Sprang upwards to the sky; to-day they creep Father. Tush, tush!—the poet's way. They have all their changes, girl. A poet first -Then grows he wiser. With the years that come, Hear Boreas mutter,-see the lightnings race Or mar't for ever.-From this stage he soars Clothes Science with the rainbow, and sweet Art Wisdom's his God,-pure wisdom, which he deals, 2. THE SEA-ROVER. EARTH would not help him: She withheld her corn, And then he sought the Sea! The Sea, more kind, 3.-AN IRISH SONG. (Air, Kathleen O'More.) He is gone to the wars, and has left me alone, The bird of my bosom-though now he is flown! How I mourn'd for the boy! yet I murmur'd the more, 'Cause we once were so happy in darlin' Lismore, Poor Ellen and Patrick! Perhaps he now thinks of his Ellen no more! A cabin we had, and the cow was hard by, Ne'er idle whilst light ever lived in the sky. Till they tempted and took him away from our door. Alas! the poor Patrick! He has left me a bird that is sweeter than all ! "Twas born in a hovel, 'twas nourish'd in pain, And 't has taught me to hope for its father again. And dream of the days when the wars will be o'er! MARK when he died, his tombs, his epitaphs! No hearse, wherein the crumbling clay (imprison'd Rattling along the streets, and silenced Grief; No arch whereon the bloody laurel hung; No stone; no gilded verse ;-(poor common shows :) But tears, and tearful words, and sighs as deep As sorrow is, these were his epitaphs! Thus, fitly graced, he lieth now inurn'd In hearts that loved him, on whose tender sides Are graved his many virtues. When they perish, He's lost!-and who would care, all friends being gone, To wither quite alone?-The poet's name, And hero's on the brazen book of Time, Are writ in sunbeams, by Fame's loving hand; These better sleep (when all dear friends are fled) 5.-LOVERS PARTING. OH! give me one word at parting,- And I fly like the Tartar's arrow No more, like a guilty shadow, I'll haunt thee with eyes forlorn; But dissolve with the cloud of darkness, No matter where'er I wander :- Are the same to the lover's sorrow, Whether I sink or soar. Art silent?-Farewell for ever, Thou shouldst have been born with pity, 6-A DIRGE. DEATH hath been busy in these flowery haunts: The Old still stand,-like thorns or knotted oaks; But Beauty and its pride have perished! Dirge. Let the moaning music die, Turn'd by strong neglect to pain! They are gone who loved and-died,- They are safe from wind and weather, Though a thousand errors ran Through the fond, false heart of man. Let the moaning music perish! Wherefore should we strive to cherish Sorrow, like the desert rain? Though we weep, we weep in vain! They are gone together, Haply to the summer shores, Where the bright and cloudless weather Shineth, and for ever pours Music with the flooding light, And the Night doth chase the Day, And the Morn doth chase the Night, They are gone-where pleasure reigns THREE DAYS OF DECEMBER IN PARIS. DUMOURIER says of the French, in his Memoirs, that they have passed through as many revolutions in seven years as the Romans in as many centuries. They have farther improved in the science of mutation since his day; for they have reduced years to days, and they now celebrate in France "la grande semaine," the great week, commemorating the events of last July. The revolutionary movement is not yet over; and, on the 22nd of December, they had nearly effected another, as complete and important as any of the former. As I was present on that memorable day, I send you the following details of an eyewitness. The trial of Paris had been for some time in a state of considerable ferment. the ex-Ministers had excited the highest feelings among the citizens, to whom they were, personally, objects of horror. Every square had a small cemetery formed in the centre, enclosed with a paling, and surmounted with tri-coloured flags, wreaths of everlasting flowers, and oaken garlands, among which were tablets inscribed with the names of the citizens of the vicinity who had been killed in the revolution of July, and whose bodies were deposited below. Round these cemeteries were sentinels of the National Guard, who kept watch day and night at these sacred spots. When a passenger stopped to look on them, he was shown a book containing the names and services of those who had perished. On passing through the Marché des Innocens, I stopped to examine one of these grave-yards. All the persons killed appeared, by the inscriptions, to have been of the humblest rank in life; one of them was as follows: "Ici repose Jean François Couvet, Porteur aux Halles des Marchés, agé 24, mort pour la liberté, 28 Juillet, 1830, regretté de sa mêre, de ses freres, et de tous ses amies. D. F. P." Painted on the tablet, along with the inscription, were white blotches, with tails like tadpoles, which represented the tears of the survivors continually shed on his grave. The view of these things in the public places kept alive the remembrance of the common people; and when those whom they considered as the authors of these murders came to be tried, the whole of the Parisian populace loudly demanded their death, as some expiation for the loss of their own friends. I arrived in Paris on the evening of December 21. As we passed the Faubourg St. Antoine, we were struck with the silence and solitude of that bustling and populous district, which seemed to be totally deserted by its inhabitants. As we approached the Palais Royal, the ways became choked with people. Bodies of National Guards, some in uniform, and some with muskets only, were seen hurrying in all directions; and at length our carriage was stopped by a picquet, and we were informed we could go no farther. After some remonstrance, however, we were suffered to pass, and we found the Palais Royal like a field of