_Yet_ from thee, in thy foe-man's land,
Welling before the gate of those
Who _should_ stretch forth a kindly hand
To save th' unhonour'd, _friendless_ dead
From rushing legion's scouring tread.

_Friendless_ poor soldier?--nay thy steed
Stands gazing on thee, with an eye
_Too_ piteous: he _felt_ thee bleed,--
He _saw_ thee, dropping from him,--_die!_
And in thine helpless, lorn estate,
_He_ cannot leave thee, desolate.

Nor thy poor _dog_, whose anxious gaze,
On helm and bugle's lowly place,
Speaks his deep sorrow and amaze!
_He_, watching yet, thine icy face
Licks thy pale forehead with a moan
To tell thee--_Thou art not alone!_

M. L. B.

* * * * *



ORIGINS AND INVENTIONS.

No. XXVIII.