"Shall we, craven watch-dogs of France, hurry back
To our threshold, and leave them the same open track.
No! Death will be triumph, while Paris, we know,
If we may not reach thee, no more can the foe!"

With locked hands the pledge to each other they gave,
With courage grand, silent, and deep as the grave,
That in its still glory like summer eve shone,
More calm, more intense as its sunset drew on.

They shook hands with life without shudder or sigh,
They loosened their hounds and their falcons let fly:
Sent farewells to hearts that ere night should be rending,
But the firmly-set lips never shook in the sending.

But why to that slender youth talking alone
That grey-haired old knight? They are father and son.
And the spirit that time in the one cannot smother,
Hath not waited for time to grow strong in the other.

With pride and fond yearning the father's eyes rest
On the young face that blooms o'er the steel-covered breast,
And turn from the brow in its maiden-like snow
To the manhood that burns in the dark eyes below.

Then spake he: "And must the first hue of thy fame
Be red with thy young life, oh, last of my name?
Too soon for its glory, too soon not to shun
The death that is born of fierce vengeance, my son!

"For me it is little: I dread not their rage;
Life painlessly drops from the loose grasp of age.
But on thee are its strong bands, its honours untried,
High deeds are before thee, my hope and my pride!"

"I leave thee not, father! the country that gave
My place 'mid her bravest, then chose me my grave;
And lived I for ever, Fame's highest could be
No higher than this;—that I fought beside thee."

"Thy mother, God help her! sits grieving alone,
No child's voice e'er gladdened her ear, save thine own;
And what, when she hears it is silent for aye;
Oh, what when she's reft of us both in one day!"

"Thinkest thou she could welcome the recreant son,
That left thee, her dear lord, here to perish alone?
Could I bear her to wish, in her agony wild,
That she never had looked on the face of a child?"

"Then think of the bright love so precious to thee,
Betrothed while fair infants ye played at my knee;
All lonely that golden-haired maiden will pine—
Not long; for her sweet life lies hidden in thine."

The gallant boy's visage flushed up to the brow,
And the words of his answer were shaken and low:
"I think of her most—my life she might spare;
But a blot on my name the true heart could not bear.

"And, father, I know she will tenderly come
To share with my mother her desolate home.
Bereavement that she could not soften were sore;
Father—beseech thee—O, tempt me no more!"

Much moved was the father, but silent his tongue,
At the firm and full pulse of a spirit so young.
Hand folded with hand; and no lover's fond clasp
Held ever more love than that eloquent grasp.

The small silver shield of betrothal that bent
O'er his true heart, with few words and tender he sent.
Then each knight, kneeling low, his prayer solemnly saith,
As befits men that tread on the shadow of death.

The messenger left them at length. He had need,
For the bridge sank beneath the hind feet of his steed;
And, truly, it told of no generous foe,
That a long yell of triumph shrieked up from below.

The pride of the youth from his bosom burst out,
While he stood in their view, with an answering shout;
But the fair head fell back ere its echo's last breath
On the stout breast, whose heavings gave motion to death.

He had stood in the light; and an arrow shot fair
Through a sunbeam that gilt the dark curls of his hair;
That sunbeam might seem, falling slant from on high,
The track of so noble a soul to the sky.

The father bent o'er him, and sighed to behold
How the lifeless hand crushed a rich ringlet of gold.
But none from that passionless face could have guessed,
How father and warrior strove in his breast.

They arm for the Norman. Why tarries his ire?
Oh, horror! the fortress is girdled with fire!
And what are the brands of that smouldering pile?
The planks of the bridge—their own safeguard, erewhile.

Once spake the old knight: "Oh, thou barbarous foe!
I thank thee at least for one merciful blow."
And on the cold forehead he leaned his grey head—
Thus waiting their burning the living and dead.

"MOVING."

MAN is, undoubtedly, not given to "abide
in his den" for any length of time; but
is always peering out of his quarters in
search of better, or rather, novel
accommodation. When he is in a Terrace, he
has an insatiate longing for a Crescent;
once removed to a Crescent, he feels that
existence is only worth having in a Square.
He never moves into a new house without
declaring that here he will abide to the end
of the chapter; but he never pays a quarter's
rent without expressing his thanks that three
more months of the lease have expired. Every
house that he takes is his beau ideal of a
residence until he has "moved:" from which time
it rapidly descends in his estimation, and he
feels irresistibly inclined to migrate to a
mansion in every respect the opposite of his
present abode. He is in a house in a Square.
The house—to an ordinary observer—is a
very good house. The rooms are large and
well-proportioned. Mr. Chadwick himself
could find no fault with the drains; the rent
is remarkably moderate; the landlord is