And at the midnight hour the chieftain leaves his grave, Slowly he comes on his charger white amid his chosen brave; The ranks salute their silent lord, the stately march renew, And now with clanging music pass before their master’s view. . . . . . . . On their airy steeds on every side the thronging dead obey, The blood-stained hosts of the battlefield in all their fierce array, Ghastly beneath their glowing helms the grinning skulls appear, And countless weapons high in air their bony hands uprear. . . . . . . . The weird scene which these verses describe has been depicted by Raffet, in one of whose lithographs the spectre of the great Emperor is shown passing a review of a phantom army. Another translation of the “Midnight Review” was written by Mr. Leitch Ritchie, a well-known writer in his day, who at one time edited the _Era_, and also did a good deal of work for publications like the _Keepsake_ and _Heath’s Picturesque Annual_. This version has not, to the best of my knowledge, been reprinted since it first appeared in a quarterly magazine (now somewhat difficult to obtain), about seventy-seven years ago, which will be my excuse for giving it here side by side with a French version which, it may be added, the Government of Charles X. sought to suppress. Though no great poetic genius is shown in Mr. Ritchie’s lines, avowedly a word for word translation, the writer may nevertheless be said to have caught something of the simple and impressive dignity which caused the German poem to create such a sensation when it first appeared, some six or seven years after the Emperor’s death. THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW Nachts um die zwölfte Stunde Verlasst der Tambour sein Grabe, Macht mit der Trummel die Runde, Geht ewig auf und ab. A minuit, de sa tombe Le tambour se lève et sort, Fait sa tournée et marche Battant la caisse bien fort. De ses bras décharnés Remue conjointement Les baguettes, bat la retraite, Réveil et roulement. La caisse sonne étrange, Fortement elle retentit, Dans leur fosse en ressuscitent Les vieux soldats péris; Et qui au fond du nord Sous la glace enroidis, Et qui trop chaudement gissent Sous la terre d’Italie. Et sous la bourbe du Nil Et le sable de l’Arabie; Ils quittent leur sépulture, Leurs armes ils ont saisi. Et à minuit, de sa tombe Le trompette se lève et sort, Monte à cheval et sonne La trompe bruyant et fort. Alors sur chevaux aériens Arrivent les cavaliers, Vieux escadrons célèbres Sanglants et balafrés. Sous le casque, leurs crânes blanchâtres Ricanent, et fièrement Leurs mains osseuses soulèvent Leurs glaives longs et tranchants.