POETRY.

EMILE PICQ17ART.

Mm perils of the camp, that bare Mails heart to brother man, Till David's puissant shoulders wear The shield of Jonathan; When friends and lovers side by side In generous strife contend, How many a hero soul has died For lover and for friend!

But he who in a hopeless fight Strikes for a man unknown, Who holds the cause of outraged right As precious as his own, Will in that sacred quarrel face

The pariah's living grave—

Insult, and bondage, and disgrace: He, he alone is brave.

At Fortune's threshold Picquart stood Five crowded years ago, His country's roll of honour could No brighter record show; With all the gifts that warriors prize, A golden life he led, And fair before his fearless eyes The path of glory spread.

But in a far-off prison lay A comrade old and bowed, Who once, beneath a coat as gay, Had borne a heart as proud.

But now each glittering epaulette The hangman's hands had torn, And on his guiltless forehead set

The martyr's crown of thorn;

For captains swore on cross and hilt His crimes of sanguine dye, And priests the sacred chalice spilt To consecrate that lie.

By foes denounced, by friends betrayed,

Deserted, and reviled—

France seemed united to degrade Her most devoted child.

Till to one loyal soldier's ear The imperious summons came : "Be thine the noble tasito clear Thy brother's blighted fame ! Unheard you broken man must die If thou thy help refuse; Lo! life and death before thee lie, Honour and safety—choose!"

He heard the call divine, and straight To do its bidding sprang, Before the Oppressor's fortress gate His lonely challenge lung; Till, breaking from the dungeon strong Her trembling warders kept, The Truth their terror hid so long To sudden daylight leapt. Then all her foes with one accord On her deliverer fell, And gave the champion for reward As deep and dark a cell.

The purchased braves of Shimei's tribe To instant battle flew, And every petty hireling scribe His poisoned missile threw.

But he his rescued brother's load With patient courage bore, And like a badge for grace bestowed The ignoble fetters wore.

And if sometimes his faithful breast A keener wound received, For France deluded and oppressed, Not for himself, he grieved.

For She bath children so devout, Their filial hearts are lit With an unselfish love without One stain of earth in it.

And though She love them not, whose lives Her baser sons condemn, In them alone her soul survives : Yea! and it dies with them.

EDWARD SYDNEY TYLER.