Faintly o'er the din of battle,
On the ear there fall
From afar a drum's sharp rattle,
And a bugle call.

Through the forest, drawing nearer,
Ring the bugle notes,
And the drum-beat, quicker, clearer,
On the calm air floats.

Cheer! my lads, and cease from firing,
Sheathe the blood-stained sword,
For our foemen are retiring--
We have kept the ford.




TENNYSON.

The noble lion groweth old,
The weight of years his eyesight dims,
And strength deserts his mighty limbs,
His once warm blood runs slow and cold.

The sunlight of another day
Slants through the jungle's tangled mass;
He marks the shadows, but, alas!
Sees not the sun among them play.