POETRY.

AN AUTUMN DREAM.

THE wind-swept walks of Pere La Chaise With fallen leaves are spread.

The west is all a golden blaze, With one broad bar of red.

Midway, the mists have framed a floor So thick, you scarce would know, Save by her everlasting roar, That Paris lies below.

In restless mood to-night, she seems To start from troubled sleep, And, turning, slip from fleeting dreams Into a dream more deep.

But on that slumber horror comes; Her dreams are crossed by fear ; The muttering roll of far-off drums Is noisy in her ear.

0 City, whom no help can heal, Self-wounded, self-accursed !

At what red fountain wouldst Thou kneel To quench an awful think ? Its waters leave desires too fain For other springs to slake ; Thou Ugoline, whose children drain Their lifeblood for Thy sake !

And yet, how golden was the morn Of stormy Eighty-Nine !

When Freedom was a child new-born, And all her hopes were Thine. When out of bluest heaven, on Thee Came down the sacred fire : And greyhaired watchers wept to see The dawn of their desire.

That fire in earthly censers burned: Too soon its flames grew cool.

A baser creed, erelong, was learned, And in another school: When, patriot Hoche's broken heart To chains and death resigned, Thou turned'st to seek in Bonaparte A master to Thy mind.

Ah ! that inconstant crest hath bowed To many lords since then : With each fresh bondage grown less proud, Content with lesser men.

The fetters, Thine own hands have knit, Thou breakest in Thy mood : Returning ever, as 'tis writ, To Thy discarded food.

And must we see the outworn text Fulfilled once more to-day ?

To what new pinchbeck Cmsar next Wilt Thou Thy soul betray P Till, waking as from opium trance, Thou find Thyself undone, And Freedom's light gone out in France : Like yonder sinking sun.

EDWARD SYDNEY TYLER.