There came a slow and silent band Reversed the musket in each hand, They bore the soldier to his grave; By some dark vessel ploughed. A moment, and all sounds were mute, You heard the soldier's measured foot, The gloves were laid upon the bier, Slowly I followed too - they led To where a church arose, And flung a shadow o'er the dead, Deep as their own repose. Green trees were there, - beneath the shade Of one was made a grave; And there to his last rest was laid The weary and the brave. They fired a volley o'er the bed Of an unconscious ear; The birds sprang fluttering overhead, All left the ground, the bugles died Only the tree's green branches sighed Again, all filled with light and breath, Anonymous. PICCADILLY. HE sun is on the crowded street; THE It kindles those old towers, Where England's noblest memories meet, Vast, shadowy, dark, and indistinct, Tradition's giant fane, Whereto a thousand years are linked So stands it when the morning light It stands with darkness round it cast, "T is lovely when the moonlight falls Around the sculptured stone, Giving a softness to the walls, Like love that mourns the gone. Then comes the gentlest influence The smoke, the noise, the dust of day, Sad shining on her lonely path, The moon's calm smile above, Seems as it lulled life's toil and wrath With universal love. Past that still hour, and its pale moon, The city is alive; It is the busy hour of noon, When man must seek and strive. The pressure of our actual life Is on the waking brow; These are around him now. How wonderful the common street, Its tumult and its throng, The hurrying of the thousand feet How strongly is the present felt, All sounds in one vast murmur melt All hurry on, none pause to look The present is an open book None read, yet all must trace. The poor man hurries on his race, The rich man has yet wearier chase, All hurry, though it is to pass The past is round us, - those old spires But for the past the present's powers Were waste of toil and mind But for those long and glorious hours Which leave themselves behind. Anonymous. MY PALL MALL. Y little friend, so small and neat, How cheerily you tript away To work, — it might have been to play, And Time trips too. This moral means We never spoke, but when I smiled Each morning when we met, I think And then at eve, experience-taught, We meet to-morrow! And you were poor; and how?—and why? How kind to come, it was for my Especial grace meant ! Had you a chamber near the stars, A bird, some treasured plants in jars, I often wander up and down, In golden glory; |