POETRY.

NICHOLAS IL

TEE double eagle of thy crest

Looks either way, for sign The Empires of the East and West, Past and to come, are thine.

To thee their hundred millions bow, Whom next to God they fear ; But he is very far : and thou Most awful and most near,—

A haughty claim, which, truth to tell, You gentle face belies ; No lowering threat of knout or cell

Dwells in those dreaming eyes. A poet this, whom Fate's caprice Earth's proudest Monarch made; A mild-voiced angel, preaching peace, Thou ;h ,girt with Michads blade.

When such a voice a truce declares,

Wlaat power should cross his will ? No less, o'erburdened Europe wears Her heavy armour still ; And borne on all the winds that blow, And gay with flaunted death, A hundred swaying banners go, Their silent hosts beneath.

For though we know thee high of heart, Stern-willed and ardent-souled, Captive of giant powers thou art, Too mighty for thy hold.

Slowly the enormous glacier moves, But with resistless force ; And grinding through its rocky grooves, Or finds, or makes, a course.

Even with such slow, deliberate pace, Hath Russia's Empire grown ; Even so her noiseless steps erase All landmarks but her own. Trace the dark story of her Kings, Her sombre annals read, And see what bitter harvest springs From slavery's poisoned seed.

See where, 'twist loathing and desire, The Imperial wanton stands, To watch her strangled lord expire In Orloff's savage hands !

See Peter living fountains quaff To slake his tiger mood; Or Ivan's iron-pointed staff Wet with his first-born's blood.

So the long tale of crime and fraud Goes on from age to age ; No record here but bears one broad, Red smear across the page : To those last fatal lines that tell, In letters yet undried, How, slain by those he loved too well, Thy noble grandsire died.

For only Freedom's self can trust Her subjects to be free ; Who rules besotted natures must Or King or martyr be.

So fierce a child Oppression bore, The startled sire afraid Recoiled, lik3 Frankenstein, before The monster that he made.

And shall thy single life redeem That heritage of hate, Or one weak arm turn back the stream, The hurrying stream, of Fate ? Shall man lay down the useless steel And all the conflicts cease, And our disbanded warriors kneel Before the Prince of Peace?

Ah ! little of the way they note, Nor what its perils are, Who towards a Bethlehem so remote Follow so faint a star.

To us, on nearer journeyings set, A hopeless quest it seems :

A breath, a dream, perhaps, and yet—

Who doth not love such dreams ?

EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.