Part 12 (2/2)

_(”Moune, ecureuil.”)_

[xx.]

Squirrel, mount yon oak so high, To its twig that next the sky Bends and trembles as a flower!

Strain, O stork, thy pinion well,-- From thy nest 'neath old church-bell, Mount to yon tall citadel, And its tallest donjon tower!

To your mountain, eagle old, Mount, whose brow so white and cold, Kisses the last ray of even!

And, O thou that lov'st to mark Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark, Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark-- Joyous lark, O mount to heaven!

And now say, from topmost bough, Towering shaft, and peak of snow, And heaven's arch--O, can you see One white plume that like a star, Streams along the plain afar, And a steed that from the war Bears my lover back to me?

JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

THE LOVER'S WISH.

_(”Si j'etais la feuille.”)_

[XXII., September, 1828.]

Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West, His course through the forest uncaring; To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast In a pendulous cradle is bearing.

All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste, As the dewdrops upon me were glancing; When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste, And round her the breezes are dancing.

On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush Thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver; Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush, And the murmuring fall of the river.

By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane, To catch the sweet breath of the roses; Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain 'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.

Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky, Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring; Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh, And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.

On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way, A charm that would lead to the bower; Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day, At the dawn and the vesper hour.

Then hovering down on her brow would I light, 'Midst her golden tresses entwining; That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright, And the sunbeams upon it s.h.i.+ning.

A single frail gem on her beautiful head, I should sit in the golden glory; And prouder I'd be than the diadem spread Round the brow of kings famous in story.

V., _Eton Observer_.

THE SACKING OF THE CITY.

_(”La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!”)_

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