POETRY.
TO FRANCE, RE-RISEN. YEA 1 thou art risen from the dead That were thy mates so long. Thou had'st not perished as I said
In all too idle song.
Too swiftly we despaired of France So like a corpse she lay :
Now deeper tones disturb Thy trance; Thy Judges speak to-day.
Tranquil, inflexible, they face The shrieking Paris crowd : Sole voices, in that frantic place, Unsilenced and miaowed.
And scarred by bloodhound Drumont's tooth, To clasp their reverend knees, The hunted, persecuted Truth, As her last refuge, flees.
Even so the Roman Fathers sate Untroubled in their hall, When through the Senate's broken gate Burst in the invading Gaul.
As those wild, simple men of yore Stood, emit with sudden awe ; These new barbarians flinch before The sacredness of Law.
And though some bolder savage break The vague, mysterious spell: And wounded for their brethren's sake They fall, as Darboy fell.
From Thy pure robes one sanguine stream Shall wash all soil of shame.
And these Thy martyrs shall redeem Their country's forfeit fame.
Already Thy reopening eyes Thy secret foes appaL 'Tis Thine, Antoine like, to rise The stronger for Thy fall.
Most terrible when most disdained, Avenge Thine outraged trust, Thy soul, defiled, Thine honour stained : And tread them into dust.
EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.
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