Let not Cæsar's servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low;

'T was no foeman's arm that felled him,
'T was his own that struck the blow
His who, pillowed on thy bosom,
Turned aside from glory's ray
His who, drunk with thy caresses,
Madly threw a world away.

Should the base plebeian rabble
Dare assail my name at Rome,
Where the noble spouse, Octavia,
Weeps within her widowed home,
Seek her; say the gods bear witness,
Altars,, augurs, circling wings,
That her blood, with mine commingled,
Yet shall mount the thrones of kings.

And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!
Glorious sorceress of the Nile,
Light the path to Stygian horrors
With the splendors of thy smile;
Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,
Let his brow the laurel twine,
I can scorn the senate's triumphs,
Triumphing in love like thine.

I am dying, Egypt, dying;
Hark! the insulting foeman's cry,
They are coming; quick, my falchion,

Let me front them ere I die.

Ah, no more amid the battle
Shall my heart exulting swell,
Isis and Osiris guard thee,
Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!

-Wm. H. Lytle.

GUNGA DIN

You may talk o' gin and beer

When you're quartered safe out 'ere,

An' you 're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter

You will do your work on water,

An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it,

Now in Injia's sunny clime,

Where I used to spend my time

A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,

Of all them blackfaced crew

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

He was "Din! Din! Din!

You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!

Water, get it! Panee lao!

You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

The uniform 'e wore

Was nothin' much before,

An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,

For a piece o' twisty rag

An' a goatskin water-bag

Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.

When the sweatin' troop-train lay

In a sidin' through the day,

Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,

We shouted "Harry By!"

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e could n't serve us all.

It was "Din! Din! Din!

You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it

Or I'll marrow you this minute

If you do n't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one

Till the longest day was done;

An' 'e did n't seem to know the use o' fear.

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin' nut,

'E 'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is mussick on 'is back,

'E would skip with our attack,

An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire,"
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide

'E was white, clear white, inside

When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"

With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,

You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight

With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,

An' the man that spied me first

Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead,

An' he plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green: It was crawlin' and it stunk,

But of all the drinks I've drunk,

I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was " Din! Din! Din!"

'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground,

An' 'e's kickin' all around:

For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!

'E carried me away

To where a dooli lay,

An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.

'E put me safe inside,

An' just before 'e died:

"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on

At the place where 'e is gone

Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals,

Givin' drink to poor damned souls,

An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the living God that made you,

You 're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

SONG OF THE GREEK BARD

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,—
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
is set.

But all, except their sun,

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations; - all were his!
He counted them at break of day -
And when the sun set where were they?

And where are they? And where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

What, silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;

the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer," Let one living head, But one, arise,- we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain in vain; strike other chords;

Fill high the cup of Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble callHow answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave -
Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade I see their glorious black eyes shine;

But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.