("À quoi je songe?")
     {XXIII., July, 1836.}

     What do I dream of? Far from the low roof,
     Where now ye are, children, I dream of you;
     Of your young heads that are the hope and crown
     Of my full summer, ripening to its fall.
     Branches whose shadow grows along my wall,
     Sweet souls scarce open to the breath of day,
     Still dazzled with the brightness of your dawn.
     I dream of those two little ones at play,
     Making the threshold vocal with their cries,
     Half tears, half laughter, mingled sport and strife,
     Like two flowers knocked together by the wind.
     Or of the elder two—more anxious thought—
     Breasting already broader waves of life,
     A conscious innocence on either face,
     My pensive daughter and my curious boy.
     Thus do I dream, while the light sailors sing,
     At even moored beneath some steepy shore,
     While the waves opening all their nostrils breathe
     A thousand sea-scents to the wandering wind,
     And the whole air is full of wondrous sounds,
     From sea to strand, from land to sea, given back
     Alone and sad, thus do I dream of you.
     Children, and house and home, the table set,
     The glowing hearth, and all the pious care
     Of tender mother, and of grandsire kind;
     And while before me, spotted with white sails,
     The limpid ocean mirrors all the stars,
     And while the pilot, from the infinite main,
     Looks with calm eye into the infinite heaven,
     I dreaming of you only, seek to scan
     And fathom all my soul's deep love for you—
     Love sweet, and powerful, and everlasting—
     And find that the great sea is small beside it.

     Dublin University Magazine.

     ("Quels sont ces bruits sourds?")
     {XXIV., July 17, 1836.}

     Hark to that solemn sound!
       It steals towards the strand.—
     Whose is that voice profound
       Which mourns the swallowed land,
               With moans,
               Or groans,
       New threats of ruin close at hand?
     It is Triton—the storm to scorn
     Who doth wind his sonorous horn.

     How thick the rain to-night!
       And all along the coast
     The sky shows naught of light
       Is it a storm, my host?
               Too soon
               The boon
       Of pleasant weather will be lost
     Yes, 'tis Triton, etc.

     Are seamen on that speck
       Afar in deepening dark?
     Is that a splitting deck
       Of some ill-fated bark?
               Fend harm!
               Send calm!
       O Venus! show thy starry spark!
     Though 'tis Triton, etc.

     The thousand-toothèd gale,—
      Adventurers too bold!—
     Rips up your toughest sail
      And tears your anchor-hold.
              You forge
              Through surge,
      To be in rending breakers rolled.
     While old Triton, etc.

     Do sailors stare this way,
      Cramped on the Needle's sheaf,
     To hail the sudden ray
      Which promises relief?
              Then, bright;
              Shine, light!
      Of hope upon the beacon reef!
     Though 'tis Triton, etc.

     ("Jeune fille, l'amour c'est un miroir.")
     {XXVI., February, 1835.}

     Young maiden, true love is a pool all mirroring clear,
       Where coquettish girls come to linger in long delight,
     For it banishes afar from the face all the clouds that besmear
         The soul truly bright;
     But tempts you to ruffle its surface; drawing your foot
       To subtilest sinking! and farther and farther the brink
     That vainly you snatch—for repentance, 'tis weed without root,—
         And struggling, you sink!

     ("La tombe dit à la rose.")
     {XXXI., June 3, 1837}

     The Grave said to the rose
       "What of the dews of dawn,
     Love's flower, what end is theirs?"
       "And what of spirits flown,
     The souls whereon doth close
       The tomb's mouth unawares?"
     The Rose said to the Grave.

     The Rose said: "In the shade
     From the dawn's tears is made
     A perfume faint and strange,
       Amber and honey sweet."
       "And all the spirits fleet
     Do suffer a sky-change,
       More strangely than the dew,
       To God's own angels new,"
     The Grave said to the Rose.

     A. LANG.

     ("O palais, sois bénié.")
     {II., June, 1839.}

     Palace and ruin, bless thee evermore!
     Grateful we bow thy gloomy tow'rs before;
     For the old King of France{1} hath found in thee
     That melancholy hospitality
     Which in their royal fortune's evil day,
     Stuarts and Bourbons to each other pay.

