Ney left four sons, two of whom are in the service of his old friend, Bernadotte.

* * * * *

THE ANNIVERSARY.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

  “Nay, chide me not; I cannot chase
    The gloom that wraps my soul away,
  Nor wear, as erst, the smiling face
    That best beseems this hallow’d day
    Fain would my yearning heart be gay,
  Its wonted welcome breathe to thine;
    But sighs come blended with my lay,
  And tears of anguish blot the line.

  I cannot sing as once, I sung,
    Our bright and cheerful hearth beside;
  When gladness sway’d my heart and tongue,
    And looks of fondest love replied—­
    The meaner cares of earth defied,
  We heeded not its outward din;
    How loud soe’er the storm might chide,
  So all was calm and fair within.

  A blight upon our bliss hath come,
    We are not what we were of yore;
  The music of our hearts is dumb;
    Our fireside mirth is heard no more! 
    The little chick, its chirp is o’er,
  That fill’d our happy home with glee;
    The dove hath fled, whose pinions bore
  Healing and peace for thee and me.

  Our youngest-born—­our Autumn-flower,
    The best beloved, because the last;
  The star that shone above our bower,
    When many a cherish’d dream had past,
    The one sweet hope, that o’er us cast
  Its rainbow’d form of life and light,
    And smiled defiance on the blast,
  Hath vanished from our eager sight.

  Oh, sudden was the wrench that tore
    Affection’s firmest links apart;
  And doubly barb’d the shaft we wore
    Deep in each bleeding heart of heart;
    For, who can bear from bliss to part
  Without one sign—­one warning token;
    To sleep in peace—­then wake and start
  To find life’s fairest promise broken.

  When last this cherish’d day came round,
    What aspirations sweet were ours! 
  Fate, long unkind, our hopes had crown’d,
    And strewn, at length, our path with flowers. 
    How darkly now the prospect lowers;
  How thorny is our homeward way;
    How more than sad our evening hours,
  That used to glide like thought away.

  And half infected by our gloom,
    Yon little mourner sits and sighs,
  His playthings, scatter’d round the room,
    No more attract his listless eyes. 
    Nutting, his infant task, he plies,
  On moves with soft and stealthy tread,
    And call’d, in tone subdued replies,
  As if he feard to wake the dead.

  Where is the blithe companion gone,
    Whose sports he lov’d to guide and share? 
  Where is the merry eye that won
    All hearts to fondness?  Where, oh where? 
  The empty crib—­the vacant chair—­
  The favourite toy—­alone remain,
    To whisper to our hearts’ despair,
  Of hopes we cannot feel again.