POETRY.

THE SECOND OF SEPTEMBER, 1792.

BESIDE the red portal,

Axe-smitten, he fell : And I deemed him immortal, Immortal as Hell !

Where the slain, by the stone, Made a slippery mound, I saw his corpse thrown ; Ah, the thrill of the sound!

With the blood that slid past My shoes were all red ; (God ! how high to the last He carried his head!) But dishonoured and bare He lay with the rest, Who had satin to wear, And a star on his breast.

And I dipped in a vein First, the crust that I ate; So I wedded his pain To my rapture of hate.

I could kick him, flung there; . . . Small use; he was dead. Well, no mistress would care For a lock from that head. But my love-gage I shore

Where the steel had gone deep, That his hair, crimsoned o'er,

I might grip in my sleep.

Yet . . . through the hot mist Of my dreams, swam the while Not my red Eucharist,

But the scorn of his smile.

God, if Thou crust hear,

Send him living again ! He should have more to fear Than the axe in his brain What avail, his brief pangs ! What avail, hacking blade !

. . . I am tricked of my vengeance—

He was not afraid !

D. K. BROSTER.