What lot or what part has her glory in madmen who gibber and shriek? Her eye is as death to assassins, the brood of miasma and gloom, Foul shapes that grow sleek upon slaughter, as worms that are hid in a tomb. In the dawn she has marshalled her armies, the millions go marching as one, With a tramp that is fearless as joy, and a joy that is bright as the sun. But the minions of Murder move softly; unseen they have crept from their lair, In a night that is darker than doom on the famishing face of despair. And they lurk and they tremble and cower, and stab as they lurk from behind, Like shapes from a pit Acherontic by hatred and horror made blind. These are not the soldiers of Freedom; the hearts of her lovers grow faint When the name of assassin is chanted as one with the name of a saint. And thou the pale poet of Passion, who art wanton to strike and to kill, Lest her wrath and her splendour abash thee and scorch thee and crush thee, be still. * * * * * A VERY SHORT HOLIDAY. (_BY ONE WHO ENJOYED IT._) It having occurred to me that within a few days I might get an entire change by visiting some thoroughly French seaside places on the coast of Normandy, I started _viâ_ Southampton for Havre. I started mysteriously at midnight. Lights down. We glided out, almost sneaked out, as if ashamed of ourselves. I had pictured to myself sitting out on deck, enjoying the lovely air and the picturesque view. _L'homme propose, la mer dispose._ I retired early, and enjoyed neither the lovely air nor the picturesque view. "The rest is--silence," or as much silence as possible, and as much rest as possible. [Illustration: The "Screen Scene," as played on a gusty night on the covered terrace at Frascati's, Le Havre.]