tremulously responsive to the hearts of all men; hast thou noted how omnipotent is the very sound of many men? How their shriek of indignation palsies the strong soul; their howl of contumely withers with unfelt pangs? The Ritter Gluck confessed that the groundtone of the noblest passage, in one of his noblest Operas, was the voice of the Populace he had heard at Vienna, crying to their Kaiser: Bread! Bread! Great is the combined voice of men; the utterance of their instincts, which are truer than their thoughts: it is the greatest a man encounters, among the sounds and shadows, which make up this World of Time. He who can resist that, has his footing somewhere beyond Time. De Launay could not do it. Distracted, he hovers between two; hopes in the middle of despair; surrenders not his Fortress; declares that he will blow it up, seizes torches to blow it up, and does not blow it. Unhappy old De Launay, it is the death-agony of thy Bastille and Thee! Jail, Jailoring and Jailer, all three, such as they may have been, must finish. toward such an Ark! Deftly, thou shifty Usher: one man already fell; and lies smashed, far down there, against the masonry! Usher Maillard falls not: deftly, unerring he walks, with outspread palm. The Swiss holds a paper through his porthole; the shifty Usher snatches it and returns. Terms of surrender: Pardon, immunity to all! Are they accepted?—“Foi d'officier, On the word of an officer," answers half-pay Hulin-or half-pay Elie, for men do not agree on it-" they are!" Sinks the drawbridge-Usher Maillard bolting it when down; rushes in the living deluge: the Bastille is fallen! Victoire! La Bastille est prise! THOMAS CARLYLE. NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. Not on a field of battle when I die! Of the mad war-horse crush my helmèd Nor let the reeking knife For four hours now has the World-Bedlam roared call it the World-Chimæra, blowing fire. The poor Invalides have sunk under their battlements, or rise only. with reversed muskets: they have made a white flag of napkins; go beating the chamade, or seeming to beat, for one can hear nothing. The very Swiss at the Portcullis look weary of firing; disheartened in the fire-deluge: a porthole at the drawbridge is opened, as by one that would speak. See Huissier Maillard, the shifty man! On his plank swinging over the abyss of that stone-ditch; plank resting on parapet, balanced by weight of patriots, he hovers perilous: such a Dove | Oh, From such a dying-bed, Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, The And the bald eagle brings clustered stars upon his widespread wings To sparkle in my sight, never let my spirit take her flight! I know that Beauty's eye Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, And brazen helmets dance, And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance; I know that bards have sung, And people shouted till the welkin rung, In honor of the brave Who on the battle-field have found a grave; Where the first blood was shed Ay, and abroad a few more famous still- That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, That issue from the Gulf of Salamis; And thine, too, have I seen, And the soft summer air, As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair, And from my forehead dries The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies My soul to their clear depth! Or let me leave And holy hymning shall my soul prepare With kindred spirits-spirits who have blessed The human brotherhood By labors, cares and counsels for their good. And in my dying-hour, When riches, fame and honor have no power To bear the spirit up, Or from my lips to turn aside the cup That all must drink at last, Oh, let me draw refreshment from the past! Then let my soul run back Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green, With peace and joy along my earthly track, That, like a natural knoll, Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, Watched by some turbaned boy, Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. Such honors grace the bed, I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, And hears, as life ebbs out, The conquered flying and the conqueror's shout. But as his eyes grow dim, What is a column or a mound to him? What, to the parting soul, The mellow note of bugles? What the roll Of drums? No; let me die And see that all the seeds That I have scattered there in virtuous deeds Have sprung up, and have given, Already, fruits of which to taste is heaven. And, though no grassy mound Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground Still will I hope-vain hope, perhaps that those Whom I have striven to bless, The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless, May stand around my grave, With the poor prisoner and the poorer slave, And breathe a humble prayer Where the blue heavens bend o'er me That they may die like him whose bones are lovingly, mouldering there. JOHN PIERPONT. A fair partner, dear friends and a true love But quit we this roof where fond mem'ry of song. So, braving the world-thoughtless madcap accounted All rich in young life, from anxiety free, Light and joyous my six-flighted staircase I mounted : would hover; O days of my youth, with what speed did ye flow! To live but one month of those thoughtless times over All of life that remains me I'd gladly forego! In a garret, at twenty, how blest one can be! To dream love and glory, to revel in bliss, It was naught but a garret-ay, read it who will. My bed, low and hard, in that nook I recall; There table of fir; and above it see still my The verses with charcoal inscribed on the wall! Oh, appear once again, dear enjoyments, scarce fledged, A long future by hope brightly gilded to see, Joys of years crowded into an hour,—with all this, In a garret, at twenty, how blest one can be! Translation of WILLIAM ANDERSON. THE ALTAR. Ere stolen by fell Time from my comrades OH, there are hearts that well may date For and me; The era of their joy from thee you I my watch have a score of times The birthplace of the brightest fate pledged. That wedded life and love may be In a garret, at twenty, how blest one can be! Hearts that have blessed, that bless thee now, In memory of their plighted vow. One day rare event!-a few ducats were mine; I had friends round my table; we shouted and sung; When cries from the street made us spring from our wine: How long, how fondly, memory dwells On moments past that led to bliss! E'er broke the heavenly charm of this, "Hurrah! Vive Napoleon! Marengo is That decks the faded flower anew. won!" JAMES BIRD. GENORA. A GERMAN LEGEND. OME centuries since there| Let none condemn her. Though her prayers dwelt beside the Rhine, arose In Cologne city, by the min- A while unanswered, Heaven's withholding A fair and noble lady, o'er Is blest, as the bestowing; nor denies whose brow And left her childless; yet for this her lord, The brave Count Albert, loved her not the less, But-tender husband as he was-essayed To soften ills high Heaven alone may cure. But, sooth to say, This fair and gentle creature longed to bear Low bending prayed before the holy shrine; One night, while slumber sealed her tearful eye And Above them, on a cloud of purple light, A strange, mysterious gift-a human skull Thus passed she many a day, e'en till de- From which grew roses three in choicest sire, Though angel-pure, unsatisfied, had spread eye; 66 bloom. Take this," the virgin mother said, “and know Thy prayers are answered. Woman loved, farewell!" For who shall tell, save woman, woman's Then, upward rising, slowly disappeared. heart, That, childless, longs for offspring more than She woke with fear, and to her husband told |