POETRY.

THE DEAD HERO.

(w. E. G., DIED MAY 19TH, 1898.) DEAD. Prom the far-seen tower Where he lay aloof from the fight,

Worn with labour and years, Comes the sudden word, Long expected but strange. He is dead. The voice that rang In our ears, when first we awoke To the noise and stir of the world, Is mute ; and the flashing eye That looked on the marshalled lines, When first at our trembling side Clattered the untried sword, Sleeps ; and the pulsing life Is still that through the years, Swift, inexhaustible, swayed With the swaying tide of the fight.

The long-tried Hero is dead ; And the battle is hushed on the plain.

Fixed in the ground the spears Stand by the piled-up shields ; And slowly from camp to camp, With heads low-bowed and with grave Awe-struck faces, the chiefs Pass ; and the warriors stand In whispering groups by the tents.

Foeman with foeman meets, And hands that crossed in the clash

Of blade on glittering blade Are clasped in a solemn truce. He is dead; and the word is borne From tent to tent on the plain, And far over peopled lands, And seas where the white sails

gleam, Floating falls on the ears Of stern-browed warriors met In battle on other fields.

Man after man we arrive

On the field where the great hosts wage

The war that will never end. Nursed in the noise of arms, We enter the ranks ; we march For a few hot hours, till we fall At the stroke of a sudden sword, Or we slink and hide from the fight ; Brief is the glowing fame That lights our best to their doom.

But he, with head unbowed, With undimmed glory, endured The shock of tumultuous years; Many and fierce the strokes That fell on his ringing mail, Many and fierce the strokes He dealt in the ranks of the foe, Many the fields he planned,

Many the charges he led; Ever his bright blade flashed In the wildest surge of the tide; Round him the red blood flowed, And the reeling warriors fell ; But he, unwearied, erect, Through fight after painful fight, Bore his victorious arms ; Fierce in valour, and pure In faith, and winningly sweet In courtesy, noble and kind, Honoured and loved of his- friends,

Honoured and feared of his foes,. Honoured and feared—nay,. loved :

For friend and foe, as he passed. From the clanging field to the• peace, The hard-won peace of his end, Followed with grave adieus And wistful glances of love The white-haired Chief to his.

tower.

Now he is dead, and far On the quiet Elysian plain Walks with his valorous peers, The immortal heroes he loved. Nestor and Priam are there, And Hector, and Peleus' son, The wise Odysseus, the brave Agamemnon, ruler of men, And the poet who sang of their- deeds ;

A godlike race, but none Greater or wiser than he. There he rests from his toil In meadows immortally fair, And the Master of all brave souls Crowns him with fadeless leaves.-

Soft! No tears, no loud Wailing ! Silent and calm Draw to the guarded bier. Friend and foe, we come— Warriors unknown and obscure,. Captains tried in the war, Fighters from distant fields, Triflers grave for an hour, Singers of indolent songs In bowers of voluptuous bloom,. Bards that have cheered and in- spired The fainting hearts of the brave--• Solemn and slow, our arms, Our garlands, our harps laid by,. With voices hushed, and with heads

Bent, and with spirits subdued. With holy awe, we approach.. Silent we gaze on the Chief Laid silent, his motionless limbs Clothed in steel, and his sword Sheathed on his tranquil! breast. Silent we pause and salute With grave hands solemnly

raised The mighty dead,—and pass Silent forth to the plain. - CHA RLES CAMP TAIAMLLI, -