"No. 3!" roared the officer; and a howl of derision from the mob
covered his words. Henri had become a soldier.
I could not well see what then followed: there was a sudden hush, a
chorus of exclamations, a rush toward the steps of the town-hall, and
then the crowd fell back to make way for two gendarmes who were
carrying a body between them.
"Is he dead?" asked a number of voices.
"Oh no," tittered the two men--"only fainted: he'll soon come round
again." And the mob burst into a laugh.
E.C. GRENVILLE MURRAY.
THE SYMPHONY.
"O Trade! O Trade! would thou wert dead!
The age needs heart--'tis tired of head.
We're all for love," the violins said.
"Of what avail the rigorous tale
Of coin for coin and box for bale?
Grant thee, O Trade! thine uttermost hope,
Level red gold with blue sky-slope,
And base it deep as devils grope,
When all's done what hast thou won
Of the only sweet that's under the sun?
Ay, canst thou buy a single sigh
Of true love's least, least ecstasy?"
Then all the mightier strings, assembling,
Fell a-trembling, with a trembling
Bridegroom's heart-beats quick resembling;
Ranged them on the violin's side
Like a bridegroom by his bride,
And, heart in voice, together cried:
"Yea, what avail the endless tale
Of gain by cunning and plus by sale?
Look up the land, look down the land--
The poor, the poor, the poor, they stand
Wedged by the pressing of Trade's hand
Against an inward-opening door
That pressure tightens ever more:
They sigh, with a monstrous foul-air sigh,
For the outside heaven of liberty,
Where Art, sweet lark, translates the sky
Into a heavenly melody.
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