And all I remember is friends flocking round As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which, (the burgesses voted by common consent,) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. R. Browning. CXCIX. THE SWORD. 'T was on the battle-field; and the cold pale moon Looked down on the dead and dying; And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail, Where the young and brave were lying. With his father's sword in his red right hand, And the hostile dead around him, Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground, And the grave's icy sleep had bound him. A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking; Careless he stepped where friend and foe Lay alike in their life-blood reeking. Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, The soldier paused beside it; He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength, But the grasp of the dead defied it. He loosed his hold, and his noble heart Took part with the dead before him; And he honored the brave who died sword in hand, As with softened brow he leaned o'er him. "A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it: Before I would take that sword from thine hand, My own life's blood should dye it. "Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Or the wolf to batten o'er thee; Or the coward insult the gallant dead, Who in life had trembled before thee." Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, Where his warrior foe was sleeping; And he laid him there, in honor and rest, With his sword in his own brave keeping. Miss Landon. CC. THE FIREMAN.