POETRY.
IN MACEDONIA.
THE babe to its dead mother pressed, Still tugging at her empty breast; For ere that fluttering heart grew cold. She wrapped it in the mantle's fold. Lo, by the goodman's side they lie, With blank looks staring at the sky, That through the broken rafters sees Such sights, all-pitying Christ, as these!
By the swift death of steel they bled, And are most happy being dead; For some the gloating murderers spare A darker, viler doom to bear—
The youth reserved for cord and flame, And deeds that mercy dare not name; The maid whom brutish hands disgrace Before her helpless father's face !
Meanwhile, within our careless land We feast the ever-dwindling band, The scattered remnant, bent and grey, Of Balaclava's glorious day.
O ye, who once for England's sake Did Russia's myriad army break, Did she your fearless foreheads kiss And cast you on their guns, for this P EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.
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