POETRY.

BISMARCK.

THY Mother follows Thee to rest

With haughty, tearless eye : Who wert the buckler on her breast, The sword upon her thigh.

Through stormy youth, through stressful age, Her chronicles have shown Two stories on a single page : Thy country's, and Thine own!

A dark but splendid record, stained With oozings not of wine !

Man must have gods, or true or feigned, And Germany was Thine.

Though in that sacred cause, good Rooth, Strange deeds Thou daredst at times, We set thy loyalty and truth Against a hundred crimes.

Among the wise we saw Thee sit, Their easy master still.

In vain they brought their subtle wit.

To match Thine iron will.

Each empty brag, each ready lie, The attentive warrior heard; Then smiled, with cool, contemptuous eye..

And crushed them with a word.

For Fortune saw Thee, Roman browed, Invulnerable, austere.

And loved the soul that never bowed For grace, or bent for fear.

Thrice at her shrine Thou didst desire- An oracle of flame; And thrice from out the hidden pyre The expected answer came.

Till on yon hill above Belleville Thou stoodst, when Paris burned ; And 'neath Thy charger's armoured hed The flying cinder spurned. While near, upon that ardent sod, Thin-faced, emaciate; By Thee, who stoodst so like a god, Stood Moltke, like a Fate.

• • • • • • • So, guard Him, guard Him home to rest, 0 Mother, eagle-eyed L He was the buckler to Thy breast The sword against Thy side.

But rear no pile with hireling bands, Of bronze, or sculptured stone; One Temple to His memory stands : 'Twas builded by His Own.

EDWA.RD SYDNEY TELEF..