DANNY DEEVER

"WHAT are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade. “To turn you out, to turn you out," the Colour-Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade. "I'm dreadin' what I 've got to watch," the Colour-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can 'ear the Dead March play,

The regiment 's in 'ollow square- they 're hangin' him to-day;

They 've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,

An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-onParade.

"It 's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Colour-Sergeant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" says Files-onParade.

"A touch of sun, a touch of sun," the Colour-Sergeant said.

They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round.

They'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;

An' 'e 'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound

O, they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!

"'Is cot was right-'and 'cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Colour-Sergeant said. "I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Colour-Sergeant said.

They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,

For 'e shot a comrade sleepin'—you must look 'im in
the face;

Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace,
While they 're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What's that so black agin the sun?" said Files-on-Parade. 'It 's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Colour-Sergeant said. "What 's that that whimpers over 'ead?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny's soul that 's passin' now," the Colour-Sergeant said. For they've done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play,

The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away; Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they 'll want their beer to-day,

After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

SONG

O HAPPY lark, that warblest high
Above thy lowly nest,

O brook, that brawlest merrily by
Thro' fields that once were blest,
O tower spiring to the sky,

O graves in daisies drest,

O Love and Life, how weary am I,
And how I long for rest!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

(The Promise of May).

HESPER-VENUS

VENUS near her! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours. Closer on the sun, perhaps a world of never-fading flowers.

Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer-home of all good things— All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings. Hesper - Venus were we native to that splendor, or in Mars, We should see the globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars.

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite,

Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light?

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair, Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, "Would to God that we were there"?

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

(Locksley Hall Sixty Years After).

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

BUT slow that tide of common thought,
Which bathed our life, retired;
Slow, slow the old world wore to nought,
And pulse by pulse expired.

Its frame yet stood without a breach,
When blood and warmth were fled;
And still it spake its wonted speech
But every word was dead.

And oh, we cried, that on this corse
Might fall a freshening storm!
Rive its dry bones, and with new force
A new-sprung world inform !

Down came the storm! O'er France it pass'd,

In sheets of scathing fire;

All Europe felt that fiery blast,

And shook as it rush'd by her.

Down came the storm! In ruins fell

The worn-out world we knew.
It pass'd, that elemental swell
Again appear'd the blue;

The sun shone in the new-wash'd sky ;
And what from heaven saw he?
Blocks of the past, like icebergs high,
Float on a rolling sea !

Upon them plies the race of man
All it before endeavour'd';

"Ye live," I cried, "ye work and plan,
And know not ye are sever'd!

"Poor fragments of a broken world
Whereon men pitch their tent!
Why were ye too to death not hurl'd
When your world's day was spent?"

MATTHEW ARNOLD (Obermann).

AS I CAME DOWN FROM LEBANON

As I came down from Lebanon,
Came winding, wandering slowly down
Through mountain passes bleak and brown,
The cloudless day was well-nigh done.
The city, like an opal set

In emerald, showed each minaret

Afire with radiant beams of sun,

And glistened orange, fig, and lime,

Where song-birds made melodious chime,
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
Like lava in the dying glow,
Through olive orchards far below
I saw the murmuring river run;
And 'neath the wall upon the sand
Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand,
With precious spices they had won,
Lay long and languidly in wait
Till they might pass the guarded gate,
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
I saw strange men from lands afar,
In mosque and square and gay bazar,
The Magi that the Moslem shun,
And Grave Effendi from Stamboul,
Who sherbet sipped in corners cool;
And, from the balconies o'errun
With roses, gleamed the eyes of those
Who dwell in still seraglios,
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
The flaming flower of daytime died,
And Night, arrayed as is a bride
Of some great king, in garments spun
Of purple and the finest gold,
Outbloomed in glories manifold,
Until the moon, above the dun
And darkening desert, void of shade,
Shone like a keen Damascus blade,
As I came down from Lebanon.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

WHAT HAVE I DONE?

;

I LAY my finger on Time's wrist to score
The forward-surging moments as they roll;
Each pulse seems quicker than the one before
And lo! my days pile up against my soul
As clouds pile up against the golden sun;
Alas! What have I done? What have I done?

I never steep the rosy hours in sleep,

Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt; No idle hands into my bosom creep;

And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip,
So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run;
Alas! What have I done? What have I done?

I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers,
Or scorned the music of the flowing rills,
Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours;
Yet rise my days behind me, like the hills,
Unstarred by light of mighty triumphs won;
Alas! What have I done? What have I done?

Be still, my soul; restrain thy lips from woe!
Cease thy lament! for life is but the flower;

The fruit comes after death; how canst thou know
The roundness of its form, its depth of power?
Death is life's morning. When thy work 's begun,
Then ask thyself - What yet is to be done?

LILLIAN BLANCHE FEARING.

THE DAY IS DONE

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.