3 SEPTEMBER 1870, Page 15

POETRY.

THE EMPEROR, THE EMPRESS, AND THE EMPIRE.

So I've lost! Well, I thought I should lose.

One does not throw sixes thrice. And when the players are armies, 'Tis so hard to load the dice. 'Twas a glorious game while it lasted, With the Crown of France in the pool, And the furious parties for players, And I so calm and cool !

'Twas not till the hotheads pressed me, And forced my hand with their cries, That the German player out-played me, With his keen scientific eyes.

The row they all made upset me, I never half looked at my hand ; And perhaps, though I like to play grandly, This stake was a trifle too grand.

He plays well, that German Baron 1 And thinks and thinks as he plays. What fools they are, to be swearing, And talking of luckier days !

One pays, at this board, before parting.

Are you French, and can't pay with a bow ? The game is yours, Baron; here, take it,—

I'm off for the last dread throw !

ILLA.

An, Louis ! my child ; my darling !

Eia ! Mater, foes amoris !

Give me those pearls, Montauban's pearls,— Bene sentio vim doloris I I have been a Queen, and more than a Queen,-- Mea culpa, Virgo humilis !

Shall I fly before that homely girl,—

Me salva, semper gracilis?

Give me that robe. Alas for Rome ! Vanitas vanitatum !

Paris shall see me, and shall glow,— Sancte fons pietatum !

That necklace ! Now, for my son and Rome, — Juste judex ultionis !

That bracelet ! Now, for a throne or a grave,— Donum far remissions !

FRANCE.

I AM conquered, you say, let us see,

Strong man with the long yellow hair ! Strong man with the steady regard !

Let us see what these conquests are.

Have you captured the fire of my eyes, Which can burn up shams like the leaves? Have you taken the smile of my month, That enchants where it most deceives ?

Have you leaguered the wit in my brain, The wit in which all things dissolve ? Have you bound up the cry in my throat, The cry that makes cowards resolve ?

Have you torn out the charm from my bosom,

That whosoe'er's head has there lain,— Arab, Spaniard, Italian, or German,—

He abandons me never again.

You have broken my sword, not my power,— You Samson with long yellow hair !

I will send out a thought mid the millions, And the Kings, and not I, shall despair. W.