A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat:

Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

V.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison house begin to close

Upon the growing Boy,

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,

He sees it in his joy;

The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

VI.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim,

The homely Nurse doth all she can

To make her Foster Child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

VII.

Behold the Child among his newborn blisses,
A six years' Darling of a pygmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly learned art;
A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral;

And this hath now his heart,

And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue

To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside,

And with new joy and pride

The little Actor cons another part;

Filling from time to time his "humorous stage "
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;

As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

VIII.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy Soul's immensity;

Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted forever by the eternal mind,—
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest,

Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

IX.

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,

That nature yet remembers

What was 30 fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benediction: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature

Moving about in worlds not realized,

High instincts before which our mortal Nature

Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,

Nor Man nor Boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,

Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

X.

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI.

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a newborn Day

Is lovely yet;

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

THE MURDER OF THE DUC D'ENGHIEN.

BY PIERRE LANFREY.

(From "The History of Napoleon.")

[PIERRE LANFREY: A French historian and publicist; born at Chambéry, Savoy, October 26, 1828; died at Pau, November 16, 1877. He was educated at the Jesuits' College in his native town, and at the Collège Bourbon, Paris. He studied law but did not practice, giving his attention exclusively to historical research and literary work. His published writings include: "The Church and the Philosophers of the Eighteenth Century" (1857), Essay on the French Revolution" (1858), "Political Studies and Portraits" (1863), and “ History of Napoleon I." (5 vols. 1867-1875). The last named is his principal work, and was left incomplete. M. Lanfrey was a soldier in the war with Germany; was elected deputy to the National Assembly in 1871; and was ambassador to Switzerland (1871-1873). He was chosen senator in 1875, but owing to feeble health he was unable to serve.]

REPORTS were ostentatiously published that were supposed to have been spread by the [Pichegru] conspirators on the subject of Bonaparte's assassination, with a view to prepare opinions for it. . . . This story of the murder was no longer admissible even then, when they were making the most ostentatious use of it. By degrees, as the arrests and examinations increased, it was impossible to mistake the true character of the conspiracy, and the consular police knew for a certainty that the aim of the plot was an insurrectionary movement, and not an assassination. By the fresh declarations of Bouvet, Picot, Lajolais, and other prisoners, they were aware of the complicity of the Count d'Artois, the Duc de Berri, and the principal members of the French nobility, some of whom were already in Paris, others on the point of arriving, and no one could admit that so many eminent personages would have gone so far as to compromise their cause by an assassination. .

The two princes, the Count d'Artois, and the Duc de Berri, to whose capture he attached the highest importance, had definitely escaped him.

Decided as he was to strike the Bourbons personally, in order to disgust them with conspiracies and terrify their partisans, he had immediately inquired if there were not within his reach another member of this family, which he doubly detested since they had fought hand to hand with him, and since they had contemptuously rejected his offer of two millions as the price of a renunciation of the crown of France. Unhappily for