Saint Anne of Auray, who sees us, that in a similar case I would shoot my son as I shot your brother. Now you are master. Yes, I pity you. You have lied to your captain. You, Christian, are without faith; you, Breton, are without honor. I was confided to your loyalty and accepted by your treason; you offer my death to those to whom you had promised my life. Do you know who it is you are destroying here? It is yourself. You take my life from the king, and you give your eternity to the devil. Go on; commit your crime, it is well. You sell cheaply your share in Paradise. Thanks to you, the devil will conquer; thanks to you, the churches will fall; thanks to you, the heathen will continue to melt the bells and make cannon of them. They will shoot men with that which used to warn souls! At this moment in which I speak to you, perhaps the bell that rang for your baptism is killing your mother. Go on; aid the devil, do not hesitate. Yes, I condemned your brother; but know this: I am an instrument of God. Ah, you pretend to judge the means God uses! Will you take it on yourself to judge Heaven's thunderbolt? Wretched man, you will be judged by it. Take care what you do. Do you even know whether I am in a state of grace? No. Go on, all the same. Do what you like. You are free to cast me into hell, and to cast yourself there with me. Our two damnations are in your hand. It is you who will be responsible before God. We are alone; face to face in the abyss. Go on-finish-make an end. I am old and you are young; I am without arms and you are armed; kill me!" While the old man stood erect, uttering these words in a voice louder than the noise of the sea, the undulations of the waves showed him now in the shadow, now in the light. The sailor had grown lividly white; great drops of sweat fell from his forehead; he trembled like a leaf; he kissed his rosary again and When the old man finished speaking, he threw down his again. pistol and fell on his knees. "Mercy, my lord! Pardon me!" he cried; "you speak like God. I have done wrong. My brother did wrong. I will try to repair his crime. Dispose of me. Command; I will obey." "I give you pardon," said the old man. NAPOLEON. "Tu domines notre âge; ange ou démon, qu'importe !" ANGEL or demon! thou whether of light The minister, or darkness—still dost sway This age of ours; thine eagle's soaring flight Bears us, all breathless, after it away. The eye that from thy presence fain would stray, Shuns thee in vain; thy mighty shadow thrown Rests on all pictures of the living day, And on the threshold of our time alone, Dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, Napoleon ! Thus, when the admiring stranger's steps explore Or, lingering long in dreamy revery, Wooed by whose breath the soft and am'rous sea Seems like some languishing sultana's lay, A voice for very sweets that scarce can win its way: Him, whether Pæstum's solemn fane detain, Of tarantella danced 'neath Tuscan tower, Or be his bark at Posilippo laid, While as the swarthy boatman at his side Chants Tasso's lays to Virgil's pleasèd shade,Ever he sees throughout that circuit wide, From shaded nook or sunny lawn espied, From rocky headland viewed, or flow'ry shore, From sea and spreading mead alike descried, The Giant Mount, tow'ring all objects o'er, And black'ning with its breath th' horizon evermore! THE RETREAT FROM Moscow. Ir snowed. A defeat was our conquest red! It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breeze Whistled upon the glassy endless seas, Where naked feet on, on for ever went, With nought to eat, and not a sheltering tent. In a wide wilderness where no light shone, To die, with pity none, and none to see That from this mournful realm none should get free. Their foes the frozen North and Czar - That, worst. Cannon were broken up in haste accurst To burn the frames and make the pale fire high, Where those lay down who never woke or woke to die. Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled 'Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw — Kept those that rose all dastard fear above, As on his tent they saw his shadow pass · a destiny? "Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?" he sighed, Outside still fell the smothering snow. Was it a voice indeed? or but a dream? It was the vulture's, but how like the sea-bird's scream. POOR FOLK. 'Tis night within the close stout cabin door, The room is wrapped in shade save where there fall Some twilight rays that creep along the floor, And show the fisher's nets upon the wall. In the dim corner, from the oaken chest, A few white dishes glimmer; through the shade Stands a tall bed with dusky curtains dressed, And a rough mattress at its side is laid. Five children on the long low mattress lie— And redden the dark room with crimson gleams. The mother kneels and thinks, and pale with fear, MY THOUGHTS OF YE. WHAT do I dream of? Far from the low roof Half tears, half laughter, mingled sport and strife, A conscious innocence on either face, At even moored beneath some sleepy shore, And the whole air is full of wondrous sounds, And while before me, spotted with white sails, VOL. XII. — 15 |