( VICTOR HUGO TO GARIBALDI .)

( " Ces jeunes gens, combien etaient-ils? " )

Young soldiers of the noble Latin blood,
How many are ye — Boys? Four thousand odd.
How many are there dead? Six hundred: count!
Their limbs lie strewn about the fatal mount,
Blackened and torn, eyes gummed with blood, hearts rolled
Out from their ribs, to give the wolves of the wold
A red feast; nothing of them left but these
Pierced relics, underneath the olive trees,
Show where the gin was sprung — the scoundrel-trap

As from the mist a noble pine we tell
Grown old upon the heights of Appenzel,
When morning freshness breathes round all the wood,
So Eviradnus now before them stood,
Opening his vizor, which at once revealed
The snowy beard it had so well concealed.
Then Sigismond was still as dog at gaze,
But Ladislaus leaped, and howl did raise,
And laughed and gnashed his teeth, till, like a cloud
That sudden bursts, his rage was all avowed.
" 'Tis but an old man after all! " he cried.

Then the great knight, who looked at both, replied,

IN THE FOREST .

If in the wood a traveller there had been
That eve, had lost himself, strange sight he'd seen.
Quite in the forest's heart a lighted space
Arose to view; in that deserted place
A lone, abandoned hall with light aglow
The long neglect of centuries did show.
The castle-towers of Corbus in decay
Were girt by weeds and growths that had their way;
Couch-grass and ivy, and wild eglantine
In subtle scaling warfare all combine.
Subject to such attacks three hundred years,

EVIRADNUS .

Eviradnus was growing old apace,
The weight of years had left its hoary trace,
But still of knights the most renowned was he,
Model of bravery and purity.
His blood he spared not; ready day or night
To punish crime, his dauntless sword shone bright
In his unblemished hand; holy and white
And loyal all his noble life had been,
A Christian Samson coming on the scene.
With fist alone the gate he battered down
Of Sickingen in flames, and saved the town.
'Twas he, indignant at the honour paid

THE Knight E RRANT .

( " Qu'est-ce que Sigismond et Ladislas ont dit? " )

THE ADVENTURER SETS OUT .

What was it Sigismond and Ladislaus said?

I know not if the rock, or tree o'erhead,
Had heard their speech; — but when the two spake low,
Among the trees, a shudder seemed to go
Through all their branches, just as if that way
A beast had passed to trouble and dismay.
Darker the shadow of the rock was seen,
And then a morsel of the shade, between
The sombre trees, took shape as it would seem

And, after battle, tenderer is the breeze,
More bountiful the beauty of the night, —
New stars within the abysmal blue shine bright,
And balmier odours fill the forest-trees,
And yet more silvery moonlight floods the seas,
And woman's breast is more exceeding white:
More heavenly is the touch of finger light,
And more divine the most strange sense of ease.

Oh, wind the wreath of battle round thy brow,
Thou lover-warrior! Then shalt thou learn how
The kiss of woman may be God's own calm
Descending with a softness past all speech

And yet chief strength gives chiefest tenderness. —
After the battle comes the calm of sleep
Upon a woman's breast, and eyes that weep,
And the superb and sorrowless caress.
Oh, did not Christ, after the bitter stress
Of unknown agony in the garden deep,
Fruits of unknown, unearthly triumph reap, —
When, death being over, love leant down to bless?

First, battle; after, woman. First the swords

Through seas of pain and surging storms of grief,
O sweetheart, we pursue our weary way,
Waiting till on life's hill-tops the new day
Shines, gilding every blossom, every leaf.
O comforter of mine, of helpers chief,
More patient at love's mournful long delay
Than I, — less angered at the cloud-wreaths grey, —
Speak words of hope: the sails of dawn unreef!

Lo! I am weary; weary unto death.
Long is the struggle, and the night is long:
Not yet upon the hills the morning's song
Broods, nor the sweetness of the morning's breath.

For nothing can true lovers' souls divide:
Not distance, pain, nor solitude, nor strife,
Nor all the fretting cares of daily life,
Nor thundering seas, nor sunstruck deserts wide.
Breathe but a wish for me: I'm at thy side!
If I desire thee, lo! thou art " quite close "
In spirit, shielding me from myriad foes;
My guardian, and mine holy spirit-bride.

So is it ever. We are never far
One from the other: never say " Good-bye. "
One blue arch reaches us of kindred sky;
We both behold at night the self-same star; —

Not in these songs of thee do I caress
My lyre, and utter amorous melodies, —
Singing love-songs beneath blue facile skies
Unstricken of storm, unversed in passion's stress.
Nay, rather would I thunder through my lyre
And mix my song with the tumultuous storm,
If so I might the sons of men inspire
And with my soul their listening souls inform!

For thou art great: no queen of amorous ditty,
But sweet, divine, a woman full of pity
That crowneth woman, and of woman's might: —
Queen of the proud untouched impassioned soul: