And a barrel of powder beneath it.
He came like a flash, dashing by, but behind,
Poor folks and his escort in feather,
And the child that we put, _sans_ remorse, by the horse,
Were torn all to pieces together."

"To the guillotine both of my comrades were sent,
But the Church, saving me for the tonsure,
Hid me off in the wilds, and my dame, to her shame,
To be _Père_ sold me out from a _Monsieur_;
And now she is clad in the silk of the court,
And I in the wool of confessor,--
Hate me not, ere hence you go, Jean Victor Moreau!
And with France be my fame's intercessor!"

"Limoelan! priest! is it you that I hear
In this convent by Washington's river?
Ah! France, how thy children are hurled round the world,
Like the arrows from destiny's quiver!
Take shrift for thy crime! Be thou pardoned with peace,
Poor exile of Breton, my brother!"
And the cannon of Dresden Moreau gave release,
The bells of the convent the other.




CRUTCH, THE PAGE.