     Fraser's Magazine.
     {Footnote 1: King Charles X.}

     ("L'église est vaste et haute.")
     {IV., June 29, 1839.}

     The Church{1} is vast; its towering pride, its steeples loom on high;
     The bristling stones with leaf and flower are sculptured wondrously;
         The portal glows resplendent with its "rose,"
     And 'neath the vault immense at evening swarm
     Figures of angel, saint, or demon's form,
         As oft a fearful world our dreams disclose.
     But not the huge Cathedral's height, nor yet its vault sublime,
     Nor porch, nor glass, nor streaks of light, nor shadows deep with time;
         Nor massy towers, that fascinate mine eyes;
       No, 'tis that spot—the mind's tranquillity—
       Chamber wherefrom the song mounts cheerily,
         Placed like a joyful nest well nigh the skies.

     Yea! glorious is the Church, I ween, but Meekness dwelleth here;
     Less do I love the lofty oak than mossy nest it bear;
         More dear is meadow breath than stormy wind:
     And when my mind for meditation's meant,
     The seaweed is preferred to the shore's extent,—
         The swallow to the main it leaves behind.

     Author of "Critical Essays."
     {Footnote 1: The Cathedral Nôtre Dame of Paris, which is the scene of the
     author's romance, "Nôtre Dame."}

     ("O dix-huitième siècle!")
     {IV. vi}

       O Eighteenth Century! by Heaven chastised!
     Godless thou livedst, by God thy doom was fixed.
     Thou in one ruin sword and sceptre mixed,
       Then outraged love, and pity's claim despised.
     Thy life a banquet—but its board a scaffold at the close,
     Where far from Christ's beatic reign, Satanic deeds arose!
     Thy writers, like thyself, by good men scorned—
       Yet, from thy crimes, renown has decked thy name,
       As the smoke emplumes the furnace flame,
     A revolution's deeds have thine adorned!

     Author of "Critical Essays."

     ("O vous que votre âge défende")
     {IX., February, 1840.}

     In youthful spirits wild,
       Smile, for all beams on thee;
     Sport, sing, be still the child,
       The flower, the honey-bee.

     Bring not the future near,
       For Joy too soon declines—
     What is man's mission here?
       Toil, where no sunlight shines!

     Our lot is hard, we know;
       From eyes so gayly beaming,
     Whence rays of beauty flow,
       Salt tears most oft are streaming.

     Free from emotions past,
       All joy and hope possessing,
     With mind in pureness cast,
       Sweet ignorance confessing.

     Plant, safe from winds and showers,
       Heart with soft visions glowing,
     In childhood's happy hours
       A mother's rapture showing.

     Loved by each anxious friend,
       No carking care within—
     When summer gambols end,
       My winter sports begin.

     Sweet poesy from heaven
       Around thy form is placed,
     A mother's beauty given,
       By father's thought is graced!

     Seize, then, each blissful second,
       Live, for joy sinks in night,
     And those whose tale is reckoned,
       Have had their days of light.

     Then, oh! before we part,
       The poet's blessing take,
     Ere bleeds that aged heart,
       Or child the woman make.

     Dublin University Magazine.

     ("Comme dans les étangs.")
     {X., May, 1839.}

     As in some stagnant pool by forest-side,
     In human souls two things are oft descried;
     The sky,—which tints the surface of the pool
     With all its rays, and all its shadows cool;
     The basin next,—where gloomy, dark and deep,
     Through slime and mud black reptiles vaguely creep.

     R.F. HODGSON

     ("Matelôts, vous déploirez les voiles.")
     {XVI., May 5, 1839.}

     Ye mariners! ye mariners! each sail to the breeze unfurled,
     In joy or sorrow still pursue your course around the world;
     And when the stars next sunset shine, ye anxiously will gaze
     Upon the shore, a friend or foe, as the windy quarter lays.

     Ye envious souls, with spiteful tooth, the statue's base will bite;
     Ye birds will sing, ye bending boughs with verdure glad the sight;
     The ivy root in the stone entwined, will cause old gates to fall;
     The church-bell sound to work or rest the villagers will call.

     Ye glorious oaks will still increase in solitude profound,
     Where the far west in distance lies as evening veils around;
     Ye willows, to the earth your arms in mournful trail will bend,
     And back again your mirror'd forms the water's surface send.

     Ye nests will oscillate beneath the youthful progeny;
     Embraced in furrows of the earth the germing grain will lie;
     Ye lightning-torches still your streams will cast into the air,
     Which like a troubled spirit's course float wildly here and there.

     Ye thunder-peals will God proclaim, as doth the ocean wave;
     Ye violets will nourish still the flower that April gave;
     Upon your ambient tides will be man's sternest shadow cast;
     Your waters ever will roll on when man himself is past.

