounds the stillness teems-
Church bells, voices low;

Passing into English dreams

There amid the snow,

And darkening, thickening o'er the heights,

Down fell the snow.

Looking, looking for the mark

Down the others came;

Struggling through the snowdrifts stark;

Calling out his name:

"Here or there the drifts are deep;
Have we passed him?" No.
Look a little growing heap,

Snow above the snow,

Where, heavy on his heavy sleep,

Down fell the snow.

Strong hands raised him; voices strong
Spoke within his ears:

Ah, his dreams had softer tongues;
Neither now he hears.

One more gone for England's sake,
Where so many go;
Lying down, without complaint;
Dying in the snow;

Starving, striving, for her sake;
Dying in the snow.

Simply done his soldier's part

Through long months of woe;
All endured with soldier heart-
Battle, famine, snow;
Noble, nameless, English heart,
Snow-cold, in snow.

To the Memory of Pietro D'Alessandro, Secretary to the Provisional Government of Sicily in 1848, who died in exile at Malta in January 1855.

Beside the covered grave

Linger the exiles, though their task is done,

Yes, brethren, from your band once more is gone,
A good man and a brave,

Scanty the rites and train ;

How many of all the storied marbles, set
In all thy churches, City of La Valette,
Hide nobler heart and brain?

Ah! had his soul been cold;

Tempered to make a sycophant or spy;
To love hard truth less than an easy lie;
His country less than gold,-

Then, not the spirit's strife,

Nor sickening pangs at sight of conquering crime, Nor anxious watching of an evil time,

Had worn his chords of life.

Nor here, nor thus with tears

Untimely shed, but there, whence o'er the sea
The great volcano looks, his rest might be,-
The close of prosperous years.

No different hearts are bribed;

And, therefore, in his cause's sad eclipse,
Here died he, with Palermo on his lips,
A poor man and proscribed.

Wrecked of all thy hopes, O friend-
Hopes for thyself, thine Italy, thine own,
High gifts defeated of their due renown,—
Long toil, and this the end.

The end? Not ours to scan;

Yet grieve not, children, for your father's worth. Oh! never wish that in his native earth

He lay, a baser man,

What to the dead avail

The chance success, the blundering praise of fame? Oh! rather trust, somewhere the noble aim

Is crowned, though here it fail.

Kind, generous, true wert thou;

This meed, at least, to goodness must belong,

That such it was; farewell; the world's great wrong

Is righted for thee now.

Rest in thy foreign grave,

Sicilian! whom our English hearts have loved,
Italian such as Dante had approved,

An exile-not a slave.

EDWIN ARNOLD.

FROM "THE LIGHT OF ASIA"

We are the voices of the wandering wind,
Which moan for rest and rest can never find;
Lo! as the wind is so is mortal life-

A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife.

Wherefore and whence we are ye cannot know;
Nor where life springs nor whither life doth go.
We are as ye are, ghosts from the inane;
What pleasure have we of our changeful pain?

What pleasure hast thou of thy changeless bliss ?
Nay, if love lasted, there were joy in this;
But life's way is the wind's way, all these things
Are but brief voices breathed on shifting strings.

O Maya's son because we roam the earth
Moan we upon these strings; we make no mirth,
So many woes we see in many lands';

So many streaming eyes and wringing hands.

Yet mock we while we wail, for could they know,

This life they cling to is but empty show;
'Twere all as well to bid a cloud to stand,
Or hold a running river with the hand.

But thou that art to save, thine hour is nigh!
The sad world waiteth in its misery;
The blind world stumbleth on its round of pain ;
Rise, Maya's child! wake! slumber not again!