It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying,
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying;
Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish,
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.
O poets! from a maniac's tongue, was poured the deathless singing;
O Christians! at your cross of hope, a hopeless hand was clinging
O men! this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were
smiling.

And now what time ye all may read thro' dimming tears his story,
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory;
And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights
departed,

He wore no less a loving face, because so broken-hearted.
He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation,
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration;
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken;
Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken!

138. SHEPHERD GIRL OF DOMREMY.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

What is to be thought of her? What is to be thought of the poor shepherd girl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, that, like the Hebrew shepherd boy from the hills and forests of Judæa, rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the religious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral soli. tudes, to a station in the van of armies, and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings?

The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act, by a victorious act, such as no man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to

the boy as no pretender; but so they did to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who saw them from a station of good-will, both were found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first acts. Enemies it was that made the difference between their subsequent fortunes.

The boy rose to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both personal and public, that rang through the records of his people, and became a byword amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the sceptre was departing from Judah. The poor forsaken girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never sang together with the songs that rose in her native Domrémy as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No! for her voice was then silent. No! for her feet were dust. Pure, innocent, noble hearted girl! whom, from earliest youth, ever I believed in as full of truth and selfsacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges for thy side, that never once-no, not for a moment of weakness-didst thou revel in the vision of coronets and honor from man. Coronets for thee! Oh, no! Honors, if they come when all is over, are for those that share thy blood.

Daughter of Domrémy, when the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, king of France, but she will not hear thee. Cite her by thy

apparitors to come and receive a robe of honor, but she will not obey the summons. When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl, that gave up all for her country,— thy ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf for five cen turies. To suffer aud to do, that was thy portion in this life: to do,-never for thyself, always for others; to suffer,—never in the persons of generous champions, always in thine own; that was thy destiny; and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. "Life," thou saidst," is short, and the sleep which is in the grave is long. Let me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is so long."

This pure creature,-pure from every suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in senses more obvious, never once did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was traveling to meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death;

she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffo d, the spectators without end on every road pouring into Rouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints, these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, that she heard forever.

Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she was for them; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but wetl Joanna knew, early at Domrémy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her.

139.-WAR.

HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.

To Rome a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear;
"To arms! to arms! sir consul; Lars Porsena is here.'
On the low hills to westward the consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust ride fast along the sky.

The consul's brow was sad, and the consul's speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe.
"Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?"

Then out spoke brave Horatius, the captain of the gate:

To every man upon this earth, death cometh soon or late. Hew down the bridge, sir consul, with all the speed ye may ;

I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play.

'In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?" Then out spake Spurius Lartius,- -a Ramnian proud was he: "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Herminius,-of Titian blood was he: 'I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee." 'Horatius," quoth the consul, "as thou sayest so let it be."

And straight against that great array forth went the dauntless three.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light, like a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee,

As that great host, with measured tread, opposed the dauntless three.
But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied,
And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide.
"Come back, come back, Horatius !" loud cried the Fathers all.
"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!"

Back darted Spurius Lartius,-Herminius darted back :
And, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces, and on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed_once
But with a crash like thunder fell every loosened beam,
[more.
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream :
And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam.
And like a horse unbroken, when first he feels the rein,
The furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny mane,
And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free;
And, whirling down in fierce career, rushed headlong to the sea.
Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind,—
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind.
"Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale face;
"Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena,“now yield thee to our grace.'
Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see;
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus naught spake he:
But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome.
"O Tiber! Father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray,

A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!"
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his side,
And with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank;
But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges they saw his crest appear,
Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer.
But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain,
And fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows,
And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose.
Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case,
Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place;
But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within,
And our good Father Tiber bare bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus: "will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day, we should have sacked the town.' "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "and bring him safe to For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before."

[shore,

And now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River Gate, borne by the joyous crowd.

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of death,
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said :
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die;
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered.

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well;
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered.

Plunged in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke,

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back; but not

Not the six hundred.