I felt my visage turn from red
To white-from cold to hot,
But it was nothing wonderful
My colour changed I wot,
For, like some variable silks,

I felt that I was shot.

And looking forth with anxious eye
From my snug upper story,

I saw our melancholy corps
Going to beds all gory;

The pioneers seem'd very loth

To axe the way to glory.

The captain march'd as mourners march,

The ensign too seem'd lagging,

And many more, although they were

No ensigns, took to flagging;

Like corpses in the Serpentine,

Methought they wanted dragging.

But while I watch'd, the thought of Death

Came like a chilly gust,

And lo! I shut the window down,

With very little lust

To join so many marching men

That soon might be March dust.

Quoth I," Since Fate ordains it so,
Our coast the foe must land on ;"-

I felt warm beside the fire

I cared not to abandon;

And homes and hearths are always things That patriots make a stand on.

"The fools that fight abroad for home,"
Thought I, "may get a wrong one;
Let those that have no homes at all
Go battle for a long one."

The mirror here confirmed me this
Reflection by a strong one.

For there, where I was wont to shave

And deck me like Adonis,

There stood the leader of our foes,

With vultures for his cronies,

No Corsican, but Death himself,

The Bony of all Bonies.

A horrid sight it was, and sad,

To see the grisly chap

Put on my crimson livery,

And then begin to clap

My helmet on-Ah, me! it felt
Like any felon's cap!

My plume seem❜d borrow'd from a hearse, An undertaker's crest;

My epaulettes like coffin plates;

My belt so heavy press'd,

Four pipeclay cross-roads seemed to lie

At once upon my breast.

My brazen breastplate only lack'd

A little heap of salt

To make me like a corpse full dress'd,

Preparing for the vault,

To set up what the Poets calls

My everlasting halt.

This funeral show inclin'd me quite

To peace and here I am!

Whilst better Lions go to war,

Enjoying with the Lamb

A lengthen'd life, that might have been

A Martial epigram.

T. H.

THE RIVAL DEATHS.

A BATTLE SCENE.

It was at Agincourt! and proudly waved
The gory bannerols; and falchions fell,
From either host, right greedily; while groans
And imprecations deep, foul oaths and prayers
The clangour swell'd!-Thus Goldsmith's page
clares.

But, spite of things unseemly; spite of legs,

de

From hip-bones torn, of arms where legs should be, Quick-sighted wights, that love of laughter plagues, 'Mong bloody trunks, will cause for grinning see.

In front of Henry's knights a warrior stood, Perfum'd and whisk'rified, with val'rous ribands strew'd,

For ribands gave (my chronicler doth hold)

A wondrous sight of soul to men of old:

They fought for silken knots and ladies' eyes;
For broken limbs we seek another prize;

And though so many boast of glorious scars,
For trophies such, alone, few covet wars.

Our Gallic Baron was of high descent:
To Clovis traced; his blood still farther went;
For Pharamond, he oft persisted in,
Was "ligne ignoble" and "moderne origine."
De sa mère,* not a word, save Pistol's jest,
Or Falstaff's broader hint, that told the rest.

Talbot swore loud; his blade stern Bedford drew;
The warrior bow'd, and thus: "écoutez tous !+
Mon Isabelle, I declare,

Is de fairest of de fair!

Qui me dédit, qu'il avancé!

Vive Isabelle et la FRANCE!"

He scarce, thrice bowing, this great nasal spoke,
When angry Warwick's mace his nasum§ broke:
In scented rills now ran the purple tide,
And scarf alike and precious ribands dyed.

* Poor girl! to be mated, so hasty was she,
She forgot there were banns, and a pastor, and fee.
+List, all of you!

Who says nay: behold my lance!

Praise my love, and honour FRANCE!

§ His nose.