THE WIDOW OF THE GREAT ARMY. At the time that the great army under Napoleon perished in the snows of Russia, a French woman, stated to be of respectable family and education, was so deeply affected by the calamity of her country, and her melancholy apprehensions for its future fate, that she became deprived of her senses, put on widows' weeds, and wandered about Paris, bewailing the fate of the unfortunate armament. Dressed in deep sables, she may still almost daily be seen in the Champs Elysées, in the same state of mental alienation; and the Parisians, who allow neither national nor individual sorrows to deprive them of a heartless joke, have long since christened her "The Widow of the Great Army." This unfortunate female is supposed to utter the following stanzas at the period of the first invasion: Half a million of heroes-I saw them all: The war-horses' tramp shook the solid ground, Sword, sabre, and lance of thy chivalry, France, And helmet of brass, and the steel cuirass, Flash'd in the sun as I saw them pass; While day by day, in sublime array, The glorious pageant roll'd away! Where are ye now, ye myriads? Hark! O God! not a sound;-they are stretch'd on the ground, Silent and cold, and stiff and stark : On their ghastly faces the snows still fall, And one winding-sheet enwraps them all. The horse and his rider are both o'erthrown:- For the wolf and the bear; and, when day is flown, Oh, whither are fled those echoes dread, As the host hurraed, and the chargers neigh'd, And the cannon roar'd, and the trumpets bray'd?— Stifled is all this living breath, And hush'd they lie in the sleep of death. They come! they come! the barbarian horde! To ravage thy valleys with fire and sword: All Germany darkens the rolling tide; Sclavonian dun, Croat, Prussian, Hun, With the traitorous Belgian bands allied; While the Spaniard swart, and the Briton fair, Their banners wave in our southern air. Sound the tocsin, the trumpet, the drum! Heroes of France, advance, advance! And dash the invaders to earth as they come ! Ah me! my heart-it will burst in twain ! THE SPARE BLANKET. COLD was the wind, and dark the night, By ardour in the cause of Zion, And housed him at the Golden Lion. His chamber held another bed, But, as it was untenanted, Our hero, without fear or doubt, Undress'd, and put the candle out; Sleep soon o'ertook the weary elf, Who snored like—nothing but himself. 'Tis plain that, since his own bassoon Did not awake him with its tune, Who very leisurely undress'd, The witching-time of night is near— Draws underneath the clothes her head, Feels a cold shudder o'er her creep, Attempts to pray, and shrinks to sleep. Although our Missionary woke Just at this moment in a shiver, So far from being thick and new, That he could well have borne a dozen; No wonder that, with such a store, When his first heavy sleep was o'er, The poor incumbent woke half-frozen. "Since Betty has forgot the clothes," Quoth Sam, (confound her stupid head!) "I'll just make free to borrow those That lie upon the empty bed:" His ears were almost split asunder Meanwhile, the Smuggler, who had shouted Since every thing was hid from view, And punish him for what the brute did |