War hath its heroes, Peace hath hers as well,
    Armed by Heaven’s King from Heaven’s armoury;
    And this dead man was one, who fought and fell,
    Life less his choice, than death and victory.

    To do his work with purpose iron strong,
    To loose the captive, set the prisoner free;
    To heal the hideous sore of deadly wrong
    Kept festering by greed and cruelty;

    Love on his banner, Pity in his heart;
    His lofty soul moved on with single aim;
    ’Mid deadly perils bore a noble part,
    And, dying, left a pure, unsullied name.

    Thro’ dreary miles of foul eternal swamp,
    And over lonely leagues of burning sand,
    He wrought his purpose; Faith his quenchless lamp,
    And Truth his sword held as in giant’s hand.

    His lot was as his sorrowing Master’s lot,
    Nowhere to lay his weary honoured head;
    “My limbs they fail me, and my brow is hot;
    Build me a hut—­wherein—­to die,” he said.

    “Ah, England, I shall see thee nevermore. 
    Farewell, my loved ones, far o’er ocean’s foam;
    Ye watch in vain on that dear mother shore,”
    He looked to Heaven and cried, “I’m going home.”

    Home, sweetest word that ever man has made,
    Home, after weariness and toil and pain;
    Home to his Father’s house all unafraid,
    Home to his rest, no more to weep again.

    How found they him, this hero of all time? 
    Dead on his knees, as if at last he said: 
    “Into thy hands, O God!” with faith sublime;
    And death looked on, scarce knowing he was dead.

    O British land, that breedeth sturdy men,
    Be proud to hold our hero’s honoured bones;
    Land that he wrought for with his life and pen,
    Write, write his glory in enduring stones.

    Tell how he lived and died, how fought and fell,
    So in the world’s glad future, looming dim;
    The children of the lands he loved so well,
    Shall learn his name and love to honour him.

IN SWANAGE BAY.

BY MRS. CRAIK.

        “’Twas five-and-forty year ago,
          Just such another morn,
        The fishermen were on the beach,
          The reapers in the corn;
        My tale is true, young gentlemen,
          As sure as you were born.

        “My tale’s all true, young gentlemen,”
          The fond old boatman cried
        Unto the sullen, angry lads,
          Who vain obedience tried: 
        “Mind what your father says to you,
          And don’t go out this tide.

        “Just such a shiny sea as this,
          Smooth as a pond, you’d say,
        And white gulls flying, and the crafts
          Down Channel making way;
        And the Isle of Wight, all glittering bright,
          Seen clear from Swanage Bay.