Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is close and warm For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm: Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless――swing your rifles as we run! Ha! the dust is red behind him; shout, my brothers, he is won! Look not on him as he staggers――’tis the last shot he will need; More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold stampede―― Ere we stem the swarthy breakers――while the wolves, a hungry pack, Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody bison-track! * * * * * THE SONG OF THE CAMP. “GIVE us a song!” the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said, “We storm the forts to-morrow, Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.” There lay along the battery’s side, Below the smoking cannon, Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain’s glory; Each heart recalled a different name But all sang “Annie Lawrie.” Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,―― Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something on the soldier’s cheek Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset’s embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars! And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of “Annie Lawrie.” Sleep, soldier! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest,―― The loving are the daring. * * * * * BEDOUIN SONG. FROM the Desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die _Till the sun grows cold,_ _And the stars are old,_ _And the leaves of the Judgment_ _Book unfold!_