The sewer of Rome, a final receptacle for dead dogs and rotting Cæsars, is painted line by line and detail by detail in verse which touches with almost frightful skill the very limit of the possible or permissible to poetry in the way of realistic loathsomeness or photographic horror; relieved here and there by a rare and exquisite image, a fresh breath or tender touch of loveliness from the open air of the daylight world above. The song on the two Napoleons is a masterpiece of skilful simplicity in contrast of tones and colors. But the song which follows, written to a tune of Beethoven's, has in it something more than the whole soul of music, the whole passion of self-devoted hope and self-transfiguring faith; it gives the final word of union between sound and spirit, the mutual coronation and consummation of them both. _PATRIA_ La-haut qui sourit? Est-ce un esprit? Est-ce une femme? Quel front sombre et doux! Peuple, à genoux! Est-ce notre âme Qui vient à nous? Cette figure en deuil Paraît sur notre seuil, Et notre antique orgueil Sort du cercueil. Ses fiers regards vainqueurs Réveillent tous les cœurs, Les nids dans les buissons, Et les chansons. C'est l'ange du jour; L'espoir, l'amour Du cœur qui pense; Du monde enchanté C'est la clarté. Son nom est France Ou Vérité. Bel ange, à ton miroir Quand s'offre un vil pouvoir, Tu viens, terrible à voir, Sous le ciel noir. Tu dis au monde: Allons! Formez vos bataillons! Et le monde ébloui Te répond: Oui. C'est l'ange de nuit. Rois, il vous suit. Marquant d'avance Le fatal moment Au firmament. Son nom est France Ou Châtiment. Ainsi que nous voyons En mai les alcyons, Voguez, ô nations, Dans ses rayons Son bras aux deux dressé Ferme le noir passé Et les portes de fer Du sombre enfer. C'est l'ange de Dieu. Dans le ciel bleu Son aile immense Couvre avec fierté L'humanité. Son nom est France Ou Liberté! The _Caravan_, a magnificent picture, is also a magnificent allegory and a magnificent hymn. The poem following sums up in twenty-six lines a whole world of terror and of tempest hurtling and wailing round the wreck of a boat by night. It is followed by a superb appeal against the infliction of death on rascals whose reptile blood would dishonor and defile the scaffold: and this again by an admonition to their chief not to put his trust in the chance of a high place of infamy among the more genuinely imperial hellhounds of historic record. The next poem gives us in perfect and exquisite summary the opinions of a contemporary conservative on a dangerous anarchist of extravagant opinions and disreputable character, whom for example's sake it was at length found necessary to crucify. There is no song more simply and nobly pitiful than that which tells us in its burden how a man may die for lack of his native country as naturally and inevitably as for lack of his daily bread. I cite only the last three stanzas by way of sample.