And dark Stofflet, who flies to fight as falcon to

the lure;

And fearless as the lion roused, but gentle as the

lamb,

Came, marching at his people's head, the brave and good Bonchamps.

Charette, where honour was the prize, the hero sure to win;

And there, with Henri Quatre's plume, the young Rochejaquelin.

And there, in pleasant speech and garb―the terror of the foe,

A noble, made by heaven's own hand, the great Cathelineau.

We march'd by tens of thousands, we march'd by day and night,

The Lily standard in our front, like Israel's holy light.

Around us rush'd the rebels, as the wolf upon the

sheep;

We burst upon their columns as the lion roused from sleep;

We tore the bayonets from their hands, we slew them at their guns,

Their boasted horsemen flew like chaff before our forest sons;

That eve we heaped their baggage high their lines of dead between,

And in the centre blazed to heaven their blooddyed guillotine!

In vain they hid their heads in walls; we rush'd on stout. Thouar,—

What cared we for its shot or shell, for battlement or bar?

We burst its gates; then, like the wind, we rush'd on Fontenaye

We saw its flag at morning's light, 'twas ours by setting day.

We crush'd, like ripen'd grapes, Montreuil; we tore down old Vetier

We charged them with our naked breasts, and took them with a cheer.

We'll hunt the robbers through the land, from Seine to sparkling Rhone,

Now, "Here's a health to all we love. Our king shall have his own."

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.—(Byron.)

The king was on his throne,
The satraps thronged the hall,
A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deemed Divine-
Jehovah's vessels-hold

The godless heathen's wine.

In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,

And wrote as if on sand:

The fingers of a man,

A solitary hand,

Along the letters ran,

And traced them like a wand.

The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice;
All bloodless waxed his look,
And tremulous his voice.
"Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth."

Chaldea's seers are good,

But here they have no skill;
And the unknown letters stood
Untold and awful still.
And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore;
But now they were not sage:
They saw-but knew no more.

A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth,
He heard the king's command,
He saw that writing's truth.
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night,-
The morrow proved it true.

"Belshazzar's grave is made,
His kingdom passed away;
He, in the balance weighed,
Is light and worthless clay.
The shroud, his robe of state,
His canopy the stone:
The Mede is at his gate!

The Persian on his throne!"

L

THE TROOPER'S STORY.-(W. Sawyer.)

Do I plead guilty to it? yea, I do ;

For I have never lied, and shall not now: But give me a dog's leave to say a word

Touching what happened, and the why and how.

The night-guard went their rounds that night at
My post was in the lower dungeon range, [one;
Down level with the moat, all slime and ooze
And damp: but there, 'tis fit we change and
change,

We sentinels. Besides, 'twas in a sort

The place of honour, or of trust, we'll say; For in the cell there with the mortised door The young boy-lord, guilty of treason, lay.

Well, with my partisan I'd tramped an hour

Down in the dark there—just a lantern hung By the wet wall-when close at hand I heard My own name spoken by a woman's tongue.

My hair was like to lift my morion up,

For the keep's haunted; but I turned, to see
A woman like a ghost-white face, all white,
Ready to drop, and not a yard from me.

How she had come there God in heaven knows,
However, long before my tongue I'd found,
She tore out of her hair the white pearls, big
As pigeon's eggs, and then dropt to the ground.

"One word!" she said, "only one word with him;
He dies to-morrow! See, my pearls I give,
My bracelets too"-she slipt them from her arms-
"One word, and I will bless you while I live!

"Your face is stern.

O, but one word, one word!"

With my big hand I set her on her feet; But she clung to me, would not be thrust off,

Still pleading in a bird's voice, soft and sweet.

"Only one word with him!" that was her plea ; One word; he would be dead at break of day! She wept till all her pretty face was wet,

And my heart melted: yea, she had her way.

They spoke together. Did I hear? Not I;
Best ask me if I took her bribes. Well, there,
You know the rest-know how yon Judas-spy,
Yon starveling cur, crawled down the winding
stair ;

And how he caught the bird fast in the cage,

And made report of me with eager breath For breach of duty. Right; it was a breach, And that means, in our soldier-fashion, death! Well, I can face it: I'm no craven hound

Like yonder Judas-spy. Nay, had I leave
To slit his weasand for him, as I'd slice
An onion, I'd meet death and never grieve.

WISHING.-(F. Godfrey Saxe.)

Of all amusements for the mind,
From logic down to fishing,
There isn't one that you can find
So very cheap as "wishing."
A very choice diversion, too,
If we but rightly use it;
And not, as we are apt to do,
Pervert it and abuse it.