THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS. 221 Ah! 'tis one big, one very big, huge rat! Vat is it that he nibble, nibble at ?" In vain our little hero sought repose; Bawling aloud, called stoutly for a light. Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay!" The bill was brought, and to his great surprise, Ten shillings was the charge: he scarce believes his eyes. With eager haste, he quickly runs it o'er, And every time he viewed it thought it more. "Vy, zounds and zounds!" he cries, "I sall no pay; Vat! charge ten shelangs for vat I have mangé ? A leetel sop of portar, dis vile bed, Vare all de rats do run about my head?" 66 Plague on those rats!" the landlord muttered out; "I wish, upon my word, that I could make 'em scout: I'll pay him well that can." "Vat's dat you say y?" "I'll pay him well that can." "Attend to me, I pray : Vill you dis charge forego, vat I am at, If from your house I drive away de rat?" "With all my heart," the jolly host replies. "Ecoutez donc, ami; " the Frenchman cries. "First, den-Regardez, if you please, Bring to dis spot a leetel bread and cheese: Eh bien! a pot of porter, too; And den invite de rats to sup vid you: And after dat-no matter dey be villing For dat dey eat, you charge dem just ten shelang: And I am sure, ven dey behold de score, Dey'll quit your house, and never come no more." A DESPAIR.-VICTOR HUGO. MAN overboard! What matters it! the ship does not stop. The wind is blowing; that dark ship must keep on her destined course. She passes away. The man disappears, then reappears; he plunges and rises again to the surface, he calls, he stretches out his hands, they hear him not; the ship, staggering under the gale, is straining every rope; the sailors and the passengers see the drowning man no longer; his miserable head is but a point in the vastness of the billows. He hurls cries of despair into the depths. What a spectacle is that disappearing sail! He looks upon it, he looks upon it with frenzy. It moves away; it grows dim; it diminishes. He was there but just now; he was one of the crew, he went and came upon the deck with the rest, he had his share of the air and of the sunlight, he was a living man. Now, what has become of him? He slipped, he fell, and it is finished. He is in the monstrous deep. He has nothing under his feet but the yielding, fleeing element. The waves, torn and scattered by the wind, close round him hideously; the rolling of the abyss bears him along; shreds of water are flying about his head; a populace of waves spit upon him; confused openings half swallow him; when he sinks he catches glimpses of yawning precipices full of darkness; fearful unknown vegetations seize upon him, bind his feet, and draw him to themselves; he feels that he is becoming the great deep; he makes part of the foam; the billows toss him from one to the other; he tastes the bitterness; the greedy ocean is eager to devour him: the monster plays with his agony. It seems as if all this were liquid hate. He tries to defend himself; he tries to sustain himself; he struggles, he swims. He that poor strength that fails so soon -he combats the unfailing. Where now is the ship? Far away yonder. Hardly visible in the pallid gloom of the horizon. The wind blows in gusts; the billows overwhelm him. He raises his eyes, but sees only the livid clouds. He, in his dying agony, makes part of this immense insanity of the sea. He is tortured to death by its immeasurable madness. He hears sounds which are strange to man, sounds THE NATION'S DEAD. 223 which seem to come, not from the earth, but from some frightful realm beyond. There are birds in the clouds, even as there are angels above human distresses, but what can they do for him? They fly, sing, and float, while he is gasping. He feels that he is buried at once by those two infinities, the ocean and the sky; the one is a tomb, the other a pall. Night descends; he has been swimming for hours; his strength is almost exhausted; that ship, that far-off thing where there were men, is gone; he is alone in the terrible gloom of the abyss; he sinks, he strains, he struggles, he feels beneath him the shadowy monsters of the unseen; he shouts. Men are no more. Where is God? He shouts. Help! help! he shouts incessantly. Nothing in the horizon, nothing in the sky. He implores the blue vault, the waves, the rocks; all are deaf. He supplicates the tempest the imperturbable tempest obeys only the Infinite. Around him are darkness, storm, solitude, wild and unconscious tumult, the ceaseless tumbling of the fierce waters; within him, horror and exhaustion; beneath him, the engulfing abyss. No resting-place. He thinks of the shadowy adventures of his lifeless body in the limitless gloom. The biting cold paralyzes him. His hands clutch spasmodically, and grasp at nothing. Winds, clouds, whirlwinds, blasts, stars-all useless! What shall he do? He yields to despair; worn out, he seeks death; he no longer resists; he gives himself up; he abandons the contest, and he is rolled away into the dismal depths of the abyss forever. THE NATION'S DEAD. FOUR hundred thousand men— The brave-the good-the true, Good friend, for me and you! 224 THE NATION'S DEAD. In many a fevered swamp, By many a black bayou, In many a cold and frozen camp, From Western plain to ocean-tide Are stretched the graves of those who died Good friend, for me and you! On many a bloody plain Their ready swords they drew, And poured their life-blood, like the rain, To gain for me and you! Our brothers mustered by our side; They marched, they fought, and bravely died For me and you! Good friend, for me and you! Up many a fortress-wall They charged-those boys in blue-- These noble men--the nation's pride- In treason's prison-hold Their martyr spirits grew They starved for me and you! Good friend, for me and you! MARCO BOZZARIS. A debt we ne'er can pay To them is justly due, And to the nation's latest day 66 They died for me and you!" Four hundred thousand of the brave Good friend, for me and you! MARCO BOZZARIS.-HALLECK. AT midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour In dreams, through camp and court, he bore In dreams his song of triumph heard; At midnight, in the forest-shades, Bozzaris rang'd his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, There had the Persian's thousands stood; And now they breath'd that haunted air, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they. An hour passed on-the Turk awoke- He woke to hear his sentries shriek- "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" 225 |