SILLERY.

Who is your owl, Ducos? - the embodied soul
Of Marat visiting the earth again ?

Whoe'er he be, his prophecies are safe,

And through the glooms of Time his eyes can see About as clearly as some men's, I know.

'Tis a brave bird, Ducos, and speaks the truth, Although his voice is harsh, his truth a fear, And deeds of blood his too familiar thought.

LASOURCE.

Behold the dawn. It breaks upon the world.
How at this hour the oceans sport their waves,
And turn their frothy ringlets to the light.
And all the peaks of Alps and Apennines
Catch on their snowy heights the ruddy gold,
The silver, and the purple, and the grey,
And all the glory of its majesty.

The ancient forests shake their lordly boughs,
And pay obeisance to the rising morn,

The green fields smile, dew glistening, in its face,

The distant towns and villages awake,

The milk-maid sings, the cow-boy winds his horn,
And lowing cattle climb the sunward hills,
The twin grey towers of ancient Nôtre Dame
Are gilded with a smile, like hoary age
Relaxing to behold an infant's play –
Aye, even the gory guillotine receives
The splendor of the morning, and the slave
Drinks of the sunshine freely as the free.
What beauty compasses the teeming world!
What hideous spectacles ungrateful men

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Throw in its face, to tire it of itself!
Beautiful morn! my blessing upon day!

SILLERY.

And mine-if worth acceptance. But, behold,

The death-bell tolls. Time fades to nothingness;

The hideous dream of life draws to its close;
The morning of Eternity is near.

Let us arise, and wake like healthful men.

FAUCHET.

May God have mercy on us, and forgive
Our enemies, as we forgive them now.

VERGNIAUD.

Farewell, dear brothers-farewell, friends beloved. The victims of a fearful tyranny

We die, but leave our names an heritage

That France shall wear, and boast of to the world.

THE KING AND THE NIGHTINGALES.

A LEGEND OF HAVERING.

[IIavering-atte-Bower, in Essex, was the favorite retirement of King Edward the Confessor, who so delighted in its solitary woods, that he shut himself up in them for weeks at a time. Old legends say that he met with but one annoyance in that pleasant seclusion-the continual warbling of the nightingales, pouring such floods of music upon his ear during his midnight meditations, as to disturb his devotions. He therefore prayed that never more within the bounds of that forest might nightingale's song be heard. His prayer, adds the legend, was granted. The following versification of the story shows a different result to his prayers a result which, if it contradict tradition, does not, it is presumed, contradict poetical jus.ice.]

KING Edward dwelt at Havering-atte-Bower-
Old, and enfeebled by the weight of power-
Sick of the troublous majesty of kings —
Weary of duty and all mortal things —
Weary of day weary of night-forlorn -
Cursing, like Job, the hour that he was born,
Thick woods environed him, and in their shade
He roamed all day, and told his beads, and prayed.
Men's faces pained him, and he barred his door
That none might find him; even the sunshine bore
No warmth or comfort to his wretched sight;
And darkness pleased no better than the light.

THE KING AND THE NIGHTINGALES.

He scorned himself for eating food like men,
And lived on roots and water from the fen;
And aye he groaned, and bowed his hoary head
Did penance, and put nettles in his bed

Wore sackcloth on his loins, and smote his breast
Told all his follies, all his sins confessed
Made accusations of himself to Heaven,
And owned to crimes too great to be forgiven,
Which he had thought, although he had not done
Blackening his blackness; numbering one by one
Unheard of villanies without a name,

As if he gloried in inventing shame,

Or thought to win the grace of heaven by lies,
And gain a saintship in a fiend's disguise.

Long in these woods he dwelt- a wretched man,

Shut from all fellowship, self-placed in ban

Laden with ceaseless prayer and boastful vows,

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Which day and night he breathed beneath the boughs.
But sore distressed he was, and wretched quite,
For every evening with the waning light
A choir of nightingales, the brakes among,
Deluged the woods with overflow of song.
'Unholy birds,' he said, 'your throats be riven,

You mar my prayers, you take my thoughts from heaven.'

But still the song, magnificent and loud,

Poured from the trees like rain from thunder-cloud.

Now to his vexed and melancholy ear

Sounding like bridal music, pealing clear;
Anon it deepened on his throbbing brain

To full triumphal march or battle strain;

Then seemed to vary to a choral hymn,
Or De Profundis from cathedral dim,

'Te Deum,' or Hosanna to the Lord,'

Chanted by deep-voiced priests in full accord.
He shut his ears, he stamped upon the sod-
'Be ye accursed, ye take my thoughts from God!
And thou, beloved saint, to whom I bend,
Lamp of my life, my guardian and my friend,
Make intercession for me, sweet St. John,
And hear the anguish of thy suffering son.
May nevermore within these woods be heard
The song of morning or of evening bird,
May nevermore their harmonies awake
Within the precincts of this lonely brake,
For I am weary, old, and full of woe,

And their songs vex me. This one boon bestow,
That I may pray; and give my thoughts to thee,
Without distraction of their melody;

and sighs

And that within these bowers my groans
And ceaseless prayers be all the sounds that rise.
Let God alone possess me, last and first;
And, for His sake, be all these birds accursed.'

This having said, he started where he stood,
And saw a stranger walking in the wood;
A purple glory, pale as amethyst,

Clad him all o'er. He knew th' Evangelist;

And, kneeling on the earth with reverence meet, He kissed his garment's hem, and clasped his fee. 'Rise,' said the saint, and know, unhappy king, That true Religion hates no living thing;

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