IT NEVER COMES AGAIN.

R. H. STODDARD.

There are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.

We are stronger and are better
Under manhood's sterner reign.
Still, we feel that something sweet
Followed youth, with flying feet,
And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain.
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
But it never comes again.

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

TENNYSON.

[Condensed.]

DEDICATORY POEM TO THE PRINCESS ALICE.

Dead Princess, living Power, if that, which

The spirit flash not all at once from out This shadow into substance- then perhaps The mellow'd murmur of the people's praise

Thy soldier-brother's bridal orange-bloom
Break thro' the yews and cypress of thy grave,
And thine Imperial mother smile again,
May send one ray to thee: and who can tell-
Thou- England's England-loving daughter-

thou

Dying so English thou wouldst have her flag Borne on thy coffin where is he can swear

But that some broken gleam from our poor earth

May touch thee? While remembering thee, I lay

At thy pale feet this ballad of the deeds
Of England, and her banner in the East:

I.

Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou

Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry!

Never with mightier glory than when we had reared thee on high,

Flying at the top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Lucknow

Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but ever

we raised thee anew,

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner

of England blew,

II.

Frail were the works that defended the hold

that we held with our lives

Women and children among us, God help them, our children and wives!

Hold it we might-and for fifteen days, or for twenty at most.

'Every man die at his post!" and there hail'd on our houses and halls

Death from their rifle-bullets, and death from their cannon-balls.

Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bul

lets would rain at our feet

Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels

that girdled us round

Death at the glimpse of a finger from over

the breadth of a street,

Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and death in the ground! Mine? Yes, a mine! Countermine! down, down! and creep thro' the hole!

Keep the revolver in hand! You can hear the murderous mole.

him

Quiet, ah! quiet wait till the point of the pickaxe be thro'!

Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before—

Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more;

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.

III.

Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in limb,

Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure,

Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him;

Still could we watch at all points? We

were every day fewer and fewer.