THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

"Some Sikhs, and a private of the Buffs, having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning, they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the kotou. The Sikhs obeyed; but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dung-hill." — China Correspondent of the Times.

Last night, among his fellow-roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;

A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.

To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,

He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,

And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,

Bewildered, and alone,

A heart with English instinct fraught

He yet can call his own.

Aye, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame;
He only knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish1 hop-fields round him seemed Like dreams to come and go ;

Bright leagues of cherry-blossoms gleamed,
One sheet of living snow;

The smoke above his father's door,
In gray soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself so young?

Yes, honor calls! With strength like steel He put the vision by;

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;

An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,

With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,

To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed ;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untamed,
The strong heart of her sons.

1 The Buffs are an East Kent Regiment.

So let his name through Europe ring-
A man of mean estate,

Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,

Because his soul was great.

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS Doyle.

SILVER-SHOE.

MOLTON STEEPLE RACES, - 1858.

THE sky was dimpled blue and white,
The west was leaden gray,

Till in the east rose a fire of red,
That burnt all the fog away.

The thorn-bush seemed new-dipped in blood, The firs were hung with cones,

The oaks were golden-green with moss,

The birch wore its silver zones.

The deer with skins of a velvet pile

Were feeding under the boughs

Of the oaks, that stretched their guarding arms Around the manor-house.

'Twas Oh! for the glossy chestnut mare, And Hurrah! for the fiery roan,

But the caps went up like a cloud in the air For SILVER-SHOE alone.

We left the stable, where the door

Was mailed with winners' shoes,

And we trampled out to the crop-eared down By laughing ones and twos.

The diamond seed of sprinkling dew
From the firs was shaking down,

As we cantered out by the dark-thorned trees,
And over the green hill-crown.

The chestnut mare was dancing mad,
The roan gave a snorting shout,
But you never heard a rolling cheer
Till SILVER-SHOE came out.

The starter waved his scarlet flag,

And then we stole along,

Past the line of rails and the nodding heads, And past the thicker throng.

Gathering up, we trod, we trod,

Till like a boat well rowed,

Together went our hoofs thrown out,

So evenly we strode.

And now we skirt the crescent down,
Past the crimson-spotted thorns,
And away we go with a toss of hats

And a driving blast of horns.