POETRY.

A GOLFER'S RHYME ON "THE NAMING OF PLACES."

WHAT sentiment is gathered round

That coloured rag in front of war : The only weapon without sound Fights best of all in battle's roar.

The banner lifts the wounded up ; And thrills the dying with delight ; Cheers like an over-brimming cup, And moves,—the master of the fight !'

Yes ! we are weak, and ask a sign, As in the gospel days of old :

The pomp of place is not divine,—

The cord that binds our hearts is gold Still through the maze of circumstance, We pick our footsteps with distrust : We see the symbols of our clans, And liquid " may " congeals to "must."

A glamour mingles with our aims, And dignifies our childish laws ; We call our small things by great names, And fight as for the nobler cause. So victory the keener seems, When mounds of sand, quite innocent Of storm of snow, or icy streams— Bearded with but a little bent-

-We call the "Alps,"* and clamber on, With Hannibal or "Nap." again,

To follow where the ball has gone That seeks to level scores—not men !

The trench yawns deeper for the name ;

More difficult since we began To call it—adding fame to fame—

(When taken), "storming the Redan !"* And thoughts of danger glow and shift, Advance, increase, like flowing lava, Because we know one as " Rorke's Drift," t Another risk as " Balaclava "! t The dullest skies are bright above

The gray grass (always green) it yields,— The flawless stretch the golfers love,—

When known as the "Elysian Fields " !

There is no interest on the earth But gentle fiction blows aflame ;— Ah ! we have known it from our birth, The magic of a sounding name ! H.