But, oh! that symbol of purest faith
Had cheer'd the heart in the hour of death,
And shone triumphant o'er the brave
As they crush'd the power of the sceptred slave.

It seem'd like a spell on the lips of all
Whom the trumpet call'd from their festive hall,
And the soldier to it upturn'd his eye
As he lay on the grassy turf to die.

But it gleams no more on land or sea,
A star to the feudal chivalry!
On the silent hearth, and the ivied tower,
Hath it found a last forsaken bower. G.R.C.

* * * * *



RETROSPECTIVE GLEANINGS.

* * * * *

SPIRIT DRINKING.


(_TO THE EDITOR._)


Much as has been said about gin-drinking in the present times, it