"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,

For a prize to Plymouth sound?
Better run the ships aground!"
(Ended Damfreville his speech),
"Not a minute more to wait!

Let the captains all and each

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!
France must undergo her fate.

Give the word!"-But no such word

Was ever spoke or heard;

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these-
A captain? A lieutenant? A mate-first, second, third?
No such man of mark, and meet

With his betters to compete !

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet-
A poor coasting pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel;
"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools or rogues?
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell,

'Twixt the offing here and Grève, where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?

Morn and eve, night and day,

Have I piloted your bay,

Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.

Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's a way! Only let me lead the line,

Have the biggest ship to steer,

Get this Formidable' clear,
Make the others follow mine,

And I lead them most and least by a passage I know well,

Right to Solidor, past Grève,

And there lay them safe and sound;

And if one ship misbehave

Keel so much as grate the ground

Why, I've nothing but my life; here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. Not a minute more to wait!

"Steer us in, then, small and great!

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron !" cried its chief. "Captains, give the sailor place!

He is admiral in brief."

Still the north wind, by God's grace;

See the noble fellow's face

As the big ship, with a bound,

Clears the entry like a hound,

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound 1 See, safe through shoal and rock,

How they follow in a flock,

Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
Not a spar that comes to grief!

The peril, see, is past,

All are harbored to the last,

And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor !"—sure as fate,

Up the English come, too late.

So the storm subsides to calm;

They see the green trees wave
On the heights o'erlooking Grève;
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.
"Just our rapture to enhance,

Let the English rake the bay,

Gnash their teeth and glare askance
As they cannonade away!

'Neath rampired Solider pleasant riding on the Rance!"
Now hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance !
Out burst all with one accord,
"This is Paradise for hell!

Let France, let France's king,

Thank the man that did the thing!"

What a shout, and all one word,

"Hervé Riel!"

As he stepped in front once more,

Not a symptom of surprise

In the frank blue Breton eyes—
Just the same man as before.
Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
I must speak out at the end,

Though I find the speaking hard;
Praise is deeper than the lips,
You have saved the king his ships,

You must name your own reward.
Faith, our sun was near eclipse !
Demand whate'er you will,

France remains your debtor still.

Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke

On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton Blue:
"Since I needs must say my say,

Since on board the duty's done,

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run ?—
Since 'tis ask and have, I may-

Since the others go ashore-
Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked, and that he got-nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost;

Not a pillar nor a post

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell:

Not a head in white and black

On a single fishing-smack,

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack

All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris; rank on rank

Search the heroes flung pell-mell

On the Louvre, face and flank;

You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.

So, for better and for worse,
Hervé Riel, accept my verse!

In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more

Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

FATHER JOHN.

BY PELEG ARKWRIGHT.

He warn't no long-faced man o' prayer,
A-peddlin' scriptures here and there,
A-shootin' off his texts and tracts
Without regard to dates and facts
Or time or place, like all possessed,
'Till weary sinners couldn't rest;
Fatiguin' unregenerate gents,

And causin' molls to swear immense.

He didn't snivel worth a cent,

Nor gush to any great extent,

But labored on a level plan-
A priest, but none the less a man-

Among the slums and boozing-kens,
And in the vilest holes and dens,

Amongst the drabs and owls and worse-
For saints in these here parts are skerce;
This ward ain't nowadays flush o' them,
It ain't no new Jerusalem.

He preached but little, argued less;
But if a moll was in distress,
Or if a kinchen came to grief,
Or trouble tackled rogue or thief,
There Father John was sure to be,
To blunt the edge o' misery;
And somehow managed every time-
To ease despair or lessen crime.
That corner house was allus known
Around these parts as Podger's Own,
'Till two pams in a drunken fight
Set the whole thing afire one night;
And where it stood they hypered round
And blasted rocks and shoveled ground
To build the factory over there-
The one you see—and that is where
Poor Father John-God give him rest 1-
Preached his last sermon and his best.
One summer's day the thing was done;
The workmen set a blast and run.
They ain't so keerful here, I guess,
Where lives ain't worth a cent apiece,
As in the wards where things is dear,
And nothink ain't so cheap as here;
Leastwise the first they seed or knowed
A little chick had crossed the road.
He seemed to be just out o' bed,
Barelegged, with nothink on his head;
Chubby and cunnin', with his hair
Blown criss-cross by the mornin' air;
Draggin' a tin horse by a string,
Without much care for anything,
A talking to hisself for joy-
A toddlin', keerless baby boy.
Right for the crawlin' fuse he went,
As though to find out what it meant;
Trudgin' towards the fatal spot,
'Till less'n three feet off he got

From where the murderin' thing lay still,

Just waitin' for to spring and kill;
Marching along toward his grave,

And not a soul dared go to save.
They hollered-all they durst to do;
He turned and laughed, and then bent low
To set the horsey on his feet,

And went right on, a crowin' sweet,

And then a death-like silence grew

On all the tremblin', coward crew,
As each swift second seemed the last
Before the roaring of the blast.
Just then some chance or purpose brought
The priest; he saw, and quick as thought
He ran and caught the child, and turned
Just as the slumberin' powder burned,
And shot the shattered rocks around,
And with its thunder shook the ground.
The child was sheltered; Father John
Was hurt to death; without a groan
He set the baby down, then went
A step or two, but life was spent ;
He tottered, looked up to the skies
With ashen face, but strange, glad eyes.
"My love, I come!" was all he said,
Sank slowly down, and so was dead.
Stranger, he left a memory here
That will be felt for many a year,
And since that day this ward has been

More human in its dens of sin.

THE THREE HORSEMEN.

[From the German of Uhland.]

THREE horsemen halted the inn before,
Three horsemen entered the oaken door,
And loudly called for the welcome cheer
That was wont to greet the traveller here.

"Good woman," they cried as the hostess came,

A buxom, rosy, portly old dame,

"Good woman, how is your wine and beer;

And how is your little daughter dear ?"