Word Exercise.

LV.—TO MY MOTHER.

Henry Kirke White.

And canst thou, mother, for a moment think

That we, thy children, when old age shall shed

Its blanching honors on thy weary head,

Could from our best of duties ever shrink?

Sooner the sun from his bright sphere shall sink,

Than we ungrateful leave thee in that day

To pine in solitude thy life away;

Or shun thee tottering on the grave’s cold brink.

Banish the thought!—where’er our steps may roam,

O’er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,

Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,

And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;

While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,

And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.

LVI.—ZLOBANE.

Mrs. Gustafson.

Zlobane is the name of the mountain which was taken by storm from the Zulus by the British forces on the morning of the 28th of March, 1879. On the top of this mountain the victorious English troops, who had unsaddled their horses and cast themselves down to rest, were surprised and surrounded by the Zulus. Of the British corps only one captain and six men escaped. The young hero of the ballad was the son of Colonel Weatherly.

As swayeth in the summer wind

The close and stalwart grain,

So moved the serried Zulu shields

That day on wild Zlobane;

The white shield of the husband,

Who hath twice need of life,

The black shield of the young chief,

Who hath not yet a wife.

Unrecking harm, the British lay,

Secure as if they slept,

While close on front and either flank

The live, black crescent crept.

Then burst their wild and frightful cry

Upon the British ears,

With whirr of bullets, glare of shields,

And flash of Zulu spears.

Uprose the British; in the shock

Reeled but an instant; then,

Shoulder to shoulder, faced the foe,

And met their doom like men.

But one was there whose heart was torn,

In a more awful strife;

He had the soldier’s steady nerve,

And calm disdain of life;

Yet now, half turning from the fray,

Knee smiting against knee,

He scanned the hills, if yet were left

An open way to flee.

Not for himself. His little son,

Scarce thirteen summers born,

With hair that shone upon his brows

Like tassels of the corn,

And lips yet curled in that sweet pout

Shaped by the mother’s breast,

Stood by his side, and silently

To his brave father pressed.

The horse stood nigh; the father kissed,

And tossed the boy astride.

“Farewell!” he cried, “and for thy life,

That way, my darling, ride!”

Scarce touched the saddle ere the boy

Leaped lightly to the ground,

And smote the horse upon its flank,

That with a quivering bound

It sprang and galloped for the hills,

With one sonorous neigh;

The fire flashed where its spurning feet

Clanged o’er the stony way.

“Father, I’ll die with you!” The sire

As this he saw and heard,

Turned, and stood breathless in the joy

And pang that knows no word.

Once, each, as do long knitted friends,

Upon the other smiled,

And then—he had but time to give

A weapon to the child

Ere, leaping o’er the British dead,

The supple Zulus drew

The cruel assegais, and first

The younger hero slew.

Still grew the father’s heart, his eye

Bright with unflickering flame:

Five Zulus bit the dust in death

By his unblenching aim.

Then, covered with uncounted wounds,

He sank beside his child,

And they who found them say, in death

Each on the other smiled.