You may bury the prisoner, it may be,
The man of La Force and Ste. Pelagie ;
But the spirit, mon Empereur, that gave
That prisoner empire knows no grave.

" Au spectacle des ombres une loge d'honneur"

Is easily given, mon Empereur ;
But a something there is which even the will
Of an emperor can not inter or kill —
By no space restrained, to no age confined,
The fruit of a simple great man's mind,
Which to all eternity lives and feeds
The births of which here it has laid the seeds.
Could you bury these, you might sit secure
On the throne of the Bourbons, mon Empereur.

ALFRED WATTS.

The Song of the JW estern Men.
A GOOD sword and a trusty hand,

A merry heart and true,
King James's men shall understand

What Cornish lads can do.
And have they fixed the where and when,

And shall Trelawney die ?
Then twenty thousand Cornish men

Will know the reason why.
What ! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen ?

And shall Trelawney die?
Then twenty thousand under ground

Will know the reason why.

Out spake the captain brave and bold,

A merry wight was he : “Though London's Tower were Michael's hold,

We'll set Trelawney free.

We'll cross the Tamar hand to hand,

The Exe shall be no stay;
We 'll side by side from strand to strand,

And who shall bid us nay?
What ! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen?

And shall Trelawney die ?
Then twenty thousand Cornish men

Will know the reason why.

“ And when we come to London wall

We'll shout with it in view,
• Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all !

We're better men than you!
Trelawney, he's in keep and hold,

Trelawney, he may die;
But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold

Will known the reason why!!
What ! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen?

And shall Trelawney die ?
Then twenty thousand under ground
Will know the reason why."

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.

To a Swallow, Building Under Our Eaves.

Thou too hast travelled, little fluttering thing,
Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing

Thou too must rest.
But much, my little bird, could'st thou but tell,
I'd give to know why here thou lik’st so well.

To build thy nest.
For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight;
A world lay all beneath thee where to light;

And, strange thy taste,
Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye,
Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky,

To choose this waste !

Did fortune try thee? — was thy little purse
Perehance run low, and thou, afraid of worse,

Felt here secure ?
Ah no ! thou need’st not gold, thou happy one !
Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man

Alone is poor.

What was it, then ? — some mystic turn of thought,
Caught under German eaves, and hither brought,

Marring thine eye
For the world's loveliness, till thou art grown
A sober thing that dost but mope and moan,

Not knowing why?

Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask,
Since here I see thee working at thy task

With wing and beak.
A well-laid scheme doth that small head contain,
At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main,

Nor more need'st seek.

In truth, I rather take it thou hast got
By instinct wise much sense about thy lot,

And hast small care
Whether an Eden or a desert be
Thy home, so thou remain'st alive and free

To skim the air.

God speed thee, pretty bird ! May thy small nest
With little ones all in good time be blest.

I love thee much ;
For well thou managest that life of thine,
While I - oh, ask not what I do with mine!
Would I were such !

JANE WELSH CARLYLE.

Carcassonne.

“I'M growing old, I've sixty years ;

I've labored all my life in vain. In all that time of hopes and fears,

I've failed my dearest wish to gain. I see full well that here below

Bliss unalloyed there is for none,
My prayer would else fulfilment know –

Never bare I seen Carcassonne !
Never bave I seen Carcassonne !

“You spy the city from the hill,

It lies beyond the mountain blue; And yet to reach it one must still

Five long and weary leagues pursue, And, to return, as many more.

Had but the vintage plenteous grown – But, ah! the grape withheld its store.

I shall not look on Carcassonne !
I shall not look on Carcassonne !

“ They tell me every day is there

Not more or less than Sunday gay; In shining robes and garments fair

The people walk upon their way. One gazes there on castle walls

As grand as those of Babylon,
A bishop and two generals !

What jou to dwell in Carcassonne !
Ah! might I but see Carcassonne !

“The vicar's right: he says that we

Are ever wayward, weak, and blind; He tells us in his homily

Ambition ruins all mankind ;

Yet could I these two days have spent,

While still the autumn sweetly shone,
Ah, me! I might have died content

When I had looked on Carcassonne,
When I had looked on Carcassonne.

“Thy pardon, Father, I beseech,

In this my prayer if I offend ;
One something sees beyond his reach

From childhood to his journey's end.
My wife, our little boy Aignan,

Have travelled even to Narbonne ;
My grandchild has seen Perpignan;

And I -- have not seen Carcassonne,
And I have not seen Carcassonne !”

So crooned, one day, close by Limoux,

A peasant, double-bent with age.
“Rise up, my friend,” said I ; “with you

I'll go upon this pilgrimage.”
We left, next morning, his abode,

But (Heaven forgive him!) half-way on
The old man died upon the road.

He never gazed on Carcassonne.
Each mortal has his Carcassonne.

GUSTAVE NADAUD. Translated by John R. THOMPSON.

Crossing the Rappahannock.
THEY leaped in the rocking shallops —

Ten offered where one could go —
And the breeze was alive with laughter,

Till the boatmen began to row.

Then the shore, where the rebels harbored,

Was fringed with a gush of flame,