     All things that are, or being have, or those that mutely lie,
     Have each its course to follow out, or object to descry;
     Contributing its little share to that stupendous whole,
     Where with man's teeming race combined creation's wonders roll.

     The poet, too, will contemplate th' Almighty Father's love,
     Who to our restless minds, with light and darkness from above,
     Hath given the heavens that glorious urn of tranquil majesty,
     Whence in unceasing stores we draw calm and serenity.

     Author of "Critical Essays."

     ("J'aime le carillon dans tes cités antiques.")
     {XVIII., August, 1837.}

     Within thy cities of the olden time
     Dearly I love to list the ringing chime,
     Thou faithful guardian of domestic worth,
     Noble old Flanders! where the rigid North
     A flush of rich meridian glow doth feel,
     Caught from reflected suns of bright Castile.
     The chime, the clinking chime! To Fancy's eye—
     Prompt her affections to personify—
     It is the fresh and frolic hour, arrayed
     In guise of Andalusian dancing maid,
     Appealing by a crevice fine and rare,
     As of a door oped in "th' incorporal air."
     She comes! o'er drowsy roofs, inert and dull,
     Shaking her lap, of silv'ry music full,
     Rousing without remorse the drones abed,
     Tripping like joyous bird with tiniest tread,
     Quiv'ring like dart that trembles in the targe,
     By a frail crystal stair, whose viewless marge
     Bears her slight footfall, tim'rous half, yet free,
     In innocent extravagance of glee
     The graceful elf alights from out the spheres,
     While the quick spirit—thing of eyes and ears—
     As now she goes, now comes, mounts, and anon
     Descends, those delicate degrees upon,
     Hears her melodious spirit from step to step run on.

     Fraser's Magazine

     ("Homme chauve et noir.")
     {XIX., May, 1839.}

     A gruesome man, bald, clad in black,
     Who kept us youthful drudges in the track,
     Thinking it good for them to leave home care,
     And for a while a harsher yoke to bear;
     Surrender all the careless ease of home,
     And be forbid from schoolyard bounds to roam;
     For this with blandest smiles he softly asks
     That they with him will prosecute their tasks;
     Receives them in his solemn chilly lair,
     The rigid lot of discipline to share.
     At dingy desks they toil by day; at night
     To gloomy chambers go uncheered by light,
     Where pillars rudely grayed by rusty nail
     Of heavy hours reveal the weary tale;
     Where spiteful ushers grin, all pleased to make
     Long scribbled lines the price of each mistake.
     By four unpitying walls environed there
     The homesick students pace the pavements bare.

     E.E. FREWER

     ("Gastibelza, l'homme à la carabine.")
     {XXII., March, 1837.}

     Gastibelza, with gun the measure beating,
                 Would often sing:
     "Has one o' ye with sweet Sabine been meeting,
                 As, gay, ye bring
     Your songs and steps which, by the music,
                 Are reconciled—
     Oh! this chill wind across the mountain rushing
                 Will drive me wild!

     "You stare as though you hardly knew my lady—
                 Sabine's her name!
     Her dam inhabits yonder cavern shady,
                 A witch of shame,
     Who shrieks o' nights upon the Haunted Tower,
                 With horrors piled—
     Oh! this chill wind, etc.

     "Sing on and leap—enjoying all the favors
                 Good heaven sends;
     She, too, was young—her lips had peachy savors
                 With honey blends;
     Give to that hag—not always old—a penny,
                 Though crime-defiled—
     Oh! this chill wind, etc.

     "The queen beside her looked a wench uncomely,
                 When, near to-night,
     She proudly stalked a-past the maids so homely,
                 In bodice tight
     And collar old as reign of wicked Julian,
                 By fiend beguiled—
     Oh! this chill wind, etc.

     "The king himself proclaimed her peerless beauty
                 Before the court,
     And held it were to win a kiss his duty
                 To give a fort,
     Or, more, to sign away all bright Dorado,
                 Tho' gold-plate tiled—
     Oh! this chill wind, etc.

     "Love her? at least, I know I am most lonely
               Without her nigh;
     I'm but a hound to follow her, and only
               At her feet die.
     I'd gayly spend of toilsome years a dozen—
               A felon styled—
     Oh! this chill wind, etc.

     "One summer day when long—so long? I'd missed her,
               She came anew,
     To play i' the fount alone but for her sister,
               And bared to view
     The finest, rosiest, most tempting ankle,
               Like that of child—
     Oh! this chill wind, etc.

