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She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.


THE ALMA.
September 20th,
1854. BY WILLIAM C. BENNET.

Yes--clash, ye pealing steeples!
Ye grim-mouthed cannon, roar!
Tell what each heart is feeling,
From shore to throbbing shore!
What every shouting city,
What every home would say,
The triumph and the rapture
That swell our hearts to-day.
And did they say, O England,
That now thy blood was cold,
That from thee had departed
The might thou hadst of old!
Tell them no deed more stirring
Than this thy sons have done,
Than this, no nobler triumph,
Their conquering arms have won.
The mighty fleet bore seaward;
We hushed our hearts in fear,
In awe of what each moment
Might utter to our ear;
For the air grew thick with murmurs
That stilled the hearer's breath,
With sounds that told of battle,
Of victory and of death.


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