Do you hear? do you know Why the gendarmes put you there, in the row, You, with those Commune wretches tall, With your face to the wall?" "Know? To be sure I know! why not? We're here to be shot; And there, by the pillar's the very spot, Fighting for France, my father fell: Ah, well! That's just the way I would choose to fall, With my back to the wall!" ("Sacré ! Fair, open fight, I say, Is something right gallant in its way, And fine for warming the blood; but who Wants wolfish work like this to do? Bah! 't is a butcher's business!) How? (The boy is beckoning to me now: I knew that his poor child's heart would fail, Yet his cheek 's not pale:) Quick! say your say, for don't you see, When the church-clock yonder tolls out Three, "Parbleu! Come out of the line, I say, Come out! (who said that his name was Ney?) Ha! France will hear of him yet one day!" A GRAVE IN HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY, RICHMOND (J. R. T.) I READ the marble-lettered name, Our poet came from exile - dead." The city's hum drifts o'er his grave, And green above the hollies wave Their jagged leaves, as when a boy, On blissful summer afternoons, He came to sing the birds his runes, And tell the river of his joy. Who dreams that in his wanderings wide, By stern misfortunes tossed and driven, His soul's electric strands were riven From home and country? Let betide What might, what would, his boast, his pride, Was in his stricken mother-land, That could but bless and bid him go, Because no crust was in her hand To stay her children's need. We know The mystic cable sank too deep For surface storm or stress to strain, Or from his answering heart to keep The spark from flashing back again ! Think of the thousand mellow rhymes, The pure idyllic passion-flowers, Wherewith, in far gone, happier times, He garlanded this South of ours. Provençal-like, he wandered long, And sang at many a stranger's board, Yet 't was Virginia's name that poured The tenderest pathos through his song. We owe the Poet praise and tears, Whose ringing ballad sends the brave, Bold Stuart riding down the years What have we given him? grave! Just a MASSA'S IN DE COLD GROUND ROUND de meadows am a-ringing De darkeys' mournful song, Down in de corn-field Hear dat mournful sound: When de autumn leaves were falling, 'T was hard to hear old massa calling, Cayse he was so weak and old. Now de orange tree am blooming On de sandy shore, Now de summer days am coming, Massa nebber calls no more. Massa make de darkeys love him, Down in de corn-field Hear dat mournful sound: All de darkeys am a-weeping, Massa's in de cold, cold ground. Kose Terry Cooke SEGOVIA AND MADRID Ir sings to me in sunshine, I dream, and wake, and wonder, Through inland hills and forests She fashions it and knows it good, No tenuous threads to weave her nest, Then, worn with toil, and tired of life, But swinging in the snares she spun, Poor sister of the spinster clan! I know thy heart when heartless hands I know thy peace when all is done. I know what thou hast never known, — BLUEBEARD'S CLOSET FASTEN the chamber! In comes a stranger Looks he behind them? Ah! have a care! "Here is a finer." The chamber is there! Fair spreads the banquet, Marble and painting, Once it was open All through the casements Silence and horror Out of the gateway, LISE If I were a cloud in heaven, I would hang over thee; If I were a star of even, If I were a wind's low laughter, Lie on thy forehead fair; For the world and its wide hereafter If I were a fountain leaping, The burden of my sweet weeping; My honeyed treasures keeping, There's never a tided ocean Without a shore; Nor a leaf whose downward motion No dews deplore; And I dream that my devotion May move thee to sigh once more. DONE FOR A WEEK ago to-day, when red-haired Sally Down to the sugar-camp came to see me, I saw her checked frock coming down the valley, Far as anybody's eyes could see. Now I sit before the camp-fire, And I can't see the pine-knots blaze, Nor Sally's pretty face a-shining, Though I hear the good words she says. A week ago to-night I was tired and lonely, They were hunting coons for sport. He creased my two eyes with his hatchet, There they found me on the dry tussocks lying, Bloody and cold as a live man could be; A hoot-owl on the branches overhead was |