The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead-but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast, The applause of listening senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide; With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones, from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, On some fond breast the parting soul relies; For thee who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gained from heaven -'twas all he wished No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode; There they alike in trembling hope repose, The bosom of his Father and his God. ers THE OLD RÉGIME IN FRANCE.1 BY H. A. TAINE. [HIPPOLYTE ADOLPIE TAINE, French critic and historical scholar, was born in Vouziers, April 21, 1828. He published, among other works: "French Philosophers in the Nineteenth Century (1856); "Essays in Criticism and History (1857); "Notes on England" (1861); "Contemporary English Writ(1863); "History of English Literature,' ‚""English Idealism," and " English Positivism" (1864); "Philosophy of Art" (1865–1870); "The Ideal in Art" (1867); "The Understanding" (1870); "Origins of Contemporary France," a series comprising, "The Old Régime in France" (1875), "Anarchy " (1878), "The Revolutionary Government (1884), "The Modern Régime" (1890).] LA BRUYÈRE wrote, just a century before 1789, “ Certain savage-looking beings, male and female, are seen in the country, black, livid, and sunburnt, and belonging to the soil, which they dig and grub with invincible stubbornness. They seem capable of articulation, and, when they stand erect, they display human lineaments. They are, in fact, men. They retire at night into their dens, where they live on black bread, water, and roots. They spare other human beings the trouble of sowing, plowing, and harvesting, and thus should not be in want of the bread they have planted." They continue in want of it during twenty-five years after this and die in herds. I estimate that in 1715 more than one third of the population, six millions, perish with hunger and of destitution. "In 1725," says St. Simon, "with the profuseness of Strasbourg and Chantilly, the people, in Normandy, live on the grass of the fields. The first king in Europe is great simply by being a king of beggars of all conditions, and by turning his kingdom into a vast hospital of dying people of whom their all is taken without a murmur." In the most prosperous days of Fleury and in the finest region in France, the peasant hides "his wine on account of the excise and his bread on account of the taille," convinced "that he is a lost man if any doubt exists of his dying of starvation." In 1739 d'Argenson writes in his journal: "The famine has just occasioned three insurrections in the provinces, at Ruffec, at Caen, and at Chinon. Women carrying their bread with them have been assassinated on the highways. . . M. le Duc d'Orléans brought to the Council the other day a piece of bread, and placed it on the table before the king; Sire,' said he, there is the bread on which your subjects now 1 Copyright, 1876, by Henry Holt & Co. Used by permission. 66 feed themselves."" "In my own canton of Touraine men have of our colonies are, in this respect, infinitely better off, for, while |