"My mother has got other sons,

With stouter hearts than mine,

But none more ready blood for France
To pour out free as wine.

Yet still life's sweet," the brave lad moaned,
"Fair are this earth and sky;
Then, comrades of the Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!"

I saw Salenche, of the granite heart,
Wiping his burning eyes—

It was by far more pitiful

Than mere loud sobs and cries.

One bit his cartridge till his lip

Grew black as winter sky,

But still the boy moaned, "Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die!"

O never saw I sight like that,
The sergeant flung down flag,
Even the fifer bound his brow

With a wet and bloody rag,

Then looked at locks and fixed their steel,

But never made reply,

Until he sobbed out once again,

"Teach me the way to die!"

Then, with a shout that flew to God,
They strode into the fray;

I saw their red plumes join and wave,
But slowly melt away.

The last who went-a wounded man-
Bade the poor boy good-bye,

And said, "We men of the Forty-third Teach you the way to die!"

I never saw so sad a look

As the poor youngster cast,
When the hot smoke of cannon
In cloud and whirlwind pass'd.
Earth shook, and Heaven answered:
I watched his eagle eye,

As he faintly moaned, "The Forty-third
Teach me the way to die!"

Then, with a musket for a crutch,

He limped unto the fight;

I, with a bullet in my hip,

Had neither strength nor might.

But, proudly beating on his drum,
A fever in his eye,

I heard him moan "The Forty-third
Taught me the way to die!"

They found him on the morrow,
Stretched on a heap of dead;
His hand was in the grenadier's
Who at his bidding bled.
They hung a medal round his neck,
And closed his dauntless eye;
On the stone they cut, "The Forty-third
Taught him the way to die!"

'Tis forty years from then till now—
The grave gapes at my feet-
Yet when I think of such a boy
I feel my old heart beat.

And from my sleep I sometimes wake,

Hearing a feeble cry,

And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-third,

Teach me the way to die!"

THE CATHEDRAL BUILDER.

Now is my building founded,

Complete to the crowning stone,

That sharp, keen top of the lance-like spire,
That rises tapering like a fire,

Where the noisy daw in his turn may build,
And call his nest his own.

For scarce the loudest note of the choir

Will reach that blue serene;

Yet his home will shake at the roar of the bell, The soaring chants between ;

O there he'll chatter, and feed, and sit,

Not caring for abbot or queen.

I've dug the crypt for darkness;
The aisle the red lights pave,
Without is the twilight cloister,

Here the sun-flooded nave,
And within is the choir for prayer

With its chapel for my grave.

and praise,

They tell me I've jostled Christ aside
With my image and my tomb;
But may the angels blot my name
At the dreadful day of doom,

If I wished for praise-I love not praise
From king, or priest, or groom.

Yet 'tis a stately building,
And like a crystal wall
Rises the great west window-

A missal leaf that's all

So says my sneering rival,

Who twits me from Saint Paul.

Last night I saw the angels,
Just like a flock of doves,
Come down to bless the building,
For God such temples loves—
A richer pile than Solomon's
Is this where dwell the doves.

I've cut no boastful legend—

The nun's walk underneath

No shields to blaze with quenchless fire In windows. Why then, s'deathWhy should they grudge me grave room, The altar-floor beneath.