poetry or prose composed during the siege, in hours of shame and
impotent scorn. The poet sings how the sword, the flashing
Durendal, is rusted and broken, how victory is to him -


" . . . qui se cela
Dans un trou, sous la terre noire."


He can spare a tender lyric to the memory of a Prussian officer, a
lad of eighteen, shot dead through a volume of Pindar which he
carried in his tunic.

It is impossible to leave the poet of gaiety and good-humour in the
mood of the prisoner in besieged Paris. His "Trente Six Ballades
Joyeuses" make a far more pleasant subject for a last word. There
is scarcely a more delightful little volume in the French language
than this collection of verses in the most difficult of forms, which
pour forth, with absolute ease and fluency, notes of mirth, banter,
joy in the spring, in letters, art, and good-fellowship.


"L'oiselet retourne aux forets;
Je suis un poete lyrique," -


he cries, with a note like a bird's song. Among the thirty-six
every one will have his favourites. We venture to translate the
"Ballad de Banville":