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Would die in the wind's wild roar ; One sudden grapple of blood-stained hands, One splash — and then all is o'er ; And a murderer murmurs — " That owd cat Wean't keep me awake no more ! " CHAHLES GEORGE GORDON. Died 1885. A year ago, ere Spring's alchemic vigour To gold changed Winter's dross, All Europe turned to watch a lonely figure Set out from Charing Cross. A soldier, aye, and yet no drum's gay rattle. No warlike pomp and show, Attends this warrior on his way to battle, Alone he meets the foe. A strange invader : to those hostile regions He brings no sword of flume ; He bears alone, to quell vast rebel legions, The magic of his name. With bated breath and wildly straining vision. We watch this man's career ; This hero pressing on his god-like mission, Unchecked by human fear. Vain task, for soon in his beleaguered xirison We see him brought to bay. Around the walls ten thousand bayonets glisten To bar the hero's way.