I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell, And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover, Will carry my secret so safely and well

That no being shall ever discover One word of the many that rapidly fell

From the soul-speaking lips of my lover:

And the moon and the stars that looked over

Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell
They wove round about us that night in the dell,
In the path through the dew-laden clover,
Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell
As they fell from the lips of my lover.

HOMER GREENE.

What Does it Matter?

IT matters little where I was born,

Or if my parents were rich or poor;
Whether they shrank at the cold world's scorn,
Or walked in the pride of wealth secure.
But whether I live an honest man,

And hold my integrity firm in my clutch,
I tell you, brother, plain as I can,
It matters much.

It matters little how long I stay

In a world of sorrow, sin, and care; Whether in youth I am called away,

Or live till my bones and pate are bare.
But whether I do the best I can

To soften the weight of Adversity's touch
On the faded cheek of my fellow-man,
It matters much.

It matters little where be my grave,—
Or on the land or in the sea,

By purling brook, or 'neath stormy wave,-
It matters little or nought to me.

But whether the angel Death comes down
And marks my brow with his loving touch,
As one that shall wear the victor's crown,
It matters much.

NOAH BARKER.

The Last Redoubt.

KACELYEVO's slope still felt

The cannon's bolts and the rifles' pelt;
For the last redoubt up the hill remained,
By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained.

Mehemet Ali stroked his beard;

His lips were clinched and his look was weird;
Round him were ranks of his ragged folk,
Their faces blackened with blood and smoke.

"Clear me the Muscovite out!" he cried

Then the name of Allah!" echoed wide,

And the fezzes were waved and the bayonets lowered, And on to the last redoubt they poured.

One fell, and a second quickly stopped

The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped;
The second, a third straight filled his place;

and a fourth kept up the race.

Many a fez in the mud was crushed,
Many a throat that cheered was hushed,
Many a heart that sought the crest
Found Allah's arms and a houri's breast.

Over their corpses the living sprang,
And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang,
Till the faces that lined the last redoubt
Could see their faces and hear their shout.

In the redoubt a fair form towered,

That cheered up the brave and chid the coward; Brandishing blade with a gallant air;

His head erect and his bosom bare.

"Fly! they are on us!" his men implored;
But he waved them on with his waving sword.
It cannot be held; 'tis no shame to go!"

But he stood with his face set hard to the foe.

Then clung they about him, and tugged, and knelt ; He drew a pistol from out his belt,

And fired it blank at the first that set

Foot on the edge of the parapet.

Over that first one toppled; but on

Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone,
As hurriedly fled his men dismayed,

Not a bayonet's length from the length of his blade.

"Yield!" But aloft his steel he flashed,

And down on their steel it ringing clashed;
Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt,
His honor full, but his life-blood spilt.

They lifted him up from the dabbled ground;
His limbs were shapely and soft and round,
No down on his lip, on his cheek no shade,
"Bismillah!" they cried, "'t is an infidel maid!"

Mehemet Ali came and saw

The riddled breast and the tender jaw. "Make her a bier of your arms," he said, "And daintily bury this dainty dead!

"Make her a grave where she stood and fell,

-

'Gainst the jackal's scratch and the vulture's smell.

Did the Muscovite men like their maidens fight,
In their lines we had scarcely supped to-night."

So a deeper trench 'mong the trenches there
Was dug, for the form as brave as fair;
And none, till the judgment trump and shout,
Shall drive her out of the last redoubt.

ALFRED AUSTIN.

NOTES.

My Mind to Me a Kingdom is. Page 1. BYRD (b. 1540, d. 1623) wat organist to Queen Elizabeth, and composed an immense amount of vocal music. Three or four other stanzas, inferior to these, are sometimes inserted in this poem, and its authorship has been claimed for Sir Edward Dyer, a contemporary of Byrd's. There are also four stanzas of precisely similar construction, having many of the same thoughts, and in some cases almost identical words, which are attributed to Joshua Sylvester. These are given at page 15.

The Lye. Page 2. The authorship of this poem has been disputed. Percy ascribes it to RALEIGH (b. 1552, executed 1618), and a copy of it among the Chetham manuscripts bears his signature.

Man's Mortality. Page 6. WASTEL (b. about 1566) published in 1629 "Microbiblion, or the Bible's Epitome in Verse," of which these famous stanzas are a fragment.

Willy Drowned in Yarrow. Page 8. This poem is believed to date from the 15th century.

Verses. Page 9. The story of CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE is told in Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," Vol. II. He was executed for treason (of which he was probably innocent) in 1586.

The Ballad of Agincourt. Page 10. DRAYTON (b. 1563, d. 1631) published many poems, this being one of his latest. The battle, in which 15,000 English defeated 50,000 French, took place in 1415. Longfellow borrows the metrical formula of this poem for his "Skeleton in Ar

mor.

Take thy Old Cloake about thee. Page 13. The seventh stanza of this poem is sung by Iago in the Second Act of "Othello." The whole appeared in Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.

A Contented Mind. Page 15. See the first of these Notes. SYLVESTER was born in England in 1563, and died in 1618.