So the storm subsides to calm :

They see the green trees wave

On the heights o'erlooking Greve; Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.

"Just our rapture to enhance,

Let the English rake the bay,

Gnash their teeth and glare askance

As they cannonade away!

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"

How hope succeeds despair on each captain's coun

tenance !

Outburst all with one accord,

'This is paradise for hell!

Let France, let France's king,

Thank the man that did the thing!"

What a shout, and all one word,

As he stepped in front once more;

Not a symptom of surprise

In the frank blue Breton eyes,―

Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, "My friend,

I must speak out at the end,

Though I find the speaking hard;
Praise is deeper than the lips :
You have saved the king his ships;

You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will,

France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's

not Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke

On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through

Those frank eyes of Breton blue :

66 Since I needs must say my say;

Since on board the duty's done;

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point what is it

but a run?

Since 'tis ask and have, I may ;

Since the others go ashore,

Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the

Belle Aurore?"

That he asked, and that he got,- nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost :

Not a pillar nor a post

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black

On a single fishing-smack

[wrack

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to All that France saved from the fight whence

England bore the bell.

Go to Paris; rank on rank,

Search the heroes flung pell-mell

On the Louvre, face and flank:

You shall look long enough ere you come to

Herve Riel.

So for better and for worse,

Herve Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more

Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the

Belle Aurore !

HALBERT AND HOB.

Here is a thing that happened. Like wild beasts

whelped, for den,

In a wild part of North England, there lived once two wild men

Inhabiting one homestead, neither a hovel nor hut, Time out of mind their birthright: father and son,

Such a son, such a father! Most wildness by degrees Softens away: yet last of their line, the wildest and worst were these.

Criminals, then? Why, no: they did not murder

and rob,

But, give them a word, they returned a blow

Halbert as young Hob:

Harsh and fierce of word, rough and savage of deed,

Hated or feared the more

genuine wild-beast breed.

who knows?

the

Thus were they found by the few sparse folk of the

country-side ;

But how fared each with other? E'en beasts couch,

hide by hide,

In a growling, grudged agreement: so, father and son lay curled

The closelier up in their den because the last of their kind in the world.

Still, beast irks beast on occasion. One Christmas night of snow,

Came father and son to words such words! more

cruel because the blow

To crown each word was wanting, while taunt matched gibe, and curse

Competed with oath in wager, like pastime in hell, - nay, worse:

For pastime turned to earnest, as up there sprang at

last

The son at the throat of the father, seized him and

held him fast.