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Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne
Through dreaming towns I go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads,

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads,

And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.

I muse on you that will not cease,
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,

Whose odors haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel's hand,

This mortal armor that I wear,

This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touched, are turned to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And through the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up, and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
"O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on the prize is near."

So

pass

I hostel, hall, and grange;

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the Holy Grail.

BOADICEA.

WILLIAM Cowper.

-WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought with an indignant mien
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief.

Princess, if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish hopeless, and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
Hark! The Gaul is at her gates.

Other Romans shall arise

Heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land,

Armed with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew,

Thy posterity shall sway;

Where his eagles never flew
None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending, as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow:

Rushed to battle, fought and died;
Dying, hurled them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

THE WATCH ON THE RHINE.

MAX SCHNECKENBURGER. TRANSLATION BY G. F. DUNNING.

A VOICE resounds like thunder-peal,
'Mid dashing waves and clang of steel,
"The Rhine! the Rhine! the German Rhine!
Who guards to-day my stream divine?"
Dear Fatherland! No danger thine:
Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine.

They stand, a hundred thousand strong,
Quick to avenge their country's wrong:
With filial love their bosoms swell:
They'll guard the sacred landmark well.

Dear Fatherland! No danger thine:
Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine.

And though in death our hopes decay,
The Rhine will own no foreign sway;
For rich with water as its flood
Is Germany with hero blood.

Dear. Fatherland! No danger thine:

Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine.

From yon blue sky are bending now
The hero-dead to hear our vow:

"As long as German hearts are free
The Rhine, the Rhine, shall German be."
Dear Fatherland! No danger thine:

Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine.

"While flows one drop of German blood,
Or sword remains to guard thy flood,
While rifle rests in patriot hand,

No foe shall tread thy sacred strand."
Dear Fatherland! No danger thine:
Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine.

Our oath resounds; the river flows;
In golden light our banner glows;
Our hearts will guard thy stream divine:
The Rhine! the Rhine! the German Rhine!
Dear Fatherland! No danger thine:
Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine.

THE PRUSSIAN ARMISTICE.

LEON GAMBETTA. EXTRACTS. TRANSLATION ANONYMOUS.

CITIZENS,- The foreigner is about to inflict on France the most cruel injury which it has been given him to attempt during this cursed war, a punishment unmeasurably beyond the errors and weaknesses of a great people.

Paris, impregnable to force, vanquished by

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