The great Duke of Marlborough proved himself one of the greatest Generals that England ever produced; he made a great noise during his day, and when he died there was a lot of pomp at his interment. A few years have rolled on, and we but seldom hear his name mentioned. We hear far more of John Bunyan, Rowland Hill, Martin Luther, Ridley, and Latimer; these are names that will live for ever, will live as long as time shall last, in the hearts of thinking men. One of the greatest Generals of modern days (Lord Hardinge), in speaking of Havelock said, “Was there danger to be incurred? he was foremost in facing it; was there deliverance to be achieved? he would die, in order that it might be achieved,” and he also said, “He (Havelock) was every inch a soldier.” I would say all honour to the witness, and would re-echo the testimony, “every inch a soldier,” but adding—he was also every inch a Christian. This testimony ought to be borne in mind by us to-day. For four months had he to maintain, against heavy odds, a terrible warfare; neither night nor day had he rest, except a few snatches of repose. Now he would be engaged in conducting an attack, then in the conduct of a defence. A battle was fought to-day, but another must be fought to-morrow; the Residency, with its precious treasures of women and children, must be relieved. His object being attained, he with all his soul rendered thanks to God. To his grateful surprise he had come to the end of it all without a wound, notwithstanding the terrific dangers he had passed through. One day he was missed; his comrades, high and low, missed him from the place they had been accustomed to meet him in; they soon enquired, deep from the heart—“Is he ill? is he dangerously ill?” He was. He was looked up to as a Father in Israel; the younger and the older ones, the stern and stalwart men, the veterans and the recruits, all wept alike; he was beloved by all. What words, what grand words were those to his son on his death bed—“Come, my son, and see how a Christian man can die.” He had lived a life of faith upon the Son of God, and now he could die without being afraid to face the last enemy, and was able to sing:—

O death, where is thy sting; O grave, where is thy victory?

Duty had made him great, Love made him greater still,
And so we leave the hero to his rest.
Thy country mourns thee, Havelock; her brave sons
Weep o’er thy honoured bier; chief mourner, too,
Religion weeps, with heaving breast, and eye
Suffused with tears, she droops her head, while hope,
With smiling face, now seeks awhile in vain
To point her to the skies. I can but weep,
She says, so sudden is the stroke—so deep
The wound, and where’s the heart that does not grieve?
Is there a man within the British Isles
To whom the name of Havelock is not dear?
Who has not traced the Christian hero’s march
With honest pride, and scalding tears of joy
And sympathy, as, leading on his troops,
But few in number, but how brave, he forced
His way beneath a burning sun, oft faint
And weary, through, surrounding hosts, transformed
By rage and burning hatred into fiends;
Nor stayed his course till his victorious sword
Relief and succour brought to those he loved
And saved, a band of heroes, with their wives
And children? Oh, Cawnpore, through what scenes
Of toil and streams of blood the noble veteran
Sought to reach thy walls—fight after fight, amid
Distress and tears, and blood, disease, and death,
On, on, he passed. Oh, Lucknow, wilt thou forget
The man who, through a wall of fire, marched on
To bring thee help? And thou, too, England, wilt thou
Forget thy crimes, which bade these trials seize
Thy distant sons, and raised the bloody path
Thy soldiers had to tread? Lucknow relieved,
We thought the tide of battle so well turned
That all was well, and ’neath the wings of peace
We soon again should rest; then lo, a wail
Of sorrow; What is it? Havelock is dead!
Alas, we pictured him at home once more,
And saw a grateful nation stretching forth
Its hands to welcome his approach; we saw
The honours destined to adorn his brow,
So dearly earned—but he is dead; Alas!
We could but weep; his venerable head
Lies ’neath the sod; he did his destined work,
And gently fell asleep; Victory received him
Into her arms, kissed his cold lips, and took
Him home. What more could we desire? This is
Our joy; Havelock a Soldier was—and more,
A Christian; fought beneath the banner of
The cross, and hence he lives, and on the steps
Of glory stands, ’neath the Great Captain’s wing,
And from his hand receives a brighter crown
Than earth could give. Oh! who would wish him back?
Fame has no chaplet like the one he wears—
Immortal as the hand of Love, which raised
Him to a throne. Oh! for the noble courage
That fired his soul to battle with the foes
Which daily press around, to take them by
The throat, nor cease to fight, until at last,
Before the throne of God we stand, and with
The ransomed armies of the skies, ride forth
Triumphantly, to celebrate His praise,
Whose mighty arm, wisdom, and present love,
Brought victory to Himself, and even leads
His soldiers on to life and endless bliss,
To glory and renown.
W. P. Balfern.

MEDALS.

Ambition sigh’d: she found it vain to trust
The faithless column and the crumbling bust;
Huge moles, whose shadow stretch’d from shore to shore,
Their ruins perish’d, and their place no more;
Convinced, she now contracts the vast design,—
And all her triumphs sink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps;
Beneath her palm here sad Judæa weeps;
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates through the piece is roll’d,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.
Pope.

RUMOURS OF WAR.

Dark as a cloud that drifts in from the West,
Heavy with thunder and lightning and rain,
Rumours of warfare break in on our rest—
Rumours of strife bringing Death in its train.
War that stirs nations as breath stirs a fire,
Making the whole glow as bright as each part;
War that arouses fierce passions and ire;
War that brings sorrow to many a heart;
War that is terrible if it be just;
War that’s a crime if it be for the wrong;
War that is righteous if only we trust
All unto Him who is righteous and strong.
So be it now if our cause be the right!
Conscious of truth we shall never know fear;
Heedless of danger we’ll leap to the fight,
Meeting the foe with a true British cheer.
Woe, then, to those who may stand in the way!
Britain, once roused, draws the sword not in vain;
And until victory gladdens the day,
Once the sword drawn it is sheathed not again.