50 Ji^ BERANOER AND HIS SONGS. 



None see him, or despite the conquering force. 

 Full many a warrior had the torrent braved; 

 "Alas !" he cries, when parted from his horse, 

 "A single hand, Frenchmen, and I am saved." 



He struggles, swims, — alas, 'tis but to sink I 



Ah no ! he grasps his courser's flowing mane, 



lie cannot drown, when at tlie river's brink. 



He sees the foe, and hears the martial strain : 



" Frenchmen, ye boast I'm ever first I'advance, 



For you, my friends, I've every danger braved, 



And still would shed my heart's best blood for France ; 



A single hand, Frenchmen, and I am saved." 



No aid is near — his hands become too weak 



To keep his hold— Poland, adieu, adieu ! 



But softest dieams upon his senses break — 



Heaven gives a noble prospect to his view ; 



Polonia's eagle, to her sons so dear. 



In Russian blood her snowy plumes has laved,— 



A cry of glory breaks upon his ear; 



" A single hand, oh, France ! and I am saved !" 



'Tis Poland and her brave and gen'rous sons, 

 Who have for us in many a battle fought ; 

 A crimson torrent from her bosom runs, — 

 Alas, in vain, — her efforts all are nought ! 

 Like this brave chief, who for our country died. 

 From France, alone, assistance now is craved— 

 In her despair, to us a nation cried, 

 " A single hand, oh France ! and I am saved ! 



Our next selection is one of the political songs, for which De Beranger 

 was prosecuted by the Bourbons. " Les Infinement Petits," is indeed 

 a severe satire, and it would be difficult to conceive a happier medium of 

 attack than the Magic Mirror ; this song, conjointly with another or 

 two, cost our poet nine months' imprisonment. The giant alluded to in 

 the last verse, we presume to be Russia. 



THE MAGIC MIRftOR. 



In magic I believe of late, 



And a wizard of great wight 

 Shewed me our country's future fate. 



Reflected in a mirror bright. 

 Would I had ne'er the picture seen 



Of our own native land, so plain, 

 In nineteen-hundred and nineteen, 



For still tlie hateful Bourbons reign. 



France to a race of dwarfs must pass. 



And our grandsons are so small. 

 That scarcely in the magic glass 



Are seen the inhabitants of Gaul. 

 France has become the wi'eck, the shade, 



Of the France no power could rein — 

 None fear the little state t' invade, 



For still the hateful Bourbons reign. 



