And did they twine the laurel-wreath, for those who fought so well? And did they honor those who liv'd, and weep for those who fell? What meed of thanks was given to them let aged annals tell. Why should they bring the laurel-wreath,--why crown the cup with wine? It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd so freely on the Rhine,-- A stranger band of beggar'd men had done the venturous deed: The glory was to France alone, the danger was their meed. And what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince and peer? What virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer? What matter'd it that men should vaunt and loud and fondly swear, That higher feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere? They bore within their breasts the grief that fame can never heal,-- The deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel. Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne'er might see again,-- For Scotland's high and heather'd hills, for mountain, loch and glen-- For those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea, Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be! Long years went by. The lonely isle in Rhine's tempestuous flood Has ta'en another name from those who bought it with their blood: And, though the legend does not live,--for legends lightly die-- The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling by, And foaming o'er its channel-bed between him and the spot Won by the warriors of the sword, stills calls that deep and dangerous ford The Passage of the Scot. * * * * * _Sacrifice and Self-Devotion hallow earth and fill the skies._ LORD HOUGHTON.--1809-1885. LXV. THE GAMBLING PARTY. EARL OF BEACONSFIELD.--1805-1881. _From_ THE YOUNG DUKE. The young Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem for to-morrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice, and Temple Grace assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour. The dinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk; yet everything was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usual silent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without anyone observing him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely presumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, and dressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. He took particular care to send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this, as he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most marked consciousness of the sufferance which permitted his presence: never addressing his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, "Take this to the Duke"; or asking the attendant, "whether his Grace would try the Hermitage?"