"Captain Villiers said he'd almost give his other arm to be able to be present to-day and lay a wreath on the coffin of his gallant chief. As he couldn't come, he wrote these verses, which he wished me to post to the York Gazette. He said I might read them to you, Mr. Trueman, before I sent them." And the boy, not very fluently, but with a good deal of feeling, read the following lines:—
"Low bending o'er the ragged bier,
The soldier drops the mournful tear,
For life departed, valour driven,
Fresh from the field of death, to Heaven.
"But Time shall fondly trace the name
Of BROCK upon the scrolls of Fame,
And those bright laurels, which should wave
Upon the brow of one so brave,
Shall flourish vernal o'er his grave."
Neville commended the graceful tribute with generous warmth, when
Zenas remarked,
"The Captain will be glad to hear you like them. Leastways, I suppose so. He read them himself to Kate this morning, and seemed pleased because they made her cry."
"He is a brave gentleman," says the squire. "I fear it will be long before he mounts his horse, again."
"O he'll soon be round again," chimed in Zenas. "He said Kate would be his Elaine, to nurse the wounded Lancelot back to life. Who was Lancelot?"
"Some of those moon-struck poetry fellows, I'll be bound," said the squire contemptuously.
"Nay, a very gallant knight," said Neville, who had when a boy, read with delight Sir Thomas Mallory's book of King Arthur; but he did not seem to relish the comparison and led the conversation into a serious vein, as befitting the solemn occasion.