I see the sad sorrow that hangs like a shadow From ocean to ocean obscuring the light, Till hamlet and farm upon mountain and meadow Are blasted and bare with the blight. O, Erin, to me as my mother, O, Irishmen, each one a brother, Whose wrongs are remembered to-day, Whose tyrants their terrors betray; O, Erin, the fairest outvying, Quail not at their fearfullest frown; Hear this that I breathe to thee dying, O land of renown. Though landlord and agent with breathings of slaughter Unite to assail and oppress thee again, Secure thou shalt stand in the midst of the water, The hate of their hearts shall be vain. For their power shall be past and made idle, And their pride shall be checked with a bridle, And the height of their heads bow down At the loss of their rents and renown. Be cherished and loved as I love thee, Of all that to thee owe their breath; Be thy life like the stars up above thee―― Now, come to me, death. D. EVANS. _The Weekly Dispatch._ June 25, 1882. ―――― LES POETES S’AMUSENT. _Swinburne chez Hugo._ The Banquet of the two distinct demigods is over. The dinner, a two-franc Palais Royal feast fit for Parnassus, came off last night; and I was there ready to watch and to wink at the matchless mouthfuls of the two mighty Masters. As these disappeared amidst rich rhythm and rhapsody, I stood in a corner, note-book in hand, mutely worshipful. There was a hungry hush, the Elder Master had a message to deliver, and catching the reporter’s eye, did not halt or hesitate. “What,” he asked, addressing the lady presiding at the _bureau_ behind the little plated saucers of sugar, “what is Swinburne? Is he,” he proceeded, “a costermonger? No. What then. A sweep? You cannot be a sweep without singing a _Song before Sunrise_. But this Swinburne has written _Chastelard_. That sounds like Bacon. Is he then a philosopher? Yes, and No. Which? Never mind. But there is this remarkable thing about a philosopher: he produces fruits. Sometimes they are nuts to crack, and when Civilisation has a nut to crack it holds its jaw. This is a paradox, and suggests the question, ‘Am I Civilisation?’ To this there is an answer. It is again ‘No and Yes.’ Last time it was ‘Yes and No.’ Now it is ‘No and Yes.’ Why? Is there a reason for this? None. And when there is no reason for anything, it becomes a subject of reference. To whom? To the Marines: and you cannot refer a subject to the Marines without asking them a riddle. And this is the riddle that posterity will ask them: ‘What is Victor Hugo?’”