THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR.

TOLD ΤΟ THE AUTHOR BY THE LATE GENERAL SIR CHARLES NAPIER.

ELEVEN men of England

A breastwork charged in vain ;
Eleven men of England

Lie stripped and gashed and slain-
Slain, but of foes that guarded

Their rock-built fortress well,

Some twenty had been mastered,
When the last soldier fell.

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way

Across the sand-waves of the desert sea ;

Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay,
Lord of their wild Truckee.

These missed the glen to which their steps were bent,
Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard,

And in that glorious error, calmly went
To death-without a word.

The Robber-chief mused deeply

Above those daring dead.

'Bring here,' at length he shouted,
'Bring quick, the battle thread.

6

Let Eblis blast for ever
Their souls, if Allah will,
But we must keep unbroken
The old rules of the Hill.

'Before the Ghiznee tiger

Leapt forth to burn and slay,

Before the holy Prophet

Taught our grim tribes to pray;

Before Secunder's 1 lances

Pierced through each Indian glen;
The mountain laws of honour

Were framed for fearless men.

'Still, when a chief dies bravely,
We bind with green one wrist;
Green for the brave-for heroes,
One crimson thread we twist-
Say ye, oh gallant Hill men,
For these whose life has fled,
Which is the fitting colour,

The green one, or the red?'

Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear

Their green reward,' each noble savage said—

'To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear,

Who dares deny the red?'

Thus conquering hate, and stedfast to the right,
Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came,
Beneath a waning moon each spectral height
Rolled back its loud acclaim.

Once more, the Chief gazed keenly

Down on those daring dead;

From his good sword their heart's blood

Crept to that crimson thread;

1 Alexander.

Once more he cried, 'The judgment,
Good friends, is wise and true;
But though the red be given,

Have we not more to do?

'These were not stirred by anger,
Nor yet by lust made bold,
Renown they thought above them,
Nor did they look for gold.
To them their leader's signal
Was as the voice of God,
Unmoved and uncomplaining,
The path it showed they trod.

'As, without sound or struggle,
The stars unhurrying march,
Where Allah's finger guides them,
Through yonder purple arch;
These Franks, sublimely silent,
Without a quickened breath,
Went, in the strength of duty,
Straight to their goal of death.

'If I were now to ask you
To name our bravest man,
Ye all at once would answer,

They called him Mehrab Khan —

He sleeps among his fathers,

Dear to our native land,

With the bright mark he bled for

Firm round his faithful hand.

'The songs they sing of Roostum

Fill all the past with light ;

1 Mehrab Khan died, as he said he would, sword in hand, at the door

of his own zenana. Newspaper report.

If truth be in their music,

He was a noble knight.

But were these heroes living,

And strong for battle still,

Would Mehrab Khan, or Roostum,

Have climbed, like these, the Hill?'

And they replied-Though Mehrab Khan was brave
As chief, he chose himself what risks to run;
Prince Roostum ' lied, his forfeit life to save,
Which these had never done.'

'Enough,' he shouted fiercely;
'Doomed though they be to Hell,
Bind fast the crimson trophy
Round both wrists-bind it well.

'Who knows but that great Allah
May grudge such matchless men,
With none so decked in heaven,
To the fiends' flaming den.'
Then all those gallant robbers
Shouted a stern amen,

They raised the slaughtered sergeant,

They raised his mangled ten.

And when we found their bodies

Left bleaching in the wind,

Around both wrists, in glory

That crimson thread was twined.

Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core,

Rang, like an echo, to that knightly deed;

He bade its memory live for evermore,

That those who run may read.

1 Roostum, overcome in the first instance, escaped death by imposing upon the simple good faith of his son Zohrab, whom he afterwards killed (ignorantly, of course).

VERSES FOR THE FIRST PAGE OF A SHAKSPERE.

PRESENTED TO MISS JULIA TOLLEMACHE ON HER MARRIAGE.

IF by some wizard Shakspere's pen
To me for one short hour were lent,
This heart of mine, sweet Julia, then

Might find fit words for all it meant :

Words that should make your name as dear
To other times as it is now,

And still shine on, year after year,

A wreath of stars around your brow.

But as, alas, this may not be,
I can but say your soul is such
That could our Shakspere know it, he
Would love you as I love you-much.

For what you are, that once were they
Whose bloom he watched with grave delight,

. Then smiled in his benignant way

(As on May rose-buds fresh and white).

Trusting that each young flower was sure
To reach a larger, warmer life;
And from a maiden, perfect pure,
Become a pure and happy wife.

May 1873.