But it was such desperate deeds as we are recounting that brought out the material that has built up this vast and glorious old Empire, the home of the undefeated race of happy men; this "beautiful isle of the sea," which is, so to speak, the citadel of an empire such as the world has never before seen. It is five times as large as that under Darius, four times the size of that which owned the sway of ancient Rome, sixteen times greater than France, forty times greater than united Germany, three times larger than the United States. Australia alone is nearly as large as the States. India has 1,250,000 square miles, Canada 600,000 square miles. Our empire has nearly 9,500,000 sq. miles, with a population of 310,000,000. And this has been built up by such indomitable pluck as that displayed at Albuera, Assaye, Balaclava, Delhi, Ferozeshah, Inkermann, Plassey, Pyrenees, Salamanca, Trafalgar, Vittoria, Waterloo, and scores of other fields, by the sons of Albion, side by side the undaunted sons of the Green Isle. I have not the slightest hesitation in asserting that the English-speaking nation will be the universal nation. We have for many years past been compelled to send our children away to make room in this tight little isle. The vast continent of North America is peopled from the stout old loins of this God-defended isle. Our language is already spoken in more than half the civilised world. All we want is unity with the English-speaking race, and we have nothing to fear. THE NOBLE SIX HUNDRED. The wind of dawn is breathing, the mists of night are wreathing Up from the valley in white swathes, the mountain range is sheathing; Watch-fires are burning dimly, hill batteries frowning grimly. Troop horses in the plain below at their pickets tethered trimly. When in with hot haste riding, our out-pickets bring tidings That the Russians within the eastern gorge were hiding: "Boot and saddle" and _reveillé_ in the cool clear air, ring gaily, And horse and foot are forming, all eager for the melée. Would to God that gallant charge had closed the bloody day, Then clear of blame had shown the fame of Balaclava's fray; But who is there with patient tongue the sorry tale to tell? How our Light Brigade, true martyrs, to the point of honour fell. 'Twas "sublime," but 'twas not warfare, that charge of woe and wrack, That led six hundred to the guns and brought two hundred back. Enough, the order came to charge, and charge they did like men, Whilst shot and shell and rifle-ball played on them down the glen.