POETRY.
IN MEMORIAM No triumph-hour of death for him In the wild rapture of the fray ; Only to watch as sad and dim To darkness waned his latest day; Dreaming, maybe, he heard once more The pine-trees whisper round his home, Or saw on that dear distant shore The wavelets break in silvery foam.
What land remote, what furthest sky, By rise or set of sun, but knows How Britain's hero-children lie 'Neath Tropic sands or Arctic: snows !
And some the flag of Empire bore, And some were eager in the quest Of jealous Nature's guarded lore, And some a passionate unrest Urged from the settled ways of peace : With them what hopes were lost ! and yet 'Tis thus the fruitful years increase, 'Tis thus the bounds are wider set Of civil rule and right. The way Is smoother where their feet have trod, Still moving towards the golden day, The vanguard of the host of God.
ALFRED J. CHURCH.
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