POETRY.
EMILE LOITBET.
0.ER thee no eagle spreads her vanes The idle crowd to awe :
The true Imperial bird, that reigns By right of beak and claw. No hero nor no King in thee Thy shallow brethren know. Only a grave, grey man they see, And a silk waif or so.
Look closer; for you bearded mouth Is set with certain lines : Where the swift spirit of the South With Northern strength combines. Yea, strong and subtle, swift and cool, Should be his soul indeed
Whom France's voice elects to rule Her changeful, changeless breed.
For when, so lately, sick to death Our Third Republic seemed, And some who watched her labouring breath Of coming triumph dreamed ; When Prince and scheming soldier leagued, Sworn foe with doubtful friend, Around her restless couch intrigued, Expectant of her end ; Then one, by peril undismayed, Unawed by clamour, came ; Whom every jarring sect obeyed, But whom no sect could claim.
To power's unerring touchstone brought,
Thy tempered will rang true ; For France had found the man she sought, And found a master too.
So 'twixt thy fellows' threatening swords Thou stepped'st, with harmless guile, , The grace of tactful deeds, the words That heal and reconcile :
With the same selfless passion filled That lived in Lamartine ; Like his, unwearied and unchilled Thy faith, thy hope, have been.
Though not in those calm eyes we mark His heaven-born genius shine : The incommunicable spark, Original, divine; Thou also from immortal urns Hast borrowed sacred fires, Whose soul with Duty's ardour burns, And whom her voice inspires.
And by her ancient hearthstone set, And nursed upon her knees, France numbers many children yet As pure and brave as these.
Therefore her spirit undecayed Falls but to rise again : Oft pierced, oft wounded, oft betrayed, But never wholly slain.
EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.
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