"He is Monsieur de Langevy," said Fontenelle. "He was forced against his inclination to marry the dashing Clotilde de Langevy, who eloped so shamefully with one of the Mousquetaires. M. de Langevy had been desperately attached to Bribri Deshoulieres, and this broken stick was a crook they had cut during their courtship on the banks of the Lignon. The Last Shepherd is dead, gentlemen--we must go to his funeral." "And what became of Bribri Deshoulieres?" asked a lady of the party. "I have been told she died very young in a convent in the south," replied Fontenelle; "and the odd thing is, that, when they were burying her, they found a crook attached to her horse-hair tunic." * * * * * THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL. WRITTEN FOR MUSIC. BY CHARLES MACKAY. Hark! how the furnace pants and roars! Hark! how the molten metal pours, As, bursting from its iron doors, It glitters in the sun! Now through the ready mould it flows, Seething and hissing as it goes, And filling every crevice up As the red vintage fills the cup: _Hurra! the work is done_! Unswathe him now. Take off each stay That binds him to his couch of clay, And let him struggle into day; Let chain and pulley run, With yielding crank and steady rope, Until he rise from rim to cope, In rounded beauty, ribb'd in strength, Without a flaw in all his length: _Hurra! the work is done_! The clapper on his giant side Shall ring no peal for blushing bride, For birth, or death, or new-year-tide, Or festival begun! A nation's joy alone shall be The signal for his revelry; And for a nation's woes alone His melancholy tongue shall moan: _Hurra! the work is done_! Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear, His long loud summons shall we hear, When statesmen to their country dear Their mortal race have run; When mighty monarchs yield their breath, And patriots sleep the sleep of death, Then shall he raise his voice of gloom, And peal a requiem o'er their tomb: _Hurra! the work is done_! Should foemen lift their haughty hand, And dare invade us where we stand, Fast by the altars of our land We'll gather every one; And he shall ring the loud alarm, To call the multitudes to arm, From distant field and forest brown, And teeming alleys of the town: _Hurra! the work is done_! And as the solemn boom they hear, Old men shall grasp the idle spear, Laid by to rust for many a year, And to the struggle run; Young men shall leave their toils or books, Or turn to swords their pruninghooks; And maids have sweetest smiles for those Who battle with their country's foes: _Hurra! the work is done_!