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'TWAS the heat of the battle at Inkermann,

And the balls they were whistling round, And, as if it were water, the red blood ran,

And with corpses was strewed the ground.

Then if you had seen Lord Raglan's face,

You had said he looked jaded and pale; But he is no Briton who stirs from his place,

While victory hangs in the scale.

Who is it that yonder comes úp the hill,

With a bottle of wine and a chair?
The balls about him may whiz, if they will,

He stops not, he cares not a hair.

It 's own man John, who has stolen from the tent

With a chair and a bottle of wine: “Don't be angry, my Lord, for you know it 's well meant,

And even a Field - Marshal should dine.”

'Twas late, late at night, when Lord Raglan came

To his tént, back, with victory crowned : And “Where's John ?” he cried, and loud called John by name,

But John was no where to be found.

«Three men and a lantern,” Lord Raglan said;

"And a pickaxe and shovel bring here, For John on the field of battle lies dead”

And there stood in that stérn eye a tear.

Four men to the field of battle are gone,

In the dead of the dark, dark night, And turn over the corpses, one by one,

And hold to their faces the light.

"In vain, all our labor," the foremost said,

“He 's not here or the night is too dark" When he stumbled on something as heavy as lead,

And, behold! there lay John, stiff and stark.

On the spot they found him they buried him there,

In the cloak the fourth man had on, And three of them prayed a hasty prayer,

But the fourth he looked steadfast on John,

And said to himself: -- "One friend, at least,

When I die, will be spared the pain," And hurried his comrades, for in the East

Daylight was appearing again.

And never a traveller by Inkermann

Asks word of that famous fight,
But he is shown the grave of the serving - man,

And told of that dark, dark night,

And of a glazed ring Lord Raglan wore,

From that day to the day he died,
With a lock of gray hair and pearl letters four

And a knot of black ribbon, inside.

3 CHEMNITZER STRASSE, DRESDEN, May 16, 1857.

VERSES

RECEIVED FROM T. N. COLE ESQ.,

IN REPLY TO A NOTE WHICH THE AUTHOR HAD SENT HIM, REQUESTING HIM TO PURCHASE GOVERNMENT STOCK ON THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT, AND ENCLOSING HIM SOME VERSES BY WAY OF RECOMPENSE FOR THE TROUBLE.

Thy noté (oh, how welcome!), dear Doctor, convey'd

A promise of pleasure and trouble;
By what oversight, then, was the trouble mislaid,

And the packet of pleasure sent double?

DUBLIN, April 23, 1857.

TO T. N. COLE ESQ.,

IN ANSWER.

Since it gives thee so much pleasure

To take trouble for thy friend,
Ít 's thy friend's part, tó take good care

Thát thy trouble have no end.

Gó and see, now, that the Transfer

Hás been duly made, and be,
Fór the pleasure of the trouble,

Thankful in thy heart to me.

3 CHEMNITZER STRASSE, DRESDEX, May 23, 1857.

TO FRÄULEIN MINNA GEMMEL

OF MARIENWERDER,

WHO HAD SENT THE AUTHOR A CARD ANNOUNCING HER BETROTHAL, WITH THE EMBLEM

A FLY APPROACHING A SPIDER'S WEB.

The window-pane is yours, the ceiling, floor,
The well spread table, cupboard, open door –
What for a little fly could Heaven do more?
From your fair realms

fair realms you turn away and hie
Into a cobweb, buzzing there to lie
The spider's prey — ah, silly, silly fly!

3 CHEMNITZER STRASSE, DRESDEN, March 4, 1857.

In Powers' studio, Florence,

Sept. 17, 1857.

I

CAME, a youth, to Florence, and, enraptured,
Gazed on the wonders of the Grecian chisel:
I come a man, with ripened taste, to Florence,
And from the Venus turn to Powers' Greek Slave.

In Powers' studio, Florence,

Sept. 20, 1857.

"THE

HEY are not living, though they seem," I said;
“And still less are they what they seem not dead.
What are they then ?” Powers pointed to his head,
And smiling answered: - "Dreams born here and bred."

“You make all your books too long, sir,”
Said to me, one day, a critic,
Laying down my last new volume,
Ánd his snuff-box, solemn, tapping:

“íf my book 's too long,” replied I,
“Make it short by reading little;
Wére 't too short, you might not find it
Quíte so easy to add to it.”

VIA SISTINA, ROME, Jan. 7, 1858.

WITH doses small of hellebore, beginning,
Or opium, or the foul Virginian weed,
Stomach and taste grow, by degrees, accustomed,
And relish first, then doat upon, the poison.
The flatterer's unction so, poured plump at once,
With rough, rude dash, into thine itching ear,
Moves nausea, and thou criest: “Hold, hold! enough!”
But, with nice tact dropped in, the selfsame virus
Soothes and delights; thou hold'st thy head a-stoop,
And, drained the ámphora ás it had béen a phial,
Criest: "Móre of thát, sweet friend, more, give me more."

VIA SISTINA, ROME, Jan. 5, 1858.

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