ARTHUR E. J. LEGGE.

THE LOSING SIDE

Helmet and plume and sabre, banner and lance and shield,

Scattered in sad confusion over the trampled field;

And a band of broken soldiers, with a weary, hopeless air,

With heads in silence drooping, and eyes of grim despair. Like foam-flakes left on the shifting sand

In the track of the falling tide,

On the ground where their cause has failed they stand,

The last of the losing side.

Wisdom of age is vanquished, and generous hopes of youth,

Passion of faith and honour, fire of love and truth;

And the plans that seemed the fairest in the fight have

not prevailed,

The keenest blades are broken, and the strongest arms have failed.

But souls that know not the breath of shame,

And tongues that have never lied,

And the truest hearts, and the fairest fame,
Are here,

on the losing side.

The conqueror's crown of glory is set with many a gem, But I join not in their triumph-there are plenty to

shout for them;

The cause is the most applauded whose warriors gain

the day,

And the world's best smiles are given to the victors in the fray.

But dearer to me is the darkened plain,

Where the noblest dreams have died,

Where hopes have been shattered and heroes slain
In the ranks of the losing side.

WALTER WILSON GREG.

ON THE TOMB OF GUIDARELLO GUIDARELLI AT RAVENNA

With peace at last and silent of all moan

Far from the busy crowd that laughs and weeps,

In darkness and in stillness and alone,

Here Guidarello Braccioforte sleeps;
The secret tale, the polished marble stone
Eloquently impenetrable keeps.

LAURENCE BINYON.

TRAFALGAR SQUARE

Slowly the dawn a magic paleness drew

From windows dim; the Pillar, high in air, Over dark statues and dumb fountains threw A shadow on the solitary square.

They that all night, dozing disquieted,
Huddled together on the benches cold,
Now shrank apart, distrustful and unfed,
And by the growing radiance unconsoled.

Then one, a woman, silently arose,

And came to the broad fountain, brimming cool, And over the stone margin leaning close,

Dipped hands and bathed her forehead in the pool.

Now as the fresh drops ran upon her brow
And her hands knotted up her hair, the ways
Of old lost mornings came to her, and how
Into her mirror she would smile and gaze.

Then she was troubled; and looked down once more Into the glimmering water; and she seemed

The very depth of darkness to explore,

If it might yield all that she feared and dreamed.

But that kind clouding mirror answered her
With a soft answer, liquid mysteries
Of shadow, with a pale breeze just astir,
Yielded only the brightness of her eyes.

It was herself; but O what magic wrought
A presage round her, tender and obscure?
The water without stain refused her not:

In that deep vision she rejoined the pure.

The dawn stole on, and from its buried place
Rose in her bosom the sweet strength of youth;
She, the rejected, had no more disgrace :

Her opening heart drew in a different truth.

She that had come past her last hope, and found
Nothing beyond, and had shed no more tears,
But closing with dull ashes her first wound,
Had trodden into the daily dust all fears;

She now began to wonder and to thrill
Upon a new horizon; and the pain

Of hope began to quicken and to fill

The world with strangeness and desire again.

O then I am not come quite to the end,

She murmured, and life holds more than I knew, Somewhere by seeking I may find a friend

Perhaps, and something in this world be true.

Alone in this bright battle, whose fierce din

Even now awakes round her defenceless lot, Without home, friend, comfort or peace within, The very stones might weep her. She weeps not;

But as a plant, that under parching drought
Thirsted and drooped and daily heavier grew,

Rises afresh to the soft showering south,

She lifts her forehead to the sun anew.