At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with: 6 Yet there is time!”

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And, against him, the cattle stood black, every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last,
With resolute shoulders, each, butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence-ever that glance
O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!?
And the thick, heavy spume-flakes' which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

7

8

Byo Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris: “Stay, spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her;
We'll remember at Aix”—for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Loos and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun, above, laughed a pitiless laugh,
Neath our foot broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a Dom-tower10 sprang white,
And "Gallop," cried Joris, " for Aix is in sight!”

“How they'll greet us!” and, all in a moment, his roano1
Rolled neck and croupl2 over-lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

13

Then I cast my loose buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer ;14
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or

good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And vo voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which—the burgesses15 voted by common consent-
Was no more than his due who brought good news from

Ghent.

the seventeen provinces of Bel-
gium and Holland in a league to

fight against the Spaniards.
peer, equal.
15 burgesses, citizens.

42

CHARLES MACKAY.-Born, 1812 ; still alive.

Charles Mackay, a Scotchman by birth, is the author of many excellent songs and verses.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

IF Fortune with a smiling face

Strew roses on our way,
When shall we stoop to pick them up ?-

To-day, my friend, to-day.
But should she frown with face of care,

And talk of coming sorrow,
When shall we grieve, if grieve we must?

To-morrow, friend, to-morrow.
If those who've wronged us own their fault,

And kindly pity pray,
When shall we listen and forgive ?-

To-day, my friend, to-day.
But if stern justice urge rebuke,,

And warmth from memory borrow,
When shall we chide, if chide we dare ?

To-morrow, friend, to-morrow.
If those to whom we owe a debt,

Are harmed unless we pay,
When shall we struggle to be just ?-

To-day, my friend, to-day.
But if our debtor fail our hope,

And plead his ruin thorough,
When shall we weigh his breach of faith?-

To-morrow, friend, to-morrow.

For virtuous acts and harmless joys

The minutes will not stay;
We've always time to welcome them

To-day, my friend, to-day.
But care, resentment, angry words,

And unavailing sorrow,
Come far too soon, if they appear

To-morrow, friend, to-morrow.

43

CHARLES KINGSLEY.-Born, 1819; Died, 1875.

The Rev. Charles Kingsley, one of the manliest and most vigorous writers of this generation, was esteemed not less for his personal qualities than for his fine abilities. His writings are mostly in the form of novels; but these are always full of the wisest and kindliest teaching. He was for a time professor of Modern History at Cambridge. His poems are vigorous and sometimes touching, but it is in his prose writings he shows to the best advantage.

THE LAST BUCCANEER.1

Oh, England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and

high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.3 | The Buccaneers

There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and

stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round

about; And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally. Thence we sailed against the Spaniard, with his hoards of

plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of

old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as

stone, Who flog men, and keel-hauls them, and starve them to the

bone.

Oh, the palms grew high in Avès, and fruit that shone like

gold, And the colibrise and parrots, they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors a sweeping in from sea.

Oh, sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,
A swing, with good tobacco, in a net' between the trees,
With a negro lass to fan you, while you listen’d to the roar
Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the

shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the king's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down