     "When I beheld her, I—a lowly shepherd—
               Grew in my mind
     Till I was Caesar—she that crownèd leopard
               He crouched behind,
     No Roman stern, but in her silken leashes
               A captive mild—
     Oh! this chill wind, etc.

     "Yet dance and sing, tho' night be thickly falling;—
               In selfsame time
     Poor Sabine heard in ecstasy the calling,
               In winning rhyme,
     Of Saldane's earl so noble, ay, and wealthy,
               Name e'er reviled—
     Oh! this chill wind, etc.

     "(Let me upon this bench be shortly resting,
               So weary, I!)
     That noble bore her smiling, unresisting,
               By yonder high
     And ragged road that snakes towards the summit
               Where crags are piled—
     Oh! this chill wind, etc.

     "I saw her pass beside my lofty station—
               A glance—'twas all!
     And yet I loathe my daily honest ration,
               The air's turned gall!
     My soul's in chase, my body chafes to wander—
               My dagger's filed—
     Oh! this chill wind may change, and o'er the mountain
               May drive me wild!"

     HENRY L. WILLIAMS.

     ("Comment, disaient-ils.")
     {XXIII., July 18, 1838.}

     How shall we flee sorrow—flee sorrow? said he.
     How, how! How shall we flee sorrow—flee sorrow? said he.
     How—how—how? answered she.

     How shall we see pleasure—see pleasure? said he.
     How, how! How shall we see pleasure—see pleasure? said he.
     Dream—dream—dream! answered she.

     How shall we be happy—be happy? said he.
     How, how! How shall we be happy—be happy? said he.
     Love—love—love! whispered she.

     EVELYN JERROLD

     ("Oh, quand je dors.")
     {XXVII.}

     Oh! when I sleep, come near my resting-place,
       As Laura came to bless her poet's heart,
     And let thy breath in passing touch my face—
                 At once a space
                   My lips will part.

     And on my brow where too long weighed supreme
       A vision—haply spent now—black as night,
     Let thy look as a star arise and beam—
                 At once my dream
                   Will seem of light.

     Then press my lips, where plays a flame of bliss—
       A pure and holy love-light—and forsake
     The angel for the woman in a kiss—
                 At once, I wis,
                   My soul will wake!

     WM. W. TOMLINSON.

     ("O douleur! j'ai voulu savoir.")
     {XXXIV. i., October, 183-.}

     I have wished in the grief of my heart to know
       If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear,
     And to see what this beautiful valley could show
       Of all that was once to my soul most dear.
     In how short a span doth all Nature change,
       How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene—
     And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range,
       The links that bound our hearts to the scene.

     Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste;
       The fir is felled that our names once bore;
     Our rows of roses, by urchins' haste,
       Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er.
     The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride,
       She so gayly drank, from the wood descending;
     In her fairy hand was transformed the tide,
       And it turned to pearls through her fingers wending

     The wild, rugged path is paved with spars,
       Where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced,
     When so small were the prints that the surface mars,
       That they seemed to smile ere by mine effaced.
     The bank on the side of the road, day by day,
       Where of old she awaited my loved approach,
     Is now become the traveller's way
       To avoid the track of the thundering coach.

     Here the forest contracts, there the mead extends,
       Of all that was ours, there is little left—
     Like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds,
       Of all souvenirs is the place bereft.
     Do we live no more—is our hour then gone?
       Will it give back naught to our hungry cry?
     The breeze answers my call with a mocking tone,
       The house that was mine makes no reply.

     True! others shall pass, as we have passed,
       As we have come, so others shall meet,
     And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste,
       Shall others continue, but never complete.
     For none upon earth can achieve his scheme,
       The best as the worst are futile here:
     We awake at the selfsame point cf the dream—
       All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.

     Yes! others shall come in the bloom of the heart,
       To enjoy in this pure and happy retreat,
     All that nature to timid love can impart
       Of solemn repose and communion sweet.
     In our fields, in our paths, shall strangers stray,
       In thy wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost,
     And other fair forms in the stream shall play
       Which of old thy delicate feet have crossed.

     Author of "Critical Essays."

     ("Toutes les passions s'éloignent avec l'âge.")
     {XXXIV. ii., October, 183-.}

     As life wanes on, the passions slow depart,
       One with his grinning mask, one with his steel;
     Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art,
       Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill.
     But naught can Love's all charming power efface,
       That light, our misty tracks suspended o'er,
     In joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace,
       The young may curse thee, but the old adore.

