But still the heart a far-off glory sees,
   Strange music hears;
A something not of earth still haunts the breeze,
   The sun, and spheres.

Still, still I clasp my hands, still look and pine,
   Still weep and pray,
Still, still am followed by a voice divine,
   And far away.

What mean these yearnings, these mysterious sighs,
   This hope like fear,
This feeling in the dark, these sudden cries,
   When none are near?

All things that be, all love, all thought, all joy,
   Sky, cloud, and star,
Spell-bind the man, as once the growing boy,
   And points afar;—

Point to some world of endless, endless truth,
   Delight, and power,
And thus comes back that grand old dream of youth,
   The bird and bower.

THE CONQUERING HEROES COME.

You are requested to be of good cheer, and to
unfold your red velvet drapery along your
balcony. Will yon be good enough to have the
beak of your loyal eagle re-burnished? If your
throat be clear, will you have the extreme
kindness to cheer?

The scarlet is bursting upon every house in
Paris, thanks to imperial doctors in cocked-
hats, and with lancets at their sides. Bright
crimson spots indicate a Parisian fever, and that
the fever is coming out well. Then, in the
vicinity of the Place Vendôme, the heart of Paris,
the doctors have achieved a triumph. Scarlet
from the attics to the gateways, scarlet
amphitheatres, and columns scarlet-bound. Much
delirium may be prognosticated. Way, there!
for the blouses, bearing pails full of liquid
red ochre, that are to be poured over the
Venetian masts for banners. A clear space
for the agile fellows, who are hauling these lofty
masts to the perpendiculars, that their oriflammes
may be even with the windows of grisettes'
fifth floors. While the skilful artists of
feverish Paris pause, with their huge red brushes
in their hand a fair field for the wonder-
working moulders! who turn out Corinthian
columns while you wait in your shop; who will
perch a Victory for you upon a hollow pedestal
that shall look solid as the granite rocks, while
you read your paper; who will work in little
lanterns propped high up in the air, all night;
fixing colossal capitals fragile as whipped cream,
upon columns about as substantial as Rheims
biscuits. The head is lifted upon the plaster
shoulders of Peace (with eagles for her
footstool), as easily as the helmet was deposited
upon the diver's head at the Polytechuie. Then
the air is rich with the debris of gold-leaf; and
anon, the sandals of Peace are burnished, and
the crouching eagles glisten in the burning sun.
No wonder that the fever spreads rapidly in
this weather; that the Boulevards catch the
infection from the Place Vendome, and unroll
thousands of yards of crimson drapery. Paris
is thirsty; and, from Venetian ices to the humble
coco, Paris drinks deep; her red face bursting,
till it almost rivals the flush of the setting
sun. One great idea dominates her in her fever.
They are coming. Along these Boulevards;
under these flags that darken the roads; past
these great amphitheatres! They are coming!
But, who?

Ask these importunate café waiters, who will
graciously permit you to answer the question
yourself to-morrow for the small charge of forty
francs. Ask that bluff countryman of yours,
Mr. Bull, who is known all over Paris, because
he has given forty pounds to satisfy himself as to
who is coming, and how this great Somebody is
coming, and what will be said to this great Somebody
when he does come. Seats, whenever the
great question shall be satisfactorily answered
early to-morrow, are being thrown up, even in the
doorways, and hammers are having a busy time
of it in all directions. Shop-windows are daintily
lifted to the pavement, and women are
discovered iu the rear, still sewing at the crimson
cloth. Brazen-voiced men, upon whom the fever
is clearly expending itself with ferocious violeuce,
thrust programmes under every passing nose.
The fever has even seized upon the stockbrokers;
and they are crimson to the house-tops with
their Venetian masts and velvet hangings, in the
regions of the Bourse. At the doors of the
shopkeepers lie great baskets full of rough-looking
accordions. Dare to ask what is the use which
these instruments are to be put, and you shall
be gruffly answered that they are Venetian
lamps, at five sous each, "pardié!"

Admiral Sir Chops is doubtless here, grinding
his teeth over the inevitable annihilation
of his fleet by a few French fishing-boats.
Or, better still, he may be closeted with M.
Protin (propagateur, initiateur matrimonial),
with a view to a scheme for a general introduction
of Englishmen to French wives, that poor
Albion may have a last chance of saving herself
by the help of a Franco-English race. As M.
Protin promises husbands ''dots" ranging from
one thousand to twelve hundred pounds, it is
probable that the scheme would succeed if M.
Protin's "dots" do not, in any sense, stand for
noughts. But Sir Chops must be comforted;
goodl France will be his friend still, and still in
the English quarter of her capital provide for
his "bizarre" wants. He shall not lack even
that "Guy's Ess Balm" which, according to a
Rue de Rivoli shopkeeper, enjoys so enviable a
reputation in his native island.

We are determined to rescue Sir Chops from
the melancholy into which the ill-natured comic
French writer has plunged him. He shall not
be devoured by his constitutional spleen. Sir
Chops shall feel the raging pulse of Paris with
us. With us he shall hunt for a cab under the
blazing sun, and with us he shall pray for blue
spectacles to protect his eyes against the ever-
reddening fever. From the red balconies whither
may one's aching eyeballs wander? To the
shops? The baggy red trousers of Zouave
suits at forty francs, for little boys of eight
years old; the scarlet fez; the toy Zouaves,