I swung myself upon the flattened shelf

And with my feet thrust off, with all my might, The puny bark into the hell of waters.-Page 103.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on,
In the grave
where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory!

THE CAVALIER'S ESCAPE.

WALTER THORNBURY.

Trample! trample! went the roan,

Trap! trap! went the gray;

But pad! pad! PAD! like a thing that was mad,

My chestnut broke away.

It was just five miles from Salisbury town,

And but one hour to day.

Thud! THUD! came on the heavy roan,

Rap! RAP! the mettled gray;

But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare,
That she showed them all the way.
Spur on! spur on!-I doffed my hat,
And wished them all good-day.

They splashed through miry rut and pool,—
Splintered through fence and rail;
But chestnut Kate switched over the gate,
I saw them droop and tail.

To Salisbury town-but a mile of down,
Once over this brook and rail.

Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofs
Past the walls of mossy stone;

The roan flew on at a staggering pace,
But blood is better than bone.

I patted old Kate, and gave her the spur,
For I knew it was all my own.

But trample! trample! came their steeds,
And I saw their wolf's eyes burn;

I felt like a royal hart at bay,

And made me ready to turn.

I looked where highest grew the May,
And deepest arched the fern.

I flew at the first knave's sallow throat;

One blow, and he was down.

The second rogue fired twice, and missed;

I sliced the villian's crown,

Clove through the rest, and flogged brave Kate, Fast, fast to Salisbury town!

Pad! pad! they came on the level sward,

Thud! thud! upon the sand,

With a gleam of swords and a burnng match,
And a shaking of flag and hand;

But one long bound, and I passed the gate,
Safe from the canting band.

RICHELIEU AND FRANCE.

E. BULWER LYTTON.

My liege, your anger can recall your trust, Annul my office, spoil me of

my lands,

Rifle my coffers; but my name,—my deeds,—
Are royal in a land beyond your sceptre.
Pass sentence on me, if you will;-from Kings,
Lo, I appeal to time! Be just, my liege.
I found your Kingdom rent with heresies,
And bristling with rebellion;-lawless nobles
And breadless serfs; England fomenting discord,
Austria, her clutch on your dominion; Spain