     But when the weight of years bow down the head,
       And man feels all his energies decline,
     His projects gone, himself tomb'd with the dead,
       Where virtues lie, nor more illusions shine,
     When all our lofty thoughts dispersed and o'er,
       We count within our hearts so near congealed,
     Each grief that's past, each dream, exhausted ore!
       As counting dead upon the battle-field.

     As one who walks by the lamp's flickering blaze,
       Far from the hum of men, the joys of earth—
     Our mind arrives at last by tortuous ways,
       At that drear gulf where but despair has birth.
     E'en there, amid the darkness of that night,
       When all seems closing round in empty air,
     Is seen through thickening gloom one trembling light!
       'Tis Love's sweet memory that lingers there!

     Author of "Critical Essays."

     ("Il semblait grelotter.")
     {XXXVI., December, 1837.}

     He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen.
     'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass
     Of leafless branches, with a blackened back
     And a green foot—an isolated Faun
     In old deserted park, who, bending forward,
     Half-merged himself in the entangled boughs,
     Half in his marble settings. He was there,
     Pensive, and bound to earth; and, as all things
     Devoid of movement, he was there—forgotten.

       Trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts—
     Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird,
     And, like himself, grown old in that same place.
     Through the dark network of their undergrowth,
     Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown.
     Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night
     Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist.
       This—nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood.

       Poor, helpless marble, how I've pitied it!
     Less often man—the harder of the two.

       So, then, without a word that might offend
     His ear deformed—for well the marble hears
     The voice of thought—I said to him: "You hail
     From the gay amorous age. O Faun, what saw you
     When you were happy? Were you of the Court?

       "Speak to me, comely Faun, as you would speak
     To tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass.
     Have you, O Greek, O mocker of old days,
     Have you not sometimes with that oblique eye
     Winked at the Farnese Hercules?—Alone,
     Have you, O Faun, considerately turned
     From side to side when counsel-seekers came,
     And now advised as shepherd, now as satyr?—
     Have you sometimes, upon this very bench,
     Seen, at mid-day, Vincent de Paul instilling
     Grace into Gondi?—Have you ever thrown
     That searching glance on Louis with Fontange,
     On Anne with Buckingham; and did they not
     Start, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forth
     From corner of the wood?—Was your advice
     As to the thyrsis or the ivy asked,
     When, in grand ballet of fantastic form,
     God Phoebus, or God Pan, and all his court,
     Turned the fair head of the proud Montespan,
     Calling her Amaryllis?—La Fontaine,
     Flying the courtiers' ears of stone, came he,
     Tears on his eyelids, to reveal to you
     The sorrows of his nymphs of Vaux?—What said
     Boileau to you—to you—O lettered Faun,
     Who once with Virgil, in the Eclogue, held
     That charming dialogue?—Say, have you seen
     Young beauties sporting on the sward?—Have you
     Been honored with a sight of Molière
     In dreamy mood?—Has he perchance, at eve,
     When here the thinker homeward went, has he,
     Who—seeing souls all naked—could not fear
     Your nudity, in his inquiring mind,
     Confronted you with Man?"

       Under the thickly-tangled branches, thus
     Did I speak to him; he no answer gave.

       I shook my head, and moved myself away;
     Then, from the copses, and from secret caves
     Hid in the wood, methought a ghostly voice
     Came forth and woke an echo in my souls
     As in the hollow of an amphora.

       "Imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say,
     "What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken Fauns
     In peace beneath their trees! Dost thou not know,
     Poet, that ever it is impious deemed,
     In desert spots where drowsy shades repose—
     Though love itself might prompt thee—to shake down
     The moss that hangs from ruined centuries,
     And, with the vain noise of throe ill-timed words,
     To mar the recollections of the dead?"

       Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist
     I hurried, dreaming of the vanished days,
     And still behind me—hieroglyph obscure
     Of antique alphabet—the lonely Faun
     Held to his laughter, through the falling night.

       I went my way; but yet—in saddened spirit
     Pondering on all that had my vision crossed,
     Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time—
     Through all, at distance, would my fancy see,
     In the woods, statues; shadows in the past!

     WILLIAM YOUNG

     A LOVE FOR WINGED THINGS.

     {XXXVII., April 12, 1840.}

     My love flowed e'er for things with wings.
       When boy I sought for forest fowl,
     And caged them in rude rushes' mesh,
       And fed them with my breakfast roll;
     So that, though fragile were the door,
       They rarely fled, and even then
     Would flutter back at faintest call!

       Man-grown, I charm for men.

     ("Vieux lierre, frais gazon.")
     {XXXVIII., 1840.}

     Brown ivy old, green herbage new;
       Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle;
     An ancient chapel where a crew,
       Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle.
     A far-off forest's darkling frown,
       Which makes the prudent start and tremble,
     Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down,
       And clouds in demon hordes assemble.

     Land birds which twit the mews that scream
       Round walls where lolls the languid lizard;
     Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream
       Past caves fit for an ocean wizard.
     Alow, aloft, no lull—all life,
       But far aside its whirls are keeping,
     As wishfully to let its strife
       Spare still the mother vainly weeping
       O'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping.

     ("Toi qu'aimais Juvénal.")
     {Nox (PRELUDE) ix., Jersey, November, 1852.}

     Thou who loved Juvenal, and filed
       His style so sharp to scar imperial brows,
     And lent the lustre lightening
       The gloom in Dante's murky verse that flows—
     Muse Indignation! haste, and help
       My building up before this roseate realm,
     And its so fruitless victories,
       Whence transient shame Right's prophets overwhelm,
     So many pillories, deserved!
       That eyes to come will pry without avail,
     Upon the wood impenetrant,
       And spy no glimmer of its tarnished tale.

     ("Courtisans! attablés dans le splendide orgie.")
     {Bk. I. x., Jersey, December, 1852.}

     Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread—
       The board that groans with shame and plate,
     Still fawning to the sham-crowned head
       That hopes front brazen turneth fate!
     Drink till the comer last is full,
     And never hear in revels' lull,
     Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet,
           Whilst I gnaw at the crust
           Of Exile in the dust—
     But Honor makes it sweet!

     Ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane,
       Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief,
     In blazing cafés spend the gain,
       But draw the blind, lest at his thief
     Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance
     And interrupts with steel the dance!
     But let him toilsomely tramp by,
           As I myself afar
           Follow no gilded car
     In ways of Honesty.

     Ye troopers who shot mothers down,
       And marshals whose brave cannonade
     Broke infant arms and split the stone
       Where slumbered age and guileless maid—
     Though blood is in the cup you fill,
     Pretend it "rosy" wine, and still
     Hail Cannon "King!" and Steel the "Queen!"
           But I prefer to sup
           From Philip Sidney's cup—
     True soldier's draught serene.

     Oh, workmen, seen by me sublime,
       When from the tyrant wrenched ye peace,
     Can you be dazed by tinselled crime,
       And spy no wolf beneath the fleece?
     Build palaces where Fortunes feast,
     And bear your loads like well-trained beast,
     Though once such masters you made flee!
           But then, like me, you ate
           Food of a blessed fête—
     The bread of Liberty!

     H.L.W.

     ("La femelle! elle est morte.")
     {Bk. I. xiii., Jersey, February, 1853.}

     Mother birdie stiff and cold,
       Puss has hushed the other's singing;
     Winds go whistling o'er the wold,—
       Empty nest in sport a-flinging.
           Poor little birdies!

     Faithless shepherd strayed afar,
       Playful dog the gadflies catching;
     Wolves bound boldly o'er the bar,
       Not a friend the fold is watching—
           Poor little lambkins!

     Father into prison fell,
       Mother begging through the parish;
     Baby's cot they, too, will sell,—
       Who will now feed, clothe and cherish?
           Poor little children!

     ("O Soleil!")
     {Bk. II. iv., Anniversary of the Coup d'État, 1852.}

     O Sun! thou countenance divine!
       Wild flowers of the glen,
     Caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine
       Has pierced not, far from men;
     Ye sacred hills and antique rocks,
       Ye oaks that worsted time,
     Ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks
       Hurl up in storms sublime;
     And sky above, unruflfed blue,
       Chaste rills that alway ran
     From stainless source a course still true,
       What think ye of this man?

     ("Ah! tu finiras bien par hurler!")
     {Bk. III. ii., Jersey, August, 1852.}

     How well I knew this stealthy wolf would howl,
       When in the eagle talons ta'en in air!
     Aglow, I snatched thee from thy prey—thou fowl—
       I held thee, abject conqueror, just where
     All see the stigma of a fitting name
       As deeply red as deeply black thy shame!
     And though thy matchless impudence may frame
       Some mask of seeming courage—spite thy sneer,
     And thou assurest sloth and skunk: "It does not smart!"
       Thou feel'st it burning, in and in,—and fear
     None will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart!