POETRY.

WITHERINGTON AT COLENSO.

[The well-known war correspondent, Mr. Bennet Burleigh, relates in the Daily Telegraph an incident, which was reported to him by the Boers, of a British soldier at tke battle of Colenso, who, having both legs broken, besides other wounds, bandaged the disabled limbs with his putties, raised himself a rough cover of pebbles, and continued firing till he was himself shot through the head.; ALL day the ringing hills were loud With leaping bolts of flame,

All day from out their smoky shroud

The incessant thunder came—

Till when those slowly darkening skies

Had hushed the storm of fight, Shone radiant from her thousand eyes

The pity of the night :

0 day of pride and sorrow ! 0 heavy, heavy night!

For broad the river ran and deep Our warring hosts between, And stricken from the far-off steep

We fell by hands unseen—

Their hidden batteries raked so well Tugela's sullen flow, That like the gulf Iwixt heaven and hell It barred us from the foe :

A fordless, hopeless barrier, it held us from the foe,

Until our ardent Irish threw Their bodies in the flood, _ And down its tawny current drew A brighter trail of blood ; As 'neath yon deadly hail they died With jest and laughter gay, Soon hushed upon the swirling tide That carried them away : The swirling, strangling river that hurried them away.

But when the rush of battle swept Back from that fatal plain, A sorely wounded soldier crept From forth a heap of slain; The shell that burst his mates among Had struck and crippled him, And lax at either knee there hung A torn and useless limb : From either knee hung useless a crushed and mangled limb.

Yet though so fierce a stroke and rude His stalwart form had maimed, He too was of the lion's brood, Unconquered and untamed.

One joy, the greatest and the last, His parting soul would know, And ere upon the night it passed Would strike another blow : For duty and for England a final crowning blow.

So from what scattered stones were there He built a rugged pile, A rampart and a couch to bear His tortured frame awhile; From his exhausted cartridge belt The few last charges drew,

Nor wounds nor ebbing strength he felt

While still his fingers slew : While still with failing fingers his country's foes he slew. And they that towards his stronghold pressed •• Their flinching glances tufted, So awfully above its crest His glaring eyeballs burned : For like the wounded lynx they glowed Guarding her children's bed, And on his ragged tunic showed A broadening stain of red : war-worn tunic a broad and dreadful red.

Till, when before him and behind The foe had girt him round, A sudden bullet swift and kind His blackened forehead found.

And, with his mighty arms flung wide Athwart that rough stockade, This son of England sank beside The altar that he made: to her glory that his brave hands had made.

0 God of Battles, at Thy feet What awful wine is poured!

What firstfruits of untimely wheat, The harvest of the sword!

Thou mak'd the eagle and the dove With one almighty breath, And bid'st us seek the shrine of Love Within the courts of Death : "Not peace, a sword I bring on earth," the Lord of Mercy saitb. Upon his The altar EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.