EUROPE AND HER DESPOTS. 



Mvho has not yet acknowledged Louis- Philippe. Since the memorable 

 three days his tyranny has been observed to assume a concentrated 

 malignity. Several French liberals were actually ordered to quit the 

 Modenese territory, and woe betide any of his subjects found reading 

 the Constitutionel, or any other liberal journal. Every foreigner is 

 under the strict surveillance of the police. Some time ago, a foreign 

 tourist expressed himself rather freely in a cafe on the subject of the 

 Modenese government, the conversation was almost immediately related, 

 by a sbir'i to the Chef de Police, who, in his turn, laid the affair before 

 the duke. The result w r as a ducal mandate to the audacious foreigner 

 to quit his dominions in twenty-four hours. On receiving the intima- 

 tion, the foreigner observed to the messenger, <e Why then I have still 

 twenty- two hours to remain in Modena, for two hours ride will carry 

 me across the frontier." In fact a man may with ease make a tour of 

 the duchy between breakfast and dinner. 



How much longer will human nature put up with the freaks of such 

 a monster ? There is no guessing to a month or a day, but such things 

 must have an end. The electric lights of freedom have penetrated with 

 their subtle power, into the strong holds of ignorance and fraud. The 

 day cannot be far distant, when these strongholds, shaken to their base, 

 will perish in the wreck of matter, and fade like a hideous dream ; 

 when men, on reading the history of the part, will look with mixed 

 feelings of wonder and pity perhaps with contempt, on those degraded 

 spirits, who so tamely submitted to the chain, when a single blow would 

 have avenged and vindicated humanity. 



TO FRANCESCA. 



I LOVE thee, Francesca, thy tresses of jet, 

 And the dark glancing light of thine eye, 



On my heart an impression of magic hath set, 

 That will leave thy name there when I die. 



But what is mere beauty ? the brightness of spring- 

 Of autumn, when summer's sweet days are gone by, 



A flow'ret that once touch'd by time's blighting wing, 

 Will be left all neglected to wither and die. 



I love thee, Francesca, I doat on thy charms, 



But how many have charms like to thine, 

 How many whom I might enfold in mine arms, 



And call them this moment all mine ; 

 Yet they have but beauty, the bloom of an hour, 



They know not, they feel not, the love they impart, 

 But fade in our arms like a cold senseless flower, 



From its stem torn asunder and blighted at heart. 



I love thee Francesca, and firmly believe, 



That my love is as warmly repaid, 

 ; Those eyes beaming fondness, they could not deceive, 



Some glance had their falsehood betrayed. 

 Thou shalt be the blossom, and I'll be the tree, 



And when the cold winter of death shall come o'er, 

 When its blight my Francesca, shall fall upon thee, 



The tree shall grow sapless and blossom no more. M. G. L. 

 * M. No. 83. 2K 



