g he was dead.

O British land, that breedeth sturdy men,
Be proud to hold our hero's honoured bones;
Land that he wrought for with his life and pen,
Write, write his glory in enduring stones.

Tell how he lived and died, how fought and fell,
So in the world's glad future, looming dim;
The children of the lands he loved so well,
Shall learn his name and love to honour him.

IN SWANAGE BAY.

BY MRS. CRAIK.

"'Twas five-and-forty year ago,
Just such another morn,
The fishermen were on the beach,
The reapers in the corn;
My tale is true, young gentlemen,
As sure as you were born.

"My tale's all true, young gentlemen,"
The fond old boatman cried
Unto the sullen, angry lads,
Who vain obedience tried:
"Mind what your father says to you,
And don't go out this tide.

"Just such a shiny sea as this,
Smooth as a pond, you'd say,
And white gulls flying, and the crafts
Down Channel making way;
And the Isle of Wight, all glittering bright,
Seen clear from Swanage Bay.

"The Battery Point, the Race beyond,
Just as to-day you see;
This was, I think, the very stone
Where sat Dick, Dolly, and me;
She was our little sister, sirs,
A small child, just turned three.

"And Dick was mighty fond of her:
Though a big lad and bold,
He'd carry her like any nurse,
Almost from birth, I'm told;
For mother sickened soon, and died
When Doll was eight months old.

"We sat and watched a little boat,
Her name the 'Tricksy Jane,'
A queer old tub laid up ashore,
But we could see her plain.
To see her and not haul her up
Cost us a deal of pain.

"Said Dick to me, 'Let's have a pull;
Father will never know:
He's busy in his wheat up there,
And cannot see us go;
These landsmen are such cowards if
A puff of wind does blow.

"'I've been to France and back three times--
Who knows best, dad or me,
Whether a ship's seaworthy or not?
Dolly, wilt go to sea?'
And Dolly laughed and hugged him tight,
As pleased as she could be.

"I don't mean, sirs, to blame poor