Aye! Long live the Republic! 'Tis the cry Wrung from us even while the shadow of death Sudden projected, makes us catch our breath In a sharp agony of sympathy. Her servants fall, but she--she doth not die; She strideth forward, firm of foot as Fate, In calm invincibility elate; The tear that brimmeth, blindeth not her eye, So fixed aloft it lowereth not to greet The writhing reptile bruised by her unfaltering feet! _Vive la République!_ How can we who love Fair France's charm, and sorrow at her sorrow, Better bear witness, on the bitter morrow Of her black grief, than lifting high above Even the mourning that all hearts must move, _That cry_, blent of goodwill and gratulation? _Vive la République!_ In the whole stricken nation Doth not the dumbness of Pretenders prove The land's possession by that cleansing fire, Which purges patriot love from every low desire? Sister in sorrow now, as once in arms, Of old "fair enemy" on many a field, In valiant days but blind, we will not yield To any in that sympathy which warms All generous hearts, or love of those gay charms Nature and Genius gave you as your own To wear, inimitable and alone; And now the asp-hearted Anarch's mad alarms Make monstrous tumult in the midst of peace We cry "let brothers band till Cain-like slayers cease!" The slaughtered son you bear from forth the fray,-- Like some winged Victory, or a Goddess high, With steps unshaken, glance that seeks the sky, Such as your glorious sculptors shape from clay,-- Was noble, brave, and blameless; him to slay Was the blood-blinded phrenzy of black hate. Through him the Anarch struck at your high state, Fair choice of France, but baffled crawls away. Prone at your feet your faithful servant fell, But you stride calmly on, unscathed, invulnerable. So may it be till Anarchy's stealthy blade Falls pointless, shattered, from its palsied grasp, And helpless, harmless as a fangless asp It slinks from freedom's pathway, foiled, afraid, Whilst the Republic, strong and undismayed, With robe unsmirched, its hem no longer gory, Strides proudly on the true high path of glory. Take, France, a sister's wreath, before you laid, In honour of you, and of your hero brave. Love's garland shall not fade on gallant CARNOT'S grave! * * * * * A PUZZLER. SIR,--I enclose a cutting from the _Manchester Guardian_, June 25. "Yesterday the Darwen police arrested THOMAS BECKETT, a weaver. During a disturbance in a local public-house on Saturday night BECKETT was kicked under the chin, and died immediately." Query when was THOMAS BECKETT arrested? What became of the man who, in the "disturbance," kicked BECKETT under the chin? Yours, SNIPPER. * * * * *