And when the cannon's iron throat Shall bear the news to dells remote, And trumpet-blast resound the note, That victory is won; While down the wind the banner drops, And bonfires blaze on mountain-tops, His sides shall glow with fierce delight, And ring glad peals from morn to night; _Hurra! the work is done_! But of such themes forbear to tell. May never War awake this bell To sound the tocsin or the knell! Hush'd be the alarum gun! Sheath'd be the sword! and may his voice Call up the nations to rejoice That War his tatter'd flag has furl'd, And vanish'd from a wiser world! _Hurra! the work is done_! Still may he ring when struggles cease, Still may he ring for joy's increase, For progress in the arts of peace, And friendly trophies won! When rival nations join their hands, When plenty crowns the happy lands, When knowledge gives new blessings birth, And freedom reigns o'er all the earth! _Hurra! the work is done_! * * * * * AMMALÁT BEK. A TRUE TALE OF THE CAUCASUS. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF MARLÍNSKI. CHAPTER III. It was daybreak when Ammalát came to himself. Slowly, one by one, his thoughts reassembled in his mind, and flitted to and fro as in a mist, in consequence of his extreme weakness. He felt no pain at all in his body, and his sensations were even agreeable; life seemed to have lost its bitterness, and death its terror: in this condition he would have listened with equal indifference to the announcement of his recovery, or of his inevitable death. He had no wish to utter a word, or to stir a finger. This half sleep, however, did not continue long. At midday, after the visit of the physician, when the attendants had gone to perform the rites of noon-tide prayer, when their sleepy voices were still, and nought but the cry of the mullah resounded from afar, Ammalát listened to a soft and cautious step upon the carpets of the chamber. He raised his heavy eyelids, and between their lashes appeared, approaching his bed, a fair, black-eyed girl, dressed in an orange-coloured sarótchka, an arkhaloúkh of cloth of gold with two rows of enamelled buttons, and her long hair falling upon her shoulders. Gently she fanned his face, and so pityingly looked at his wound that all his nerves thrilled. Then she softly poured some medicine into a cup, and--he could see no more--his eyelids sank like lead--he only caught with his ear the rustling of her silken dress, like the sound of a parting angel's wings, and all was still again. Whenever his weak senses strove to discover the meaning of this fair apparition, it was so mingled with the uncertain dreams of fever, that his first thought--his first word--when he awoke, was, "'Tis a dream!" But it was no dream. This beautiful girl was the daughter of the Sultan Akhmet Khan, and sixteen years old. Among all the mountaineers, in general, the