And yet, with all these loving ones, unfriended, had he died.

No woman's low, sweet voice was near one soothing word to say
Or gentle hand from his cold brow to wipe the damps away;
But yet why should we grieve for him, that hero gallant, brave?
His was a soldier's glorious death, a soldier's glorious grave!



THE HUNTER AND HIS DYING STEED.

"Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day,
That cost thy life, my gallant grey!"--Scott


The Hunter stooped o'er his dying steed
With sad dejected mien,
And softly stroked its glossy neck,
Lustrous as silken sheen;
With iron will and nerve of steel,
And pale lips tight compressed,
He kept the tears from eyes that long
Were strange to such a guest.

Thou'rt dying now, my faithful one,
Alas! 'tis easy known--
Thy neck would arch beneath my touch,
Thou'dst brighten at my tone;
But turn not thus thy restless eyes
Upon my saddened brow,