The Cup On The Battle-Field.

("Mon pre, ce hros au sourire.")     [Bk. XLIX. iv.]     My sire, the hero with the smile so soft,     And a tall trooper, his companion oft,     Whom he loved greatly for his courage high     And strength and stature, as the night drew nigh     Rode out together. The battle was done;     The dead strewed the field; long sunk was the sun.     It seemed in the darkness a sound they heard, -     Was it feeble moaning or uttered word?     'Twas a Spaniard left from the force in flight,     Who had crawled to the roadside after fight;     Shattered and livid, less live than dead,     Rattled his throat as hoarsely he said:     "Water, water to drink, for pity's sake!     Oh, a drop of water this thirst to slake!"     My father, moved at his speech heart-wrung,     Handed the orderly, downward leapt,     The flask of rum at the holster kept.     "Let him have some!" cried my father, as ran     The trooper o'er to the wounded man, -     A sort of Moor, swart, bloody and grim;     But just as the trooper was nearing him,     He lifted a pistol, with eye of flame,     And covered my father with murd'rous aim.     The hurtling slug grazed the very head,     And the helmet fell, pierced, streaked with red,     And the steed reared up; but in steady tone:     "Give him the whole!" said my father, "and on!"     TORU DUTT