battle. Fires were lighted in all the squares, and in the place in front, and battalions of soldiers and National Guards were bivouacked round them. We made our way to the hotel which was the nearest, and just in the centre of motion, and I then went forth to hear the news, and see what was going on. I learned that the Chamber of Peers were deciding on the fate of the ex-Ministers. The evidence had been closed, the public were excluded, and the Peers were at that moment deliberating on the punishment or acquittal of those men who had filled all Paris with graves. It was near nine o'clock, yet I determined to make my way to the Luxembourg, where the Peers were sitting. It was now that I learned where all the people of the Faubourg had gone. Every avenue from the Quays to the Palace was choked up with a dense mass, which it was impossible to penetrate, whose shouts, yells, and shrieks, continually filled the air, and were really appalling. Occasionally, I could recognise the words, "Mort aux Ministres!-à bas les Chambres!" and now and then the awful sound of " à la lanterne," which had been formerly the watch-word of so much blood and suffering. On the morning of this day, the whole of the Faubourgs had risen in a mass, and proceeded direct to the Luxembourg. Government had reason to apprehend this movement, and had ordered detachments of the National Guards, and other troops on whom they could rely, to march to the palace. They providentially arrived at their post just as the crowd was ascending the streets; and when the people were rushing, in all directions, to seize on the palace, and dispose of the peers and prisoners as they thought fit, they found themselves suddenly stopped by the cordon of military, that was just drawn round it. They at first attempted to push on, convinced that the greater part of the soldiers would not stop them. They were, however, steadily opposed by the friends of order; but they continued the whole day augmenting in numbers, sometimes pressing close on the Guards, and sometimes retiring before the points of their bayonets. The unfortunate Ministers were all this time in the palace, awaiting the sentence of the court, and, in the mean time, expecting every moment to be torn to pieces by the mob. It was, therefore, determined to rescue them, if possible, from the latter dreadful fate. A common carriage was therefore called, and they were placed in it, without bustle, or any appearance of precaution. The carriage remained a quarter of an hour before the palace, as if on an ordinary occasion, and no one suspected for what purpose it was placed there: it then drove off, and the furiously excited mob suffered their victims to pass quietly through them, while they were shouting for their death, without knowing that they were then in the midst of them. About the time I arrived, this circumstance became generally known, and the cry of "à la Vincennes" began to circulate. A considerable detachment set out for the fortress, hoping to overtake the prisoners before they reached it. A few, however, only persevered; and when they did arrive, and demanded the prisoners, who were safe within, the officer commanding gave them to understand that the whole was undermined, and if they persisted, he would certainly fire the train, and blow them and himself into the airrather than betray his trust: after this threat they retired. When the judgment of the Peers was known the next morning, the indigna, tion of the populace was roused to a pitch of frenzy. It was every where circulated, and cried about, that the murderers, as they were called, were suffered to escape, and sent out of the country, and the whole of the Faubourgs now rose en masse. It was also generally known, that the sentence had greatly displeased a considerable part of the National Guards, particularly those of the lower class, who had been incautiously admitted into their ranks, and the élèves of the schools, who had acquired such an extraordinary ascendency over the minds of the people. The first sounds, therefore, which we heard, were drums beating to arms through all the streets even before it was light; and when I went out, at nine o'clock, detachments of military had cut off the communications of the different streets; and, before twelve o'clock, it was supposed that 90,000 men of all arms were guarding the avenues of the metropolis, and that they were not more than enough. A deputation of three citizens now demanded an audience of the King, at the Palais Royal: they were admitted, and required, in the name of the people of Paris, the death of the Ministers. The King acted with great firmness. He told them, that he and they were both equally subject to the law, and must observe it: if it had decreed the death of the culpable, it would have been his duty to have seen it executed; as it had not, he would take care also to see it observed, or he could not be worthy of the station to which he was called. He finally exhorted them to retire to their homes, and obey the law, and induce their friends to do so too, or he should find it his duty to compel them, as he had the means in his power; and he pointed to the military, which were every where around. When they retired, he himself, with his family, advanced to the balcony, which overlooked the square and place of the Palais Royal, and addressed the crowd that was assembled there with the National Guards. I stood just under him, and had a full view of the scene. The Duc de Nemours was on one side of him, and a younger son, the Duc de Joinville, on the other. The balcony is a screen which joins the wings of the palace, and the group stood high in the open air, as if placed on a lofty pedestal. He spoke with the energy and earnestness of a man most deeply interested in what he said, and with consider |