Are we sleeping? "Have we forgotten?" Like the thrust of an Arab spear

Comes that conscience-piercing-question from the Singer of Haslemere.

Have we indeed forgotten the hero we so be-sang,

When across the far south sand-wastes the news of his murder rang?

Forgotten? So it had seemed to him, as alone afar he lay,

With the Nile to watch for laggard friends, fierce foes to hold at bay;

Though the tired red lines toiled onward up the Cataracts, and we

Dreamed of the shout of the rescuing host his eyes should never see.

When chivalrous BURNABY lay slain, with a smile in the face of death,

And for happy news from the hungry wastes men yearned with bated breath;

When WILSON pushed his eager way past torrent-swirl and crag,

Till they saw o'er GORDON's citadel wave high—the MAHDI's flag.

That shame was surely enough, enough, that sorrow had a sting

Our England should not court again. The Laureate's accents ring

With scorn suppressed, a scorn deserved indeed, if still our part

Is to forget a purpose high that was dear to GORDON's heart.

"This earth has borne no simpler, nobler man." So then sang he

Who sounds a keen reveille now. "Can you help us?" What say we?

Oh, out on words, that come like WOLSELEY's host too late—too late!

Do—do, in the simple silent way that made lost GORDON great.

Surely these Boys that GORDON loved in the Home with GORDON's name

Should speak to every English heart that cares for our England's fame;

And what be forty thousand pounds as an offering made to him

Who held so high that same bright fame some do their worst to dim!

Fit task for patriot poet, this! TYRTÆUS never stood

More worthily for heroic hearts or his home-land's highest good.

Give! give! and with free hands! His spirit's poor, his soul is hard,

Who heeds not our noblest Hero's appeal through the lips of our noblest Bard!

"I see no more within our borough's bound

The name of DANVERS!"

In a restaurant-Pullman he books

His seat, a luxurious craze.

Most travellers now take their Cooks,

And everyone's going to Gaze.

Belinda dear, once on a time

I doted on your every feature,

I wrote you billets doux in rhyme

In which I called you "charming creature."

No lover half so keen as I,

Than mine no ardent passion stronger,

So I should like to tell you why

I cannot love you any longer.

When I was yours and you were mine,

Your hair, I thought, was most delightful,

But now, through Fashion's last design,

It looks, to my taste, simply frightful!

Though why this should be I don't know,

For I can think of nothing madder

Than hair decked out in coils that go

To make what seems to be a ladder.

Unhappy day, when first you dressed

Your tresses thus—how you must rue it!

For you yourself, you know, confessed

It took you several hours to do it.

Oh, tell me, is it but a snare

Designed to captivate another,

Or do you merely bind your hair

Because you're bidden by your mother?

Again—you will not take it ill—

You are, my dear, distinctly dumpy:

A flowing cape it's certain will

Well—not become one short and stumpy.

Yet since, although you are not tall,

You wear a cape, you may take my word

That in the mouths of one and all

You have become a very byword.

So this is why my love has fled—

If ever there should come a season

When you shall show some sense instead

Of such an utter lack of reason,

If I should still be fancy free,

Why then it's only right to mention

That, if you care to write to me,

I'll give your claims my best attention.