effect, he found himself obliged to keep out of
the way of the police; and having many sincere
friends, admirers, and sympathisers in Paris and
its environs, he remained hidden in the houses
of various of these "till this tyranny should be
overpast."

I remember seeing him at this time. He was
then about thirty, of middle height, with good
features, a somewhat full, fresh-coloured face,
and brown hair, a very quiet and somewhat shy
manner, and a countenance rather indicative of
frank simplicity than of force or energy. An
evening was appointed when I was to hear him
sing, hut ere it came he was obliged to change
his quarters to escape arrest.

I remember being much struck with a picture
of his life at this time. Among his friends were
a young sculptor, since celebrated in France,
and his young wife, daughter of one of the most
gifted writers of the day. In their country
retreat Pierre Dupont was staying, and of a
summer evening the three would wander forth
through the fields, to the banks of the Seine,
and lying hidden among the reeds and willows,
the poet, in a low tone of suppressed energy,
would sing to his friends the forbidden songs
composed from day to day, songs he dared not
sing in the house, lest the servants should hear
and denounce him, but which he could not shut
up silent in his breast, however great might be
the risk of uttering them.

Here is one of the songs that belong to this
period—the Song of Bread:

   When in the stream and on the air
      Is hushed the busy mill's tic-tac,
   When listlessly the miller's ass
      Browses and bears no more the sack ,
   Then like a gaunt she-wolf comes in
      Fierce Hunger to the peasant's hearth;
   A storm is brooding in the heavens,
      A great cry rises from the earth.
                 There is no stilling the cries
                    Of human creatures unfed,
                  'Tis Nature herself doth rise,
                    Crying, "I must have bread!"

   Up to the village Hunger walks,
      Up to the frightened town she comes;
   Go, stop her progress, drive her back
      With all the rattle of your drums!
   Despite your powder and your shot
      She passes on her vulture-wing,
   And on the summit of your walls
      She plants her black flag triumphing.
                 There is no stilling the cries
                    Of human creatures unfed,
                 'Tis Nature herself doth rise,
                    Crying, "I must have bread!"

   What will your marshalled armies do?
      Hunger steals from the farm, the field,
   Arms for her fierce battalions, scythes,
      Reap-hooks and shovels the farm-yards yield.
   In the town I hear the tocsin's knell,
      All are stirring: they rise, they run!
   The breasts of the very girls are crushed
      With the sharp recoil of a heavy gun.
                 There is no stilling the cries
                     Of human creatures unfed,
                 'Tis Nature herself doth rise,
                     Crying, "I must have bread!"

   Arrest among the populace
      All the bearers of scythes and guns,
   Scaffolds erect till the public place
      Red with the people's life-blood runs.
   Before the eyes of the shuddering crowd,
      After the fall of the slippery knife
   Has cut the thread of their destinies,
      Their blood shall send forth a cry of life.
                 There is no stilling the cries
                    Of human creatures unfed,
                 'Tis Nature herself doth rise,
                    Crying, "I must have bread!"

   For bread is needful as fire, or air,
      Or water. What can a people do,
   Unsustained by the staff of life,
      That God to his creatures seems to owe?
   But God has amply done His part:
      Has He refused us field or plain?
   His sun is glowing upon the earth
      Ready to ripen the golden grain.
                 There is no stilling the cries
                    Of human creatures unfed,
                 'Tis Nature herself doth rise,
                    Crying, "I must have bread!"

   The kindly earth unploughed remains
      The while that all the temperate zone
   'Twixt pole and pole with yellow corn
      To feed the nations might be sown.
   Open the bosom of the earth,
      And for the combat let us learn
   To use new arms, and guns and swords
      To instruments of labour turn.
                 There is no stilling the cries
                    Of human creatures unfed,
                 'Tis Nature herself doth rise,
                    Crying, "I must have bread!"

   What to us are the quarrels vain
      Of cabinets and states afar?
   Must we, for all these useless brawls
      Be called to share in a bloody war?
   The surging people-ocean fear,
      Behold its awful tide with dread,
   Give the earth to the patient plough,
      And the nations will all have bread.
                 There is no stilling the cries
                    Of human creatures unfed,
                 'Tis Nature herself doth rise,
                    Crying, "I must have bread!"

It is remarkable that, while treating of natural
scenery, Dupont's poetry is instinct with an
impression of melancholy mystery, many of his
other songs, as Ma Vigne, My Vine, La Noël des
Paysans, The Peasant's Christmas, La Fête du
Village, The Village Fair, &c., are full of a wild,
boisterous gaiety, which irresistibly carries the
reader along, making the refrain (almost without
an exception Dupont's songs have a refrain,
in which is contained the very pith and essence
of the spirit of the song) ring in his ears like a
passage in some pleasant melody, which haunts
him while the rest has escaped his memory.
But it is almost impossible to give any notion
of these songs (which are by no means the
best, as poetical compositions) by translation;
rendered into another language they become
vulgar and trivial, and 'losing the local character,
which forms one of their most remarkable
features, they lose the chief part of the charm
and effect that belongs to them in the original.