Thou shalt go where the battle clarions blare, With the fierce, heroic rage of old; The lust of the soldier thy brow shall wear— Thy heart shall swell like a banner’s fold. In the shrieking hail thou shalt stand, my frame, Nor shrink from the path of thine arm’s employ, When the thews are steel and the veins are flame, And Death to thee is a terrible joy! Then, tighten the girth and loose the rein! Unleash the keen, impatient hound, And deep in the seething foam again Let every quivering oar be drowned! We will rock on the ocean’s solemn roll, Or follow the charging music’s mirth, And the vine’s bright blood shall crown the bowl That brims for us with the Life of Earth! ----- [1] Mon cœur, au lieu de sang, ne roule que des larmes. LAMARTINE. * * * * * ELEONORE EBOLI. A TALE OF FACT. BY WINIFRED BARRINGTON. CHAPTER I. In the garret room of a little two-story house in Philadelphia, sat two women, both of whom were foreigners. A child reclined in the lap of one of them, who was haggard and thin, yet beautiful. Her features were of the Grecian cast, with a most fascinating smile, and hair of a light auburn, that curled naturally and in profusion around her finely modeled head. The appearance of the other woman was common-place, but she had a frank and kind expression that redeemed her bad looks. They were both French; the _blonde_ had evidently a Parisian air, whilst the other as evidently came from one of the provinces. “Ah, Madame Eboli!” said the latter, “now that I am going to join my husband in New Orleans, what is to become of you? You must not stay in this tiresome Philadelphia, where the women have no grace, no tournure; and the men never wear a moustache! not even an imperial! It is not astonishing that I should be able to bear it, having been condemned from my earliest youth to a country-life, where I was sometimes compelled to bring myself in contact with such rusticity! But you who come from our dear Paris, what a blow to your feelings to be placed among these savages! What a horror!”