There, though twenty years have fled,
Chequered o'er by good and ill,
He lifts aloft his beaming head,
The same, young, household still!

THE HEROINE MARTYR OF MONTEREY.

BY REV. J. G. LYONS.

While the American forces under General Taylor stormed Monterey, a Mexican woman was seen going about among the wounded of both armies, binding up their wounds, and supplying them with food and water. While thus employed, she fell. She was next day buried by the Americans, amid an incessant discharge of shot from the Mexican batteries.

THE strife was stern at Monterey,

When those high towers were lost and won,
And pealing through that mortal fray,
Flashed the strong battery's vengeful gun;

Yet heedless of its deadly rain,

She stood in toil and danger, first
To bind the bleeding soldier's vein,
And slake the dying soldier's thirst.

She found a pale and stricken foe,
Sinking in nature's last eclipse,
And, on the red earth kneeling low,

She wet his parched and fevered lips;
When, thick as winter's driving sleet,

The booming shot, and flaming shell,
Swept with wild rage that gory street,
And she, the good and gentle, fell.

They laid her in a narrow bed,

The foeman of her land and race;

And sighs were breathed, and tears were shed,
Above her lowly resting place;
Ay! glory's crimson worshippers
Wept over her untimely fall,
For deeds of mercy, such as hers,
Subdue the hearts and eyes of all.

To sound her worth were guilt and shame,
In us who love but gold and ease;
They heed alike our praise or blame,
Who live and die in works like these.
Far greater than the wise or brave,
Far happier than the fair and gay,
Was she, who found a martyr's grave
On that red field of Monterey.