And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion

Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

MORAL.

So, oft in theologic wars
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean;
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!

I'M GROWING OLD.

My days pass pleasantly away,

My nights are blest with sweetest sleep; I feel no symptoms of decay,

I have no cause to mourn nor weep; My foes are impotent and shy,

My friends are neither false nor cold:
And yet, of late, I often sigh-
"I'm growing old."

My growing talk of olden times,
My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy to rhymes,

My growing love of easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold :
All whisper, in the plainest voice,-
I'm growing old.

I'm growing fonder of my staff,
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes,
I'm growing fainter in my laugh,
I'm growing deeper in my sighs,

I'm growing careless of my dress,
I'm growing frugal of my gold,
I'm growing wise, I'm growing,-yes!
I'm growing old.

I see it in my changing taste,
I see it in my changing hair,
I see it in my growing waist,
I see it in my growing heir;
A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth,

I'm growing old.

Ah me! my very laurels breathe
The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the Hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the Years.
E'en Flattery's honey'd words declare
The secret she would fain withhold,
And tell me, in "How young you are
I'm growing old.

י!

Thanks for the years whose rapid flight My sombre muse too sadly sings! Thanks for the gleams of golden light That tint the darkness of their wings! The light that beams from out the sky, Those heavenly mansions to unfold Where all are blest, and none may sigh"I'm growing old!"

KISS ME SOFTLY.

KISS me softly and speak to me low,
Malice has ever a vigilant ear:
What if Malice were lurking near?
Kiss me, dear!

Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

Kiss me softly and speak to me low,-
Envy too has a watchful ear:

What if Envy should chance to hear?
Kiss me, dear!

Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

Kiss me softly and speak to me low:
Trust me, darling, the time is near
When lovers may love with never a fear,—
Kiss me, dear!

Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

ROBERT TRAIL SPENCE LOWELL,
Born at Boston, Mass: 1816-

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

OH! that last day in Lucknow fort!
We knew that it was the last;

That the enemy's mines had crept surely in,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death;
And the men and we all work'd on:

It was one day more, of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a corporal's wife,

A fair young gentle thing,

Wasted with fever in the siege,

And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid,

And I took her head on my knee;

"When my father comes hame frae the pleugh”—she said—

"Oh! please then waken me.

وو

She slept like a child on her father's floor

In the flecking of woodbine-shade,

When the house-dog sprawls by the open door,

And the mother's wheel is stay'd.

It was smoke and roar, and powder-stench,

And hopeless waiting for death;

But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child,
Seem'd scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep, and I had my dream
Of an English village-lane,

And wall and garden ;—a sudden scream
Brought me back to the roar again.

There Jessie Brown stood listening,
And then a broad gladness broke
All over her face, and she took my hand
And drew me near and spoke:

"The Highlanders! Oh! dinna ye hear
The slogan far awa'-

The McGregor's? Ah! I ken it weel;
It's the grandest o' them a'.

"God bless thae bonny Highlanders !
We're saved! we're saved!" she cried;
And fell on her knees, and thanks to God
Pour'd forth, like a full flood-tide.

Along the battery-line her cry

Had fallen among the men;

And they started, for they were there to die: Was life so near them then?

They listen'd, for life; and the rattling fire Far off, and the far-off roar

Were all;-and the colonel shook his head,
And they turn'd to their guns once more.

Then Jessie said "That slogan's dune;
But can ye no hear them, noo,—
The Campbells are comin'? It's no a dream;
Our succours hae broken through!"

We heard the roar and the rattle afar,
But the pipes we could not hear;

So the men plied their work of hopeless war, And knew that the end was near.

It was not long ere it must be heard,—
A shrilling, ceaseless sound;

It was no noise of the strife afar,
Or the sappers underground.

It was the pipes of the Highlanders,
And now they play'd "Auld Lang Syne:"
It came to our men like the voice of God,
And they shouted along the line.

And they wept and shook one another's hands,
And the women sobb'd in a crowd;

And every one knelt down where we stood,
And we all thank'd God aloud.

That happy day, when we welcomed them,
Our men put Jessie first;

And the General took her hand, and cheers
From the men, like a volley, burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan stream'd,
Marching round and round our line;

And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, For the pipes play'd “ Auld Lang Syne."

66

LOVE DISPOSED OF.

HERE goes Love! Now cut him clear,
A weight about his neck:
If he linger longer here,
Our ship will be a wreck.
Overboard! Overboard!
Down let him go!

In the deep he may sleep,
Where the corals grow.