And just as Hervé Riel halloos" Anchor!"-sure as fate,

Up the English come, too late.

So the storm subsides to calm;

They see the green trees wave

On the heights o'erlooking Greve;

Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.

"Just our rapture to enhance,

Let the English rake the bay,

Gnash their teeth and glare askance

As they cannonade away!

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! Outburst all with one accord,

"This is Paradise for Hell!

Let France, let France's King

Thank the man that did the thing!”

What a shout, and all one word,

"Hervé Riel,"

As he stepped in front once more,
Not a symptom of surprise
In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, " My friend,
I must speak out at the end,

Though I find the speaking hard:
Praise is deeper than the lips;
You have saved the king his ships,

You must name your own reward
Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
Demand whate'er you will,

France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke

On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue;

"Since I need must say my say,

Since on board the duty's done,

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?—

Since 't is ask and have I may,—

Since the others go ashore,

Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"
That he asked, and that he got,-nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost;

Not a pillar nor a post

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;

Not a head in white and black

On a single fishing-smack

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack

All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris; rank on rank,

Search the heroes flung pell-mell

On the Louvre, face and flank;

You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.

So, for better or for worse,

Hervé Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more

Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE OLD SOLDIER TRAMP.

Yes, bread! I want bread! You heard what I said;
Yet you stand and you stare,

As if never before came a tramp to your door
With such an insolent air.

Would I work? Never learned. My home it was burned;

And I haven't yet found

Any heart to plough lands and build homes for red hands
That burned mine to the ground.

No bread! you have said? Then my curse on your head.
And what shall sting worse,

On that wife at your side, on those babes in their pride,
Fall my sevenfold curse!

Good-bye! I must l'arn to creep into your barn;
Suck your eggs; hide away;

Sneak around like a hound, light a match in your hay,
Limp away through the gray!

Yes, I limp-curse the stones! And then my old bones,
They were riddled with ball

Down at Shiloh. What, you? You war wounded thar too?
Wall, you beat us-that's all.

Yet even my heart with its stout pride will start
As I tramp. For, you see,

No matter which won, it was gallantly done,
And a glorious American victory.

What! kind words and bread? God's smiles on your head! On your wife, on your babes! and please, sir, I pray, You'll pardon me, sir; but that fight trenched me here, Deep-deeper than sword cut, that day.

Nay, I'll go. Sir, adieu! Tu Tityre *

Have Augustus for friend,

*

You

Will I—yes, read and speak both Latin and Greek,
And talk slang without end.

Hey? Oxford. But, then, when the wild cry for men
Rang out through the gathering night,

As a mother that cries for her children, and dies,
We two hurried home for the fight.

How noble, my brother! how brave-and-but there—
This tramping about somehow weakens my eyes.
At Shiloh! We stood 'neath that hill by the wood-
It's a graveyard to-day, I surmise.

Yes, we stood to the last! And when the strife passed

I sank down in blood at his side,

On his brow, on his breast-what need tell the rest?
I but knew that my brother had died.

What! wounds on your breast? Your brow tell the rest?
You fought at my side and you fell?

You the brave boy that stood at my side in that wood,
On that blazing red border of hell?

My brother! My own!

Never king on his throne

Knew a joy like this brought to me!

God bless you, my life! bless your brave Northern wife, And your beautiful babes, two and three.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE.

On the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-morn our army lay;
Slowly rose the mist in columns
From the river's broken way;
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,
And the Pass was wrapped in gloom,

When the clansmen rose together
From their lair amidst the broom.

Then we belted on our tartans,

And our bonnets down we drew,
And we felt our broadswords' edges,
And we proved them to be true;
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,
And we cried the gathering-cry,
And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,
And we swore to do or die!

Then our leader rode before us

On his war-horse black as night,

Well the Cameronian rebels

Know that charger in the fight!

And a cry of exultation

From the bearded warriors rose;
For we loved the house of Claver'se,
And we thought of good Montrose.
But he raised his hand for silence-
"Soldiers! I have sworn a vow:
Ere the evening star shall glisten
On Schehallion's lofty brow,
Either we shall rest in triumph,
Or another of the Græmes
Shall have died in battle-harness

For his country and King James!
Think upon the Royal Martyr,-

Think of what his race endure,Think of him whom butchers murdered On the field of Magus Nuir:By his sacred blood I charge ye,

By the ruined hearth and shrine,—

By the blighted hopes of Scotland,
By your injuries and mine,—
Strike this day as if the anvil

Lay beneath your blows the while,

Be they covenanting traitors,

Or the brood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels Backward o'er the stormy Forth; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North Let them tell that Highland honor Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their Prince's anger As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike! and when the fight is over, If ye look in vain for me,

Where the dead are lying thickest,

Search for him that was Dundee!"

Loudly then the hills re-echoed

With our answer to his call,

But a deeper echo sounded

In the bosom of us all.