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by considerable sums. His grand weapon, namely, the millions whom he directed, he owed to the representative character which clothed him. He interests us as he stands for France and for Europe; and he exists as captain and king only as far as the Revolution or the interests of the industrious masses found an organ and a leader in him.

In the social interests he knew the meaning and value of labour, and threw himself naturally on that side. The principal works that have survived him are his magnificent roads. He filled his troops with his spirit, and a sort of freedom and companionship grew up between him and them, which the forms of his court never permitted between the officers and himself. They performed under his eye that which no others could do. The best document of his relation to his troops, is the order of the day on the morning of the battle of Austerlitz, in which Napoleon promises the troops that he will keep his person out of reach of fire. This declaration, which is the reverse of that ordinarily made by generals and sovereigns on the eve of a battle, sufficiently explains the devotion of the army to their leader.

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THERE was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men:

And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning


While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

A thousand hearts beat happily; and Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe!

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But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in And Evan's, Donald's, fame rings in each

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clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving-if aught inanimate e'er grieves

Over the unreturning brave,-alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above

shall grow

In its next verdure; when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,

The morn the marshalling in arms,-the day

Battle's magnificently-stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which,
when rent,

The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover-heaped

and pent,

Rider and horse,-friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!



No sounds of labour vexed the quiet air From morn till eve. The people all stood still,

And earth won back a Sabbath.

were none


Who cared to buy and sell, and make a gain,

For one whole day. All felt as they had lost

A father, and were fain to keep within,
Silent, or speaking little. Such a day
An old man sees but once in all his time.

The simplest peasant in the land that day Knew somewhat of his country's grief. He heard

The knell of England's hero from the tower

Of the old church, and asked the cause, and sighed.

The vet'ran who had bled on some far field,

Fought o'er the battle for the thousandth time

With quaint addition; and the little child That stopped his sport to run and ask his sire

What it all meant, picked out the simple tale,

How he who drove the French from Water100,

And crushed the tyrant of the world, and made

His country great and glorious,—he was dead.

All, from the simplest to the stateliest, knew

But one sad story--from the cotter's bairn Up to the fair-haired lady on the throne, Who sat within and sorrowed for her friend; And every tear she shed became her well, And seemed more lovely in her people's eyes

Than all the starry wonders of her crown.

But, as the waters of the Northern Sea (When one strong wind blows steady from the pole)

Come hurrying to the shore, and far and wide

As eye can reach the creaming waves

press on

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Peaceful or warlike,-each and all were there;

Trooping in sable sorrow after him
Who slept serene upon his funeral car
In glorious rest! . . . . A child might under-

That 'twas no national sorrow, but a grief Wide as the world. A child might understand

That all mankind were sorrowing for one! That banded nations had conspired to pay

This homage to the chief who drew his sword

At the command of Duty; kept it bright Through perilous days; and soon as Victory smiled,

Laid it, unsullied, in the lap of Peace. Oriel College. ANON.


A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob Algiers; with drooping head, There was lack of woman's nursing, there When the troops are marching home again, was dearth of woman's tears; with glad and gallant tread;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,

life-blood ebbed away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear For her brother was a soldier too, and not what he might say.

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,

And he said: "I never more shall see my

own, my native land:

afraid to die.

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;

Take a message and a token to some distant And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),

friends of mine,

For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the Rhine.

For the honour of old Bingen--dear Bingen on the Rhine!

Tell my brothers and companions, when There's another not a sister; in the they meet and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,

That we fought the battle bravely; and when the day was done,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun.

And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars

happy days gone by,

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry-too fond for idle scorning!

O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life (for ere this moon be risen

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, My body will be out of pain-my soul be out of prison)

the last of many scars;

yellow sunlight shine

But some were young, and suddenly beheld I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the
life's morn decline;
And one had come from Bingen--fair On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bin-
Bingen on the Rhine.

gen on the Rhine!

Tell my mother that her other sons shall I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, comfort her old age, or seemed to hear,

And I was aye a truant bird, that thought The German songs we used to sing in chorus

his home a cage;

For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,

sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of That echoing chorus sounded, through the struggles fierce and wild; evening calm and still;

And when he died, and left us to divide his And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we scanty hoard, passed with friendly talk I let them take whate'er they would, but Down many a path beloved of yore, and kept my father's sword; well-remembered walk; And with boyish love I hung it where the And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly bright light used to shine, in mine;-

On the cottage-wall at Bingen-calm Bin- But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved gen on the Rhine!

Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarser; his grasp | And the soft moon rose up slowly, and was childish weak; calmly she looked down His eyes put on a dying look; he sighed, On the red sand of the battle-field, with and ceased to speak. bloody corpses strown; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale of life had fled; light seemed to shine, The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen --was dead! on the Rhine!



THERE'S a white stone placed upon yonder One heart that in secret had kept his name,

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THERE's beauty in the deep:

The wave is bluer than the sky;

That sends its loud clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,

And though the light shine bright on high, Echoes through groves with coral gay,

More softly do the sea gems glow
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid;
And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine :

There's beauty in the deep.

There's music in the deep:-
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore;-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
But little of the sea nymph's shell,

And dies on spongy banks away:
There's music in the deep.

There's quiet in the deep:

Above, let tides and tempests rave,
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave;

Above, let care and fear contend
With sin and sorrow to the end;-
Here, far beneath the tainted foam
That frets above our peaceful home,
We dream in joy, and wake in love,
Nor know the rage that yells above:
There's quiet in the deep.


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