He loosed his clasp; when, rising, The bird—as if surmising— Bore due to southward, crossing by the Froom, And Durnover Great-Field and Fort, the soldier clear advising— Prompted he wist by Whom. Then on he panted By grim Mai-Don, and slanted Up the steep Ridge-way, hearkening betwixt whiles; Till, nearing coast and harbour, he beheld the shore-line planted With Foot and Horse for miles. Mistrusting not the omen, He gained the beach, where Yeomen, Militia, Fencibles, and Pikemen bold, With Regulars in thousands, were enmassed to meet the Foemen, Whose fleet had not yet shoaled. Captain and Colonel, Sere Generals, Ensigns vernal, Were there; of neighbour-natives, Michel, Smith, Meggs, Bingham, Gambier, Cunningham, roused by the hued nocturnal Swoop on their land and kith. But Buonaparte still tarried; His project had miscarried; At the last hour, equipped for victory, The fleet had paused; his subtle combinations had been parried By British strategy. Homeward returning Anon, no beacons burning, No alarms, the Volunteer, in modest bliss, Te Deum sang with wife and friends: “We praise Thee, Lord, discerning That Thou hast helped in this!” HER DEATH AND AFTER ’TWAS a death-bed summons, and forth I went By the way of the Western Wall, so drear On that winter night, and sought a gate— The home, by Fate, Of one I had long held dear. And there, as I paused by her tenement, And the trees shed on me their rime and hoar, I thought of the man who had left her lone— Him who made her his own When I loved her, long before. The rooms within had the piteous shine That home-things wear when there’s aught amiss; From the stairway floated the rise and fall Of an infant’s call, Whose birth had brought her to this. Her life was the price she would pay for that whine— For a child by the man she did not love. “But let that rest for ever,” I said, And bent my tread To the chamber up above. She took my hand in her thin white own, And smiled her thanks—though nigh too weak— And made them a sign to leave us there Then faltered, ere She could bring herself to speak. “’Twas to see you before I go—he’ll condone Such a natural thing now my time’s not much— When Death is so near it hustles hence All passioned sense Between woman and man as such! “My husband is absent. As heretofore The City detains him. But, in truth, He has not been kind . . . I will speak no blame, But—the child is lame; O, I pray she may reach his ruth!