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Now the bolts of volleyed thunder
Rend the little band asunder,
Steed and rider wildly screaming,
Screaming wildly, sink away;
Late so proudly, proudly gleaming,
Now but lifeless clods of clay,-

Now but bleeding clods of clay!
Never since the days of Jesus,
Saw such sight the Chersonesus !
Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred,
Presses onward, onward, onward,

Till they storm the bloody pass,—
Till, like brave Leonidas,
They storm the deadly pass!
Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli,
In that wild shot-rended valley,-
Drenched with fire and blood, like lava,
Awful pass at Balaklava!

O that rash and fatal charge,
On that battle's bloody marge!

For now Russia's rallied forces,
Swarming hordes of Cossack horses,
Trampling o'er the reeking corses,

Drive the thinned assailants back,
Drive the feeble remnant back,
O'er their late heroic track!

Vain, alas! now rent and sundered,

Vain your struggles, brave Two Hundred!

Thrice your number lie asleep,

In that valley dark and deep.
Weak and wounded you retire
From that hurricane of fire,—
That tempestuous storm of fire,—
But no soldiers firmer, braver,

Ever trod the field of fame,

Then the Knights of Balaklava,—
Honor to each hero's name!

Yet their country long shall mourn
For her ranks so rashly shorn,-
So gallantly, but madly shorn

In that fierce and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge.

ALEXANDER B. MEEK.

The Pauper's Drive.

THERE s a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot-
To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot;

The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings:
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

Oh, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none-
He has left not a gap in the world, now he 's gone—
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;

To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can:
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din!
The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled!
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he 's stretched in a coach!
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!

And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go!

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad

Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.
Bear soft his bones over the stones!

Though a pauper, he 's one whom his Maker yet owns!
THOMAS NOEL

Florence Vane.

I LOVED thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane;

My life's bright dream and early
Hath come again;

I renew in my fond vision
My heart's dear pain,

My hopes and thy derision,
Florence Vane!

The ruin, lone and hoary,
The ruin old,

Where thou didst hark my story,
At even told,

That spot, the hues elysian
Of sky and plain

I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane!

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;

Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river
Without a main,

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane.

But fairest, coldest wonder!
Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under;
Alas the day!

And it boots not to remember
Thy disdain,

To quicken love's pale ember,
Florence Vane!

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep,

The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep,

May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane.

PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE.

The Dule 'si' this Bonnet o' Mine.

THE dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine:
My ribbins 'll never be reet;
Here, Mally, aw 'm like to be fine,

For Jamie 'll be comin' to-neet;

He met me i' th' lone t' other day

(Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will!

When he took my two honds into his,

Good Lord, heaw they trembled between!

An' aw durst n't look up in his face,
Becose on him seein' my e'en.
My cheek went as red as a rose;

There's never a mortal con tell
Heaw happy aw felt,—for, thae knows,
One could n't ha' axed him theirsel'.

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung:
To let it eawt would n't be reet,
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrong;
So aw towd him aw 'd tell him to-neet.
But, Mally, thae knows very weel,

Though it is n't a thing one should own,
Iv aw 'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel',
Aw 'd oather ha' Jamie or noan.

Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd thae my mind;
What would to do iv 't wur thee?
“Aw 'd tak him just while he 's inclined,
An' a farrantly bargain he 'll be;

For Jamie 's as greadly a lad

As ever stept eawt into th' sun.

Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed;

An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's done!"

Eh, dear! but it's time to be gwon:

Aw should n't like Jamie to wait;

Aw connut for shame be too soon,

An' aw would n't for th' wuld be too late.

Aw 'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel:

Dost think 'at my bonnet 'll do? "Be off, lass,-thae looks very weel;

He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!"

EDWIN WAUGH.

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