to its embrace. Toward nine o'clock in the evening, at the foot of the plateau, there remained but one.

In this fatal valley, at the bottom of that slope which had been climbed by the cuirassiers under the converging fire of the victorious artillery of the enemy, amid a frightful storm of projectiles this square fought on. It was commanded by an obscure officer whose name was Cambronne. At every discharge the square grew less, but returned the fire. It replied to grape by bullets, narrowing in its four walls continually. Afar off, the fugitives, stopping for a moment to take breath, heard in the darkness this dismal thunder decreasing.

When the legion was reduced to a handful, when their flag was reduced to a shred, when their muskets, exhausted of ammunition, were reduced to nothing but clubs, when the pile of corpses was larger than the groups of the living, there spread among the conquerors a sort of sacred terror about these sublime martyrs; and the English artillery stopping to take breath was silent. It was a kind of respite. These combatants had about them a swarm of spectres-the outlines of men on horseback, the black profile of the cannons, the white sky seen through the wheels and the gun-carriages-the colossal death's head which heroes always see in the smoke of battle was advancing upon them and glaring at them. They could hear in the gloom of the twilight the loading of the pieces; the lighted matches, like tiger's eyes in the night, made a circle about their heads.

All the linstocks of the English batteries approached the guns, when, touched by their heroism, holding the death moment suspended over these men, an English general cried to them, "Brave Frenchmen! Surrender!" Cambronne answered, "Fudge!" To make this answer to disaster; to say this to destiny; to fling down this reply at the rain of the previous night, at the treacherous wall of Hougomont, at the sunken road of Ohain, at the delay of Grouchy, at the arrival of Blücher; to be ironical in the sepulchre is immense.

This unknown soldier, Cambronne, this infinitesimal of war, feels that there is a lie in a catastrophe doubly bitter. And at a moment when he is bursting with rage, he is offered this mockery-life! How can he restrain himself? They are there-all the kings of Europe, the fortunate generals, the thundering Jove. They have a hundred thousand victorious soldiers, and behind the hundred thousand, a million; their guns, with matches lighted, are agape; they have the Imperial Guard and the Grand Army under their feet; they have crushed Napoleon, and Cambronne only remains.

To this word of Cambronne the English voice replied "Fire." The batteries flamed; the hills trembled; from all those brazen throats went forth a final vomiting of grape terrific. A vast smoke, dusky white in the light of the rising moon, rolled out; and when the smoke was dissipated there was nothing left. That formidable remnant was annihilated; the Old Guard was dead.

VICTOR HUGO.

ANNE HATHAWAY.

WOULD ye be taught, ye feathered throng,

With love's sweet notes to grace your song,

To pierce the heart with thrilling lay,
Listen to mine Anne Hathaway!
She hath a way to sing so clear,
Phoebus might wandering stop to hear.
To melt the sad, make blithe the gay,
And nature charm, Anne hath a way;
She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;

To breathe delight, Anne hath a way.

When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth
Do soil and bite fair worth and truth,
And merit to distress betray,

To soothe the heart Anne hath a way.
She hath a way to chase despair,
To heal all grief, to cure all care,

Turn foulest night to fairest day,

Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way;
She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;

To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way.

Talk not of gems, the Orient list,
The diamond, topaz, amethyst,
The emerald mild, the ruby gay,
Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway!

She hath a way with her bright eye,
Their various lustres to defy-

The jewels she, and the foil they,
So sweet to look, Anne hath a way,
She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;

To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way.

But were it to my fancy given

To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven;
For though a mortal made of clay
Angels must love Anne Hathaway;
She hath a way so to control,
To rapture, the imprisoned soul,
And sweetest heaven on earth display,
That to be heaven Anne hath a way;
She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway,

To be heaven's self, Anne hath a way.

SHAKESPEARE.

MY

THE OLD FLOWER-BEDS.

Permission of the New England Publishing Company.

Y grandmother's garden! how well I remember That spot that delighted my eyes when a boy! From the balm-breathing June to the mellowed Sep

tember,

I hailed its fresh blossoms each morning with

joy.

In fancy I see it when eve, dark and chilly,
O'ercasting the city, forbids me to roam :
In memory blossom the rose and the lily

When solitude freshens the pictures of home.

I seem on the garden-gate swinging and singing,
Or on the bars leaning in summer eves long;
And, waiting my father his team homeward bring
ing,

I list once again to the whippoorwill's song.

I remember the porch where the woodbine in clusters

Of billowy green o'er the white roses hung; The swallows, whose purple and emerald lustres Shot swift through the air where the orioles sung.

O'er the old mossy wall, in the mellow airs blowing,

The lilies made fragrant the evenings of May; And close by the door where the house-leeks were growing,

My grandmother's garden, my pleasure-ground, lay.

Anear was the orchard, the moss to it clinging,

The home of the birds and the banquet of bees: I loved, in the spring-time, when church-bells were ringing,

The peaceful white Sundays that came to the trees.