It was

Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING counts his admirers by hundreds of thousands on either side of the Atlantic. The first of the two pieces I have selected is a State paper in the dress of a very vigorous poem. called forth by a silly resolution, passed at an "Indian Congress," calling on the Government to allow every one to carry arms! The line about the East in the second will live at least as long as our Eastern Empire.

Mr. PHILLIPS has made his mark, both as a poet and as a dramatist.

Mr. SWINBURNE'S fame has spread over all the English-speaking world, but I do not know that a better criticism has ever been passed upon him than that which was passed long years ago by Henry Smith, well known to Oxford men as the Admirable Crichton of his time, who was a tutor at Balliol when Swinburne was an undergraduate. "Swinburne," he said, "has brought into English poetry something it never had before."

The EARL OF CREWE has inherited a good deal of his father's poetical gift, a gift which but rarely passes by descent.

I conclude with some specimens of the work of several young men, who will perhaps be one day described as poets of the Edwardian age, but who all won their spurs before the death of Queen Victoria: Mr. ARTHUR LEGGE, Mr. WALTER WILSON GREG, Mr. LAURENCE BINYON, and Mr. DOUGLAS AINSLIE.

PART III

SIR FRANKLIN LUSHINGTON

THE FLEET UNDER SAIL

1854

They are gone from their own green shore! Our armies sally forth to the East and to the North, By the Lion of Gibraltar and the steep of Elsinore; And the long line of sail on the verge is low and pale, And the dun smoke-track fades amid the cloudy wrack; And we fade, as they look toward the shore.

Many will come back no more;

Whether they shall sleep twenty fathoms deep
'Neath the Black Sea's surge or the Baltic's icy floor,
Or whether they shall lie with their faces to the sky,
Till the mound upon the plain is heap'd above the slain ;
Many shall come back no more.

Did you scan those steady faces o'er?

Which of all the troop that cheered from prow and

poop,

As the signal to weigh anchor flew aloft at the foreWhen the sudden trumpet blares through the squadrons and the squares,

Shall be stricken by the breath of the messenger of death?

Which are they that shall come home no more?

Did you mark what a frank air they wore, The sea's hardy sons, that will stand beside their guns, 'Spite of batteries afloat and of bristling forts ashore? Stript bare to the waist, with their strong loins braced, As fearless and as frank they will tread the ruddy plank, Where the boarder slips to rise no more.

Hush, brothers, cheer no more!—

Let the low prayer rise in witness to the skies

Of our hope and our trust in His hand that rules the

war;

And the self-willed man, who has forced us to the vanOn his head be all the guilt of the blood that shall be spilt

Of the many that come home no more.

By the blood of those who come no more!

At the sword's point and edge we will seize a heavy pledge,

(Let us swear an oath and keep it in our true heart's

core)

We will baulk his avid eyes, and win back the stolen

prize,

And the ransom he shall yield is the world's peace, sealed

In the blood that flows to ebb no more.

Boom, great guns, along the shore !—

Let the giant hearts of oak puff out the wreathèd smoke From their grim broad sides with a loud prophetic roar : For the truer points your aim, and the quicker fits your flame,

The less shall be the list of the voices that are missed

From our muster when the battle-day is o'er.

Let the echoes roll along the shore.

The sword shall not be sheathed, nor the word

"Enough!" be breathed,

Till the battered bird of prey can no longer swoop or

soar;

And the flags that are unfurled for the quiet of the world Shall be free alike to sweep o'er the broad and narrow deep

For ever and for evermore.

ALMA

Grey, grey morn o'er the hollow dark is creeping;
Call the men to arms, be they waking, be they sleeping:
From their cold beds of earth, 'neath the canopy of
sky,

Fifty thousand men rise up to do or die:

For the fires we saw last night were the foe's upon the

height,

The heights by the Alma river, where none but the brave may climb.

Broad daylight upon dewy morn is growing;
Hark to the tramp of the steady columns going :
Far along the sea-line sails of battle gleam,

Slowly pressing onwards amid the cloud of steam:
Yes, brothers of the fleet, you shall watch the armies

meet

On the heights by the Alma river, for there we will die

or climb.

High noontide glows hot upon the vines;

Lie down awhile till the cannon sweeps their lines: Though the shells in angry answer plunge tearing

through the rank,

Lie down awhile till the French are on their flank :

Then forward to the fight, and God defend the right On the heights by the Alma river-His aid is our heart to climb.

Charge! through the foam-lashed river;-charge! up the steep hill-side;

Close up to your grey head leaders, as calm in the front they ride:

Charge! through sheets of leaden hail;-charge! through the bellow of doom—

Charge! up to the belching muzzles ;-charge! drive the bayonet home:

Oh God, do we live or die? What's Death, what

Life, in the cry,

As we reel to the gory summit, all fire with the murderous climb ?

Grey, grey dusk is before the dark retiring:

Sound the recall-note; cease the random firing;

For the broken masses scurry from the whistle of the balls

Till they find a safer shelter behind their city walls: And the watch-fires to-night are ours upon the height, The heights by the Alma river, the goal of our terrible climb.

Oh, the gallant hearts that are lying cold and still On the slopes below the summit, on the plateau of the hill!