"I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions and its tears-- How brief the golden ecstacies of its young, careless years! I give my heart to earth no more--the grave may clasp me now-- The winds, whose tones I loved, may play in the dim cypress bough; The birds, the streams are eloquent, yet I shall pass away, And in the light of heaven shake off this cumbrous load of clay; I shall join the lost and loved of earth, and meet each kindred breast, 'Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'" THE RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PEOPLE. [_From the French of Beranger._] BY THEODORE S. FAY. They'll talk of him, and of his glory, The cottage hearth, at eve, around; Fifty years hence no other story Shall 'neath the lowly thatch resound. Then shall the villagers repair To some gray ancient dame, And bid her long-past times declare, And tell his deeds, his fame. "Ah, though it cost us life and limb," They'll say, "our love is still the same, And still the people love his name; Good mother, tell of him!" My children, through this very region He journey'd with a train of kings, Followed by many a gallant legion! (How many thoughts to me it brings, That tell of days so long gone by!) He climbed on foot the very hill Where, seated on the bank, was I To see him pass. I see him still; The small, three-coloured hat he wore, And the surtout of gray. I trembled at his sight all o'er!-- Cheerful he said, "My dear, good day!" "Mother, he spoke to you, you say?" "Ay, said 'good day' once more." Next year at Paris, too, one morning, Myself, I saw him with his court, Princes and queens his _suite_ adorning, To Notre Dame he did resort; And every body blest the day And prayed for him and his; How happily he took his way, And smiled in all a father's bliss, For heaven a son bestowed! "A happy day for you was this, Good mother!" then they say: "When thus you saw him on the road, In Notre Dame to kneel and pray, A good heart sure it showed." "Alas! ere long, invading strangers Brought death and ruin in our land! (Alone he stood and braved all dangers, The sword in his unconquer'd hand.) One night, (it seems but yesterday,) I heard a knocking at the door-- It was himself upon his way, A few true followers, no more, Stood worn and weary at his side. Where I am sitting now he sat-- 'Oh what a war is this!' he cried. Oh what a war!'" "Mother, how's that? Did he, then, sit in that same chair?" "My children, yes!--he rested there!"