Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/525

514 melancholy, and try to divert and occupy the monomaniac. This is all very well: but it would be better to have no idiots and lunatics, and to know the practice of suicide only by tradition. We may aim at this from this day forward; and if we do not aim at it, socially and individually, it will concern us very closely to consider what share we have in the thirteen hundred yearly deaths in England to which we give the name of self-murder. 2em

the dead of the night, and the city Lies silent and dark as the tomb; While the murmuring waters of Seine Rush on thro’ the mist and the gloom.

All is still, not a sound to be heard, Not a light over head or below; The town seems deserted by all Save the sentries who pace to and fro.

Save that of their long measured tread No sound do the echoes repeat, And they grasp their sword-hilts and converse In the midst of the desolate street.

“Good even, my comrade! Hast heard The glorious news that is come? Of the feast that our king hath prepared, Of the dance to the bent of the drum



“To which we are soon to lead forth The Calvinist daughters of France? They will not refuse us;” he laughed, As he eyed the sharp point of his lance.

“Sleep, husbands! sleep on while ye may, Secure by the side of your wives; Such a waking ere long you will see As but once in a lifetime arrives.

“O mothers of heretic babes! Go fold them once more in your arms; And, lovers, caress while ye may The beauties that yield you their charms.

“For e’en now,” as he spoke, a wild sound Smote dread on the ear of the night, ’Twas so like the last trumpet of doom, That the sepulchres gaped with affright,

And the souls of the damned found their way For a season to earth, and became The leaders of sport for the night. And cheer’d on the hounds to the game.

The call of Religion is heard, And the soldiers of Jesus arise, And rush to the slaughter with hate In their hearts, and with lust in their eyes.

Who babbles of mercy? Behold, This night ’tis forbidden to spare; For the hour is come, long appointed, The sword of Jehovah is bare.

The angels shall weep as they see How our Catholic chivalry greet The women that kneel in their anguish, And helpless for mercy entreat.

And the scent of the blood and the burning Like incense shall climb to the stars That ride in the vault of the heaven, Remote from this earth and its wars.

For to-night is the Lord’s, and his vengeance Shall redden the waters of Seine; Let the reapers go forth to the harvest. And gather this Huguenot grain. 2em