We bath'd his hurts, and bound them soft, While west the wind played through the croft, And the low sun dyed the pinks blood red, And, straying near the mint-flower shed, A wild bee wanton'd o'er the bed. He told how my son, at the shepherd's door, kept guard in Monmouth's clothes, While Monmouth donned the shepherd's frock, in hope to cheat his foes. A couple of troopers spied him stand, And bade him yield to the King's command: "Surrender, thou rebel as good as A price is set on thy traitor head!" And felt that it was not Monmouth's face. Crimson'd through was Monmouth's cloak, when the soldier dropped at their side "Those knaves will carry no word," he said, and he smil'd in his pain, and died. "Two days," told the messenger, "did we lie Hid in the field of peas and rye, Till Grey was seized, and Monmouth seized, that under the fern did crouch, Starved, and haggard, and all unshaved, with a few raw peas in his pouch." Mackenzie Bell SPRING'S IMMORTALITY AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON SHAKESPEARE, thy legacy of peerless song Reveals mankind in every age and place, In every joy, in every grief and wrong: 'Tis England's legacy to all our race. Little we know of all thine inner life, Little of all thy swift, thy wondrous years Years filled with toil, rich years whose days were rife With strains that bring us mirth, that bring us tears. Little we know, and yet this much we know, Sense was thy guiding star sense guided thee To live in this thy Stratford long ago, At honest daily work- then found it fame. OUR CASUARINA TREE Toru Dutt LIKE a huge Python, winding round and round The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars, Up to its very summit near the stars, A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound No other tree could live. But gallantly The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung Life is the shade that clouds her thought, As Death's the eclipse of man's. Time seems but as a bitter thing Yet ah (she thinks) her song she 'll sing Erstwhiles she bends alow to hear And then she smiles a strange sad smile The death-waves oft may rise the while, Few ever cross that dreary moor, FROM "SOSPIRI DI ROMA" SUSURRO BREATH o' the grass, From the cypress-bough, And the topmost spray |