IPHITION.

FROM THE 'CORNHILL MAGAZINE.'

Εν δ' ̓Αχιλεὺς Τρώεσσι θόρε,

σμερδαλέα ἰάχων· πρῶτον δ ̓ ἕλεν Ιφιτίωνα

τὸν δ' ἰθὺς μεμαῶτα βάλ ̓ ἔγχει διος Αχιλλεὺς,
μέσσην κακ κεφαλήν.—Iliad, xx. 381, κ.τ.λ.

How, facing an unconquerable foe,

Silent and firm in the lost battle's roar, Iphition fell, three thousand years ago,

We learn ;-let him have praise for evermore.

What! though his slayer, drunk with Eastern blood,
Be borne aloft on wider wings of fame,
Two words, by Homer dropped in careless mood,
Give light enough to read a hero's name.

The shout that shattered armies into flight,

The godlike form in heaven's own armour clad, The golden plumes divine that lived with light At every step, for him no terrors had.

Right on he rushed, though to a certain doom,
Hephæstian mail and matchless strength defied;

And, carrying with him proudly to the tomb
The whiteness of his honour, so he died,

There Homer leaves him, like a tall ship wreckedLeaves him to wolves and vultures where he lay; But that which makes the man, no bard's neglect To beast, or bird, or Time can yield a prey.

Thus ever, through eternity, we dream

That he by looking back is comforted,

That the long sunless hours of Hades gleam,
With radiance from the past around him shed;

That inward still he murmurs, as the wind

Murmurs through roofless halls: 'At least I know
None find a spot in my young life behind,
Nor dread I here what all must undergo.

'Death cometh-ay! but after death to say
What I with truth can say is given to few.
Achilles, thine the fame-yet well I may
Believe myself the better of the two.

'Armed by no god, but as my fellow-men,
I faltered not in fight, though others fled,
Till my safe conqueror struck me down, and then
Against his lance, the blood leapt warm and red.

'And even here, on this unhoping coast,

With spirit unexhausted I can bow
To what Fate sends; Achilles, as a ghost,
Whines, weak without his god-given armour now.

'Though all life lent my soul no longer aid;
The memory that I never quailed, for me
Keeps vital warmth within. I scorn the shade
That, to touch earth again, a slave would be.'1

THE LOSS OF THE 'BIRKENHEAD':

SUPPOSED TO BE TOLD BY A SOLDIER WHO SURVIVED.

RIGHT on our flank the sun was dropping down;
The deep sea heaved around in bright repose;
When, like the wild shriek from some captured town,
A cry of women rose.

The stout ship 'Birkenhead' lay hard and fast,
Caught without hope upon a hidden rock;

Her timbers thrill'd as nerves, when through them pass'd
The spirit of that shock.

And ever like base cowards, who leave their ranks
In danger's hour, before the rush of steel,
Drifted away disorderly the planks

From underneath her keel.

So calm the air-so calm and still the flood,
That low down in its blue translucent glass
We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst for blood,
Pass slowly, then repass.

They tarried, the waves tarried, for their prey!

The sea turned one clear smile! Like things asleep Those dark shapes in the azure silence lay,

As quiet as the deep.

Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush, and wreck, Faint screams, faint questions waiting no reply, Our Colonel gave the word, and on the deck Form'd us in line to die.

To die!-'twas hard, while the sleek ocean glow'd
Beneath a sky as fair as summer flowers :—
All to the boats! cried one-he was, thank God,
No officer of ours.

Our English hearts beat true-we would not stir :
That base appeal we heard, but heeded not :
On land, on sea, we had our Colours, sir,
To keep without a spot.

They shall not say in England, that we fought
With shameful strength, unhonour'd life to seek ;
Into mean safety, mean deserters, brought
By trampling down the weak.

So we made women with their children go,
The oars ply back again, and yet again;
Whilst, inch by inch, the drowning ship sank low,
Still, under steadfast men.

-What follows, why recall ?—The brave who died,

Died without flinching in the bloody surf,

They sleep as well beneath that purple tide

As others under turf.

They sleep as well! and, roused from their wild grave,
Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again,
Joint-heirs with Christ, because they bled to save
His weak ones, not in vain.

T

274

THE LOSS OF THE 'BIRKENHEAD.

If that day's work no clasp or medal mark;

If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press,
Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower or Park,

This feel we none the less:

That those whom God's high grace there saved from ill,
Those also left His martyrs in the bay,

Though not by siege, though not in battle, still
Full well had earned their pay.