tain lay.

THE COMMON LOT.

NCE, in the flight of ages past,

Hath lost in its unconscious womb;
Oh, she was fair, but naught could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen,
Encountered all that troubles thee;
He was-whatever thou hast been;
He is what thou shalt be.
The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon and stars, the earth and main-
Erewhile his portion-life and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eyé That once their shades and glory threw Have left in yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew;

The annals of the human race,

Their ruins since the world began,

OW, comrades, onward let us

N

Of

go;

Each man his musket firmly

bear.

My pipe is lit; your love I

know:

When I our bloody fights narrate;
Well, that's what glory means, you see!
Cheer, comrades, cheer!

Nay, shed no tear.

Attention! march! quick march!

and care.

gray!

had need

your old corporal many a day. Cheer, comrades, cheer! Nay, shed no tear. Attention! march! quick march!

A cornet struck me-raw young
fool!
I cut him down; he quickly healed.
I am condemned: you know the rule
The corporal to death must yield.
With rage and wine so fiercely nerved,
Nothing could stay my furious arm;
Besides, Napoleon I had served.
Cheer, comrades, cheer!
Nay, shed no tear.
Attention! march! quick march!

Recruits, you'll scarce endure the loss
Of leg or arm, for medal prized;
In those brave wars I gained my cross
Where we so many kings capsized.
The alehouse scot you gladly free

I've often strayed the livelong day :
Oh, my poor mother lives there still.
Cheer, comrades, cheer!
Nay, shed no tear.

Attention! march! quick march!

What woman weeps and murmurs so?
Ah! 'tis the drummer's widow, Jane.
In Russia, 'mid the sleet and snow,
I bore her son with toil and pain
Whole days and nights; I saved her, too,
From her husband's frozen grave.
poor

Pray for my soul, good Jeanette, do!
Cheer, comrades, cheer!

Nay, shed no tear.
Attention! march! quick march!

Look you! my pipe's smoked out and dry!
No matter. Now, my comrades kind,
We are arrived. Good-bye! good-bye!
I beg my eyes you will not bind.
One favor still 'tis yours to give:

The hand is gone that cropped its flowers;
Unheard their clock repeats its hours,
Cold is the hearth within their bowers;
And, should we thither roam,
Its echoes and its empty tread
Would sound like voices from the dead.

"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

Ah! there, in desolation cold,
The desert serpent dwells alone,
Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,
And stones themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.
Then seek we not their camp, for there
The silence dwells of my despair.

"But hark! the trump! To-morrow thou
In glory's fires shall dry their tears;
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears

Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst;
He bids me dry the last, the first,
The only, tears that ever burst

From Outalissi's soul,
